Chapter Thirteen.

Months before, when the cows were out on their winter range, something there on the desert floor had caught Cal's eye. He'd been busy that day, doctoring a sick heifer, so he'd made only a mental note and then forgot about it. Forgot about it, that is, until he was sitting in Elaine French's office, figuring what he could do about finding the evidence against Ray Nixon. That's when he remembered the burn marks in the dry soil.

The memory of the flat, blackened patches on the sand and some ideas about Jamie's ex-husband suddenly came together in Cal's mind, and with crystal clarity, he realized what the evidence against Ray was going to be. He knew it would take maybe a few days-and he also knew it would be premature to discuss it with Jamie at this stage. Anyway, the less she knew, the safer she'd be.

Now he packed a couple of days' food into his saddle bags, slung his bedroll over his horse's neck, and transferred one of the Winchesters from the gun rack in the truck to the scabbard on his saddle. A cowboy uses a gun as a tool first-to collect some dinner when the grub box is empty or to permanently discourage a predatory animal-and as a weapon only if it becomes necessary. The way Cal had this figured, he was not dealing with p.u.s.s.y cats. Wouldn't surprise him if he met up with some trouble out there on the range and he wanted to be carrying some firepower. He slipped a revolver-the. 357 magnum that he always carried in the truck's side pocket-into a holster and belted it on over his jeans.

Twenty thousand acres of open country was a lot of territory to cover on horseback, and it wasn't until close to sundown on the second day that Cal found the marks in the sand he'd been looking for, like those he'd seen months earlier. The shadows of the sage were already long across the dusty ground, almost obscuring his discovery, but he knew he'd found the first link in the chain of evidence.

With one hand grasping the horn of the saddle and his other arm resting over it, he leaned forward, taking a good, long look at the hard, crystalline patch of white residue, about five inches across, just to the left of the horse's front hoof. A few feet away there was a second patch, and beyond that another. A quick glance told him the burn marks formed a square pattern, about forty feet in each direction, and that he was standing at its southeast corner.

"That's it!" he said under his breath. "I knew that's what it had to be!"

He sat up straight in the saddle and replaced his hat firmly, low on his forehead, shading his eyes against the huge, fierce sun that was dropping low over the western horizon. The silent terrain that surrounded him appeared to be devoid of any life other than the spa.r.s.e foliage. There was no sign of the lizards and rattlesnakes and jack rabbits that were hidden in the dry cover, and even the sky, deeply, brilliantly blue, shimmering above the red and yellow desert, was empty and profoundly quiet. He'd be completely visible to a pair of distant binoculars, but he'd just have to take that chance; neither in the shallow draws nor beyond the scattered clumps of cedar, nor in the rocky rises that formed a nearby horizon, could he see any sign that he was being watched.

He dismounted and knelt next to the nearest patch, brushing his fingers against the hard ma.s.s. By the amount of wind-blown sand covering it, he judged the ash to be at least two weeks old, maybe three. As he expected, a long, nail-like spike was buried in the little white mound, confirming that burning road flares had made this pattern here in the empty, isolated reaches of the open range, hundreds of hard-to-reach miles from any unwelcome eyes.

He understood the significance of this square in the desert, about as big around as a swimming pool. It marked the spot where a small, low-flying plane had dropped off its packages of illegal cargo. It was common knowledge that this vast, untracked country was a favorite locale for operators flying in drugs from Mexico and South America. The drop coordinates would be radioed by an accomplice on the ground, who would light flares to guide the pilot to the site, then couriers with a van or pickup truck would collect the drugs. The country was so enormous and so spa.r.s.ely populated, DEA agents couldn't possibly keep it all under constant surveillance, and it was easy to operate without detection. Within a few weeks, whatever track remained would have been removed by wind and weather and the plodding hoofs of ranging cattle.

