Beautiful Dreamer with Bonus Material (8 page)

“Damn you, Rio,” she whispered, tasting her own tears on her lips. “You’re not fighting fair.”

Then she realized that he wasn’t fighting at all. He was simply doing what had to be done if she wanted to keep what was left of her range cattle.

And her dream.

“He worked most of the night to give you half a day’s start,” she told her reflection in the dusty windshield. “Are you going to use it or are you going to sit here and cry enough to fill the trough all over again?”

She wiped her eyes, took a fresh grip on Behemoth’s wheel, and drove toward a more distant well. When she got there, she was half-afraid to look. She didn’t know what she would do if Rio had somehow managed to be there before her.

He hadn’t. Cattle crowded around the useless windmill and the nearly empty stock tank.

She drove the truck in close, wrestled the hose into place, and sat in the cab while the trough filled and the sun climbed out of night’s deep well. She loved the pale tremors of peach and rose that preceded dawn, and the incandescent orange and scarlet that silently shouted the arrival of yet another day.

Despite the drought, despite her deep fear of losing everything, despite the exhaustion that would come before sunset, Hope counted each day spent on the ranch as a separate miracle. There was no place on earth for her like the Valley of the Sun.

She rolled down the window of the cab and listened to water rushing into the tank. Cattle bawled and shoved and thrust their dusty white faces eye-deep in the water, drinking lustily. Smiling at the sight, she settled back into Behemoth’s rump-sprung seat and dozed to the rich sounds of water pouring.

“I’ll expect you for dinner,” Mason said to Rio. “Six o’clock sharp. Earlier if you can make it.”

“If I’m not there at six, go ahead without me. I’ll eat mine cold when I get there.”

Mason looked up at the sky. The sun was about a hand’s width above the horizon, but he didn’t need light to know that today would be another day without a prayer of rain. He could taste the dryness in the air, feel it on his lips, hear it in the crackle of static electricity whenever he slid around on the pickup’s vinyl seat.

“You got here at sunup,” Mason said calmly. “Even a mean, lazy son of a bitch like Turner can’t expect much more than twelve hours a day from a hand, specially when he’s only paying for eight and expects you to eat lunch in the saddle.”

Rio shrugged and tugged his hat down. Turner was riding him hard, but there wasn’t any need to complain to Mason about it. Rio knew, even if Mason didn’t, that John Turner came down like a load of stone on any man who showed up at Hope’s ranch. Even if she had the money to hire more hands, Turner would have found a way to drive them off the Valley of the Sun. He didn’t want any man under sixty within a country mile of Hope Gardener.

A predatory smile curved Rio’s mouth. Sooner or later, Turner would stop hiding behind being the boss and start leaning on Rio openly.

Rio was looking forward to it.

“The longer hours I work, the sooner I’m shed of Turner,” Rio said easily. “See you tonight.”

With a wave, Mason turned the truck around and headed it toward the gate. He was almost halfway to the town of Cottonwood. Might as well go the rest of the way and run a few errands. Seemed like every time he turned around, one ranch machine or another chewed up a hose part or something.

Before he got to the gate, a man on horseback trotted up to the truck. Recognizing Pete Babcock, a man who used to work for the Valley of the Sun, Mason braked and rolled down the window. Babcock was a schoolteacher-turned-cowboy, a gossip, and a hard worker. Mason had hated to let him go, but there hadn’t been any choice.

“Morning, Mason. Haven’t seen you since calving time. You here to hire some men?”

“Wish I could say so, but it’d be a lie. I was just dropping Rio off.”

Pete nodded and squinted toward the east, where the sun was just lifting its burning head above the ragged land. “Heard he was working for Miss Hope. Digging a well or some such.”

“You heard right. He’s gonna find us some water.”

“Sure hope so. Miss Hope could use a break.” Pete smiled, showing two rows of gleaming teeth. “It’s a day for miracles, sure enough. The boss got up before any of us did and lit out of here like his ass was on fire. Said something to Cook about checking on the south well.”