He stood up and worked his shoulder muscles, at the same time following with his eyes around the perimeter of the square. At its far corner, the soil was worked over, and a large clump of rabbit brush was lying flat and broken, now brown against the reddish soil. He stepped his horse back, so it wouldn't mar the pattern, and led it around to the other side. It was clear that this was where the cargo had landed. A cl.u.s.ter of indentations remained, and footprints, two sets, showed there'd been considerable activity at this spot. An expert might be able to read the tread of those boot marks, but to Cal they looked like the ordinary imprint of any working boot in the county. There was probably not a pair for a hundred miles around that wasn't carrying this red-yellow dirt in its tread, and the same could be said of the tire tracks that led up to this drop-off spot. A vehicle had apparently been driven this far, turned, and backed up for loading. And here, too, there was nothing Cal could see that would identify the tread, except that the tires were obviously brand new and of a first-rate quality.

"That's okay," he muttered. "I'm on the right track."

With the reins loose in his hand, he knelt next to the broken shrub, examining it minutely. Crushed into the dried, flattened branches, brownish threads were caught. He picked them out with careful fingers.

"Looks to me like burlap." He folded the threads into a corner of his bandana and put it into his saddle bag.

He climbed back into the saddle and moved the horse up close to the tire tracks.

"With all this big country to use, they sure won't stick with one location. The next drop will be somewhere else."

The sun was too low for any more tracking, and anyway, his leg needed a rest. He'd travel a mile or two, just far enough to get clear of this drop site, and then make camp for the night. In the morning, he'd be able to track back to this spot and pick up the trail of those tires-see what it turned up.

Putting distance between himself and the burn pattern, Cal rode west toward where a distant, thick growth of pinyon promised a creek or waterhole where he could bed down for the night, and sure enough, when he reached the trees, there was a barely visible stream flowing thinly through them, providing water enough for him and his animal. He'd build no fire tonight, wanting nothing to signal his presence to hostile eyes, so he made a quick dinner of the remaining deer jerky and granola bars from his saddle bag and, as the day's last light left the sky, he unrolled his sleeping bag and settled down for a few hours' sleep under the emerging stars. By first light, he'd be able to head back and pick up that trail again.

A portion of his awareness had to remain on guard, even while he slept, and in any case sleep would not come easily. In addition to his physical pain-a day in the saddle was hard on his leg-it was also inevitable that here, under the cool beauty of the star-filled sky, the memory of that other night would come to torment him, tightening him helplessly in its silken grasp. He wasn't made of stone, after all, although a lifetime of hard work and solid discipline had taught him self-control, and he couldn't shut away the sensual images that flowed in his mind. He desperately wanted Jamie with him here, inside his sleeping bag, where he could hold her, warm against the cold desert night.

But she had pushed him away.

He groaned, and rolled onto his side, forcing shut the iron door of self-discipline.

And a far-away family of coyotes howled while Cal suffered through the desolate night.

By sunrise, he was back on the track of the vehicle and he followed for some ten miles until it reached a dirt trail traveling south through the desert. He dismounted and walked his horse about fifty yards along the dirt road, following the course of the tires. Their track, already two weeks old, quickly merged with the track of other vehicles, and he was satisfied that the truck had probably taken this dirt trail as far as the graded road that would eventually lead to Butcher's Fork.

"No point in staying with it now," he said to himself. "Today's Friday and I'd best be heading back. It'll be nightfall before I make it to the ranch. Harvey'll be expecting me, and now there's things for me to do in town."

He doubled back the way he'd come, heading west. If he followed along the base of the low, red-rock cliffs that rose to the south of him and just kept traveling west, that would bring him back to the ranch by suppertime. He'd eaten the last of his food the night before, so he'd just as soon not spend another night out in the desert.

He was making good time, even with the occasional stops at the waterholes to rest his horse and to check the irrigation pipes he and Harvey put in during the spring to secure a water flow from any underground springs they located. Everything seemed to be in good shape and he continued heading for home, relaxed in the saddle, planning his next moves.