Mason went still. “South well? The one we’ve been hauling water from?”

“The same. Don’t know what got into him. Usually he’s the last one in the saddle and the first one back to the corral.”

“When did he leave?”

“Oh, ’bout an hour ago. Maybe more. I was just getting up myself.”

“Nice talking to you,” Mason said quickly. “I’ll let you know as soon as we’re hiring.”

Before the other man could answer, Mason let out the clutch and took off for the gate, tires spitting gravel every inch of the way.

Eight

H
OPE SHIFTED SLOWLY
out of her half-dozing state and looked around. The canvas hose was flat, the truck’s barrel empty of all but a cup or two of water. It was time to head to Turner’s well for the first of several trips she would make today.

The road to the well was rough and tiring. Behemoth didn’t have anything as modern as power steering, automatic shift, or power brakes. Driving the truck was a test of will and muscle that left her aching. She looked forward to the time when water would be sucked from the well into the truck’s big tank. That was when she could rest, gathering her strength for the drive back to the Valley of the Sun. The truck was three times as awkward fully loaded as it was empty.

As soon as Hope turned down into the little valley where the Turner well was, she knew that there wouldn’t be any peace and quiet for her while the truck filled with water. John Turner’s Jeep was parked just beyond the windmill. The vehicle’s bright red paint usually gleamed like a stoplight, but today the color was dulled by a heavy coat of dust, the kind that came from racing over a dirt road.

Her hands tightened on the wheel until her knuckles stood out white. She hissed a word under her breath, hating the sick sinking of her stomach and the clammy sweep of fear over her skin. Turner was quite literally the last man on earth she wanted to see.

Slowly she eased the truck into place by the generator, shut off the ignition, and hopped out with a lightness she was far from feeling. The sight of Turner’s six feet four inches of thick-shouldered body didn’t do anything for her except make her wish that she was somewhere else. Anywhere else. As long as he wasn’t with her.

Since the drought and the second mortgage on her ranch, Turner had been hovering around her like a vulture circling over a downed antelope, waiting for it to give up and die.

“Morning,” Hope said as she walked by Turner to get to the hose rack at the rear of the truck. “You’re up bright and early.”

Turner didn’t make a move to help her handle the stiff, heavy canvas hose. “Where’s Mason?” he asked.

She didn’t bother to stop working and be sociable. She could talk and work at the same time. Especially to John Turner.

“I don’t know,” she said indifferently. “Do you need him for something?”

As Hope spoke, she wrestled a few coils of stiff canvas hose off the rack and scrambled over to the stock tank, dragging the muddy length of hose behind.

“I don’t need that old man,” Turner said, “but you sure as hell do.”

She didn’t glance away from her work.

“Look at you,” Turner said in disgust. “Driving a man-sized truck and dragging that dirty old hose around like a drifter working off a handout. If Mason can’t haul his own weight, fire him. Only a fool would pay the old fart’s wages and then turn around and do his work for him.”

Silently Hope pushed the hose into the tank far enough to be sure that the coils wouldn’t leap out and flop around when water coursed through canvas. She took an extra amount of time about her work. She was counting on it to help control her anger at Turner’s arrogance.

Without even looking at him, she climbed down the stock tank’s narrow metal ladder to the muddy ground, caught up the end of the hose that had to be coupled to the generator-driven pump, and dragged the hose into place near the rusty, sunstruck machine.

Turner stalked after her. “Well?” he demanded.

“Well what.” Her tone said that she wasn’t really asking because she really didn’t care.

This was the tricky part of the water-hauling operation. She had to brace the hose so that its weight wouldn’t drag the brass coupling apart, while at the same time she struggled to bring the warped threads into alignment.

“I asked you a question,” he snapped.