Except for the occasional buzz and click of insects and the soft sound of the horse's hoofs against the dry earth, the desert was silent. The sun was blazing above him at the midafternoon mark, and a couple of hawks were circling each other off to his left. He squinted against the bright light, following their movements as they rose and dipped together, and as they dropped close to the rough cliff, Cal saw, through narrowed eyes, the long, low shape of an animal moving along the striations of rock, its tawny pelt camouflaged against the sunlit stone.

That cougar is hunting here on Harvey's range. Better discourage him away from the herd.

He slipped the Winchester from its scabbard.

It's too long a shot to bag him, but it wouldn't hurt to make him think twice about hanging around here.

He fired off a round without much hope of doing the animal any damage and the bullet pinged helplessly against the rock below. The cougar took off for the ledge-top and disappeared over the crest. Cal slipped the Winchester back into the scabbard.

I'll have to let Harvey know that cat's come this far south.

He flexed the stiffened knee a couple of times, rearranged his bones in the saddle and removed his hat, raking his fingers through his hair. He scanned the sky to the west, where big storm clouds were building up, moving fast over the distant mountain tops, heading straight for Sharperville. By Cal's reckoning, they'd arrive in an hour or so.

Best get back to home now.

He spurred his horse into an easy lope, and headed for the ranch.

Chapter Fourteen.

The storm was fierce by the time it reached the construction site, black and noisy, throwing sheets of hailstones down on the crew and their equipment, calling its own early quitting time. Most of the guys headed for a beer at the Canyon Rim, but for Jamie, the extra hours were a chance to drive to the Big Buy in Butcher's Fork and she was excited by the prospect of finally getting to choose dish towels and sheets and pots and pans for herself and Mandy. Once in the store, she couldn't help letting herself picture the two of them together at last in a real home, making dinner, washing up, bathing Mandy before bed. It was risky, letting herself get caught up in the possibilities, for the pain would be awful if it didn't work out, but the idea was too delicious to resist. With a dish towel in her hand-white with big red strawberries printed all over-the fantasy came closer than it could have been at any time in these last two years. The imagined scene, her and her little girl, in a home of their own, just like any ordinary family, was irresistible, and she allowed herself to get lost in its sweetness.

And that, undoubtedly, was why she didn't notice that for the last few moments someone had been standing just behind her, a man who had watched her for a while before he finally spoke, enjoying the nasty shock he was about to give her.

"Well, well, well," he said at last. The voice was quiet, raspier than it used to be. "If it ain't my sweet little ex-wife. What the h.e.l.l you doing here in Butcher's Fork?"

Jamie froze. She knew that sneering voice right away. A chill shivered along the back of her neck, there was a sick clutch in her stomach, and the dish towel fell from her fingers onto the floor. She didn't turn around to face him.

"Leave me alone, Ray. I have nothing to say to you."

"Now, now, sweetie-pie. Let's not get nasty."

He moved around to her side, bent down to retrieve the towel, and held it toward her. When she refused to acknowledge either the towel or him, he shrugged and dropped it onto a countertop, at the same time leaning one casual elbow back on the counter so he could look her over contemptuously.

"You ought to be nice to me, Jamie. I mean, didn't we have a few wonderful years together?" His snorting laugh made Jamie's skin crawl.

"Get away from me, Ray."

He had gotten beefier, his big frame thicker around the middle than it used to be. He was not older than Jamie, but his straight black hair was starting to recede.

"Hey, Jamie." He was having a good time, tormenting her. "That's no way to talk. After all, I am the father of your child, ain't I? Or was there maybe some question about that?"

She forgot all about towels and everything else. She wanted only to get out of there but didn't want to have to push past him. Not when the tears were beginning to burn in her eyes.

"You were never any kind of father to her, Ray." G.o.d d.a.m.n him, he was making her cry, and he was making her say useless things. She could feel her throat constrict painfully, trying to control the tears. "Mandy deserves to have a real father, someone who loves her and takes care of her. And one of these days, I'm going to get her away from you!"

"Now, now, Jamie. You know what that judge said. He said you were the one wasn't fit to have her." Ray's smile was twisted, the meanness glinting in his eyes. "Said you weren't a suitable mother. s.h.i.t, how do I know? Maybe she really isn't even my kid, what with you s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around in motel rooms and everything. It's right there in the legal record, ain't it? I think I got every right to get mad, ain't I? Ain't I? Ain't that what the judge said? Didn't he say you provoked me? Ain't that what he said, you provoked me?" He picked the towel off the counter and played with it idly. "You shouldn't provoke me. I don't like to be provoked. And you shouldn't be talking like that about getting the kid away from me, like you've got even a chance in h.e.l.l of doing that." He leaned in close to her then, waiting while his words seeped in deep, giving their full impact time to churn down into her. Then he smiled and straightened up back against the counter again. "Anyway"-his eyes wandered casually around the store, as though he had abruptly lost interest in their conversation-"my mom likes having her. Gives her a chance to do the Lord's work, like she's always saying, seeing to the kid's spiritual welfare." Ray's laugh was short and ugly. "h.e.l.l, I heard enough of that spiritual s.h.i.t all these years. Now the old b.i.t.c.h has Mandy to save.' I don't have to listen to that c.r.a.p anymore."

It was more than Jamie could bear. She knew she should shut up, but she was too angry to stop herself. There'd been too much tension, for too long, too many things had been piling up on her and now the words poured out of her.

"Listen to me, you sonofab.i.t.c.h! It's been two years and I've had trouble enough. I want this over with. You know you don't really want Mandy. You know she wants to be with me."

This is useless. Why am I doing this? This is no place to fight with him. Save it for the courtroom.

Ray stood up straight and looked right into her eyes, letting her see his cruelty. His lip lifted, sneering at her, enjoying her pain.

"Hey, honey," he snarled. "As far as I'm concerned, you ain't never going to have trouble enough. Seems to me it was you tried to walk out on me. Seems to me-"

Jamie knew she'd gone too far and now she just needed to get out. With her hand against his chest, catching him off guard, she pushed him backward, forcing him out of her way. His big bulk fell back against a display of postcards, sending them toppling over the gla.s.s surface of the counter. All she wanted was to get to her car in the parking lot, her feelings a chaos of rage and humiliation.

How could I have been so stupid? Arguing with him like that. Giving him an opening to hurt me some more, just the kind of thing that b.a.s.t.a.r.d really loves.

She slammed through the store's front door, startling an elderly couple who were just approaching the store. She jerked open her car door and got in; she could pick up those d.a.m.ned towels some other time, some other place.

In the store, Ray disentangled himself from the clutching fingers of the display rack. He slapped the rack out of his way and, like Jamie, slammed through the front doors, giving the elderly couple their second jolt in a matter of seconds. He reached Jamie just as she was starting the motor. She was beyond tears now and looked up at him in a fury.

"I told you, Ray. Leave me alone."

But Ray put one hand on the car top and leaned in through the open window, close to her face.

"Something you should know, Jamie." His voice was terrifyingly quiet. "See, I've got this real good lawyer. Real good. And you want to know what he tells me? He tells me he can fix it so you never see Mandy again. You hear me? He says never! He says he can put together enough against you so no judge will ever let you near the kid. Not even a half-day every other week." He laughed briefly. "What's more, he says if we want, we can even have her put away in a foster home, and we can do it so fast your stupid little head will spin."

He stood up straight and stepped back, his face full of icy menace. "So don't mess with me, Jamie. You try to take me on, you'll find out. You're way out of your league." He turned and stalked to a big black van that was parked nearby.

Jamie's heart was pounding fiercely, driving the breath from her body. She stared helplessly after him and he turned once in her direction, just to give her an ugly smile. Then he got into the van and drove it out of the lot and down the road.

"Oh, Mandy!" Jamie whispered the words. "My baby."