“I answered it. I don’t know where Mason is.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Turner jerked off his pearl-gray hat and slapped it against his thigh impatiently. His men knew it was a warning sign that he was losing his temper. He figured Hope knew it, too.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Turner’s wavy chestnut hair gleam richly in the sunlight. His blue eyes were narrow and intent in his cleanly sculpted face. At one time the sight of that movie-star profile and curly hair had made her heart beat faster. But she was no longer young. Turner’s shiny hair meant less to her than the dusty red hides of her range cattle.

A lot less.

The threads slipped and jammed. Hope set her teeth, unscrewed the crooked coupling, and tugged the heavy hose back into position.

If Turner had taken his hands out of his pockets and helped, the job would have gone quickly. As it was, Hope wasted several minutes before she succeeded in lining up the threads. She turned the brass ring carefully, always making sure that the threads stayed in the proper position. Holding her breath, she coaxed the coupling into a good mate.

“What the hell’s got into you?” he asked finally, his voice harsh.

She reminded herself that she was using Turner’s water. It was all that kept her from ignoring him completely. She got up, dusted off her hands, and went back to the truck for the big wrench to tighten the coupling.

“Hope,” Turner said in a threatening voice,
“you better answer me.”

“All I heard was a lecture on my stupidity. If you had a question, you’ll have to repeat it.” Her voice was as even and measured as her motions. She worked the jaws of the heavy pipe wrench until it fitted over the brass ring on the hose.

“What the hell was Rio doing at your ranch last night?” Turner asked baldly.

Anger shot through Hope as hotly as the sunlight pouring over the land. Yet when she spoke, her voice was so carefully controlled that it had no tone at all. “He works for me part-time.”

“I told you not to hire him.”

The wrench clanged against the ring. She readjusted the jaws, took a better grip, and tightened the coupling with a vicious downward yank.

“Well, baby doll? Didn’t I tell you?”

“Do I tell you how to run your ranch?” she asked, shifting her grip for another yank.

“I’m a man.”

“The day you run your ranch using nothing but your gonads is the day I’ll listen to that argument,” she said coldly. “Until then, I’ll run my ranch like any normal person would—with my brain and my hands
.
”

She yanked down again. The coupling was so tight that it all but sang with tension.

With practiced motions she loosened the wrench, removed it, and propped it against the generator. Time to prime the pump. She grabbed a bucket and went to the trough.

Turner watched her without moving or speaking.

He didn’t have to say a word. She could tell by the color of his face and the set of his jaw that he was furious. His blue eyes looked pale against his flushed cheeks.

“Fire Rio,” Turner snarled.

“No.”

Hope labored over the pump and generator. Finally she got the crank to turn hard and fast enough to start the balky engine. The pump sputtered, the hose shuddered, and water began sliding through canvas into the empty truck. The muted thunder of water filling the truck normally soothed her. Today she barely heard it for the angry roaring of blood in her own ears.

“You like using my water?” Turner asked.

The fear that leaped inside Hope didn’t show in her face. “Are you saying that if I don’t fire Rio, you’ll shut off the water?”

Turner hesitated. Put that bluntly, it didn’t sound reasonable or even particularly rational. As far as he was concerned, Hope’s struggle to keep the Valley of the Sun alive was irritating and laughable, but it had attracted more than a little admiration in the closed community of western cattle ranchers. When people found out that he had refused to give her water—water that he didn’t need—simply because she had hired a drifter to find a well, Turner would be the butt of hostile gossip and outright contempt among the other ranchers.

“No decent woman would be alone with Rio,” Turner said tightly.

“Why?” Hope tried not to show her temper. She failed. She was tired and furious, a combination that loosened her tongue. “Does Rio promise to marry a naive eighteen-year-old, invite her over for birthday champagne, and maul her until she’s bruised and screaming? Then does Rio shove a hundred-dollar bill into the girl’s blouse and tell her he’s engaged, but he’ll be around later to collect the rest of what’s owed him?”

“That’s got nothing to do with—”

“You asked,” she shot back, “and I’m telling you.” She faced him with hazel eyes that were harder and less feeling than glass. “After the mauling and insulting, does Rio’s father drive the girl home, lecturing her the whole way on how she can’t expect to marry above herself?”

Turner made a wide gesture with his right hand, sweeping aside her words. “Rio’s no goddamn good. He’s got women all over the West.”

“Are they complaining?”

Turner shrugged impatiently. “Who the hell cares?”

“If the women like it and Rio likes it,” Hope said neutrally, “what’s the problem?”

“They aren’t my women. You are.”

“No,” she said curtly. “I’m not.”

“Bullshit, baby doll. You’re mine. You want me. You just don’t want to admit it.”

“Well, we agree on one thing.
Bullshit.
”

Turner’s flush deepened. “Listen, I’ve had enough of your holier-than-thou act. Your mother was a drunk, your father was a loser, and your sister was a slut with a reputation from here to Los Angeles. Hell, even your grandparents weren’t much more than dirt farmers.”

“Thank you,” she said sardonically. “Always nice to know your friends.”

“Hell. It’s just the truth. You should be glad I’m offering you more than a hundred dollars a fuck. I want you and I’m going to have you.”

“I. Don’t. Want. You.”

Turner laughed and shook his head. It took more than a few words to puncture his confidence.

“Sure you do, baby doll,” he said, reaching for her. “But like I said, you just don’t want to admit it. Since you don’t believe me, I’ll just have to show you what I mean.”

She blocked his grab by swinging the heavy wrench between them. He laughed and made another try for her. She leaped to the side and brought the wrench up again.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice thickening with excitement. “I dream about your little hands clawing and fighting me.” He grabbed the wrench and held it despite her struggles. “Yeah. Good. God, it turns me on so hard I can’t think when a woman fights me. Remember?”

Hope remembered all too well. She dropped the wrench, twisted out of his reach, and leaped into the cab. Her fist slammed down the lock on the door just as he grabbed the handle.

Laughing, Turner bent to pick up the wrench. It wouldn’t take more than a moment to smash out the window. Just as his fingers closed around the cold iron handle, he heard the sound of a vehicle racing down into the valley at a speed too fast for the road.

Assuming that it was one of his own men coming to check on the well, Turner straightened and turned toward the road, still smiling with anticipation of finally having Hope. His smile vanished when he spotted Hope’s own beat-up tan truck pulling a rooster tail of dust toward the stock tank. Mason was behind the wheel, driving like a maniac toward Behemoth.

When she recognized the truck, a wave of relief swept through Hope that left her light-headed. Only then did she admit how much Turner frightened her. She was safe now. Mason was here. Mason wouldn’t let Turner near her.

In the next heartbeat she knew that she couldn’t tell Mason what would have happened if he hadn’t arrived. He would lose his temper and jump Turner.

She couldn’t let that happen. Mason would be beaten, and beaten badly. Turner liked using his huge strength on weaker people, hitting and hurting them with his thick hands.

She remembered just how much he liked it.

With an effort of will Hope forced her breathing to slow until her body relaxed and her hands stopped trembling.

“Well, old man,” Turner said when Mason got out of the truck, “you finally hauled your lazy ass out of bed. I thought I was going to have to do all Hope’s work myself.”

With eyes that were so narrow they showed almost no color, Mason gave the other man a contemptuous glance. Then Mason saw the wrench lying in the dust and Hope inside the water truck with the window rolled up and the door lock down. Blind rage shot through Mason, shaking him.

“I’m here,” he said flatly. “I’m staying. We don’t need your help.”

Turner smiled amiably. He was sure Hope meant yes even though she was saying no, but he didn’t necessarily want witnesses when he made her admit it. Theirs was a private fight. It was going to stay that way.

His word against hers.

“Then I guess I’ll get on back to the ranch.” Turner looked up at Hope as she opened the truck door. “See you real soon, baby doll. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good-bye.” Her voice was like her face, without expression.

When he slammed the door to his Jeep and shot away from the well, Hope swung down from the cab and forced herself to smile at Mason.

“Glad you stopped by,” she said casually. “It gets real boring just talking to a bunch of cows while the truck fills with water.”