She dropped her head forward on the steering wheel and her white-blond hair fell like a curtain about her face, hiding from pa.s.sersby her desperate effort to control the terror that filled her.

"My sweet baby. What am I going to do?"

It was too much, on top of all the misery of these last days. Her habitual self-control went crashing around her and she was frozen by a horrible awareness of her helplessness. Ray was right. His kind of evil was out of her league. He'd been a move ahead of her every step of the way. Desperate to calm down her frantic emotions, she kept whispering the same words over and over.

"I've got to think. I've got to think."

She knew she was too distraught to concentrate properly. The car was already in motion, as though on its own, taking her back to Sharperville, and the wind blew at her face as she raced along, but it didn't clear her head.

She knew she needed help, but who was there to help her? Her mind turned toward Cal, of course, but Cal was gone for good.

She needed to think. She needed to go to the one place that was always good for her. She needed to get up into her private canyon. The air was still heavy and electric, but it had stopped raining, and she wouldn't care if the ground was wet. She'd get some coffee, get up into the canyon, take as much time as she needed, and try to think.

The Chevron station was just coming up on her left as she drove through Sharperville, and she pulled up under the GAS 'N' GOODIES sign. She wiped the tears from her face first and then took the thermos out of the lunch pail on the car seat next to her and went into the convenience store.

She was standing at the counter, waiting for the clerk to finish filling the thermos, when-of all people-Harvey Jackman joined her. He was carrying three bags of potato chips.

"Hey, Jamie. I guess this is getting to be our regular meeting place."

She could barely pull herself together in the face of his cheery smile, and her only response was a curt nod, barely acknowledging him. She didn't want to talk to any member of the Cal Cameron clan. Especially not tonight.

Of course, Harvey noted the red-rimmed eyes and the chilly manner. "Something wrong, Jamie?"

She brushed her hair back from her cheek, turning her head away from him. "I'm not much in the mood for talking tonight, Harvey." She paid for the coffee and took the thermos from the clerk. "I just ran into my ex over in Butcher's Fork. It's a real b.u.mmer."

Without another word, she walked out of the store, returned to her car, and drove away, leaving Harvey to stare thoughtfully after her.

Chapter Fifteen.

Cal ran the water as hot as he could stand it and then let himself down slowly into the tub. He'd already iced the knee for a full twenty minutes and now, for another twenty, he kept a thin stream of scalding water trickling into the bath while he soaked and ma.s.saged his leg, easing the pain and, at the same time, softening up all the other acc.u.mulated muscle tensions. In the old days, he could have spent days in the saddle without needing any recovery time at all, but from now on, for the rest of his life, he'd have to take good care of that knee. The doctor had said it would get better, some, but the leg would never be as it had been before the injury. Cal was still fighting the bitterness in is heart.

"So that's how it turns out," he said to himself. "Cal Cameron isn't quite as special as thought he'd be, different from all the other rodeo riders. Turns out he isn't made out of three parts good luck and the rest all steel, like he thought he was. Turns out it's all over for him a lot sooner that he expected. And a h.e.l.l of a lot sooner than he wanted."

Well, maybe not totally all over. Sometimes, like now when he was soaking in the hot water, and he felt a little loosened up, he'd get the idea that maybe he could bring it all back. Maybe, with the right exercise program, get a real good trainer, some real hard work, he might have another season in him. Maybe even two.

Then he'd remember what the doc in Vail said after the surgery, best man in the country. Sat there in that fancy office of his with all the wood panels and the diplomas on the wall and the pictures of his kids on the desk. "Cal," he told him, leaning back in his chair, "the real work ahead of you isn't the post-op stuff. I know you'll do the exercises and I know the pain won't stop you. You'll use the brace and you'll strengthen the knee on the pa.s.sive-flex machine, eight hours every day, the first eight weeks, like the therapist showed you. It'll be months of real bad pain but I know you can take it. No, that's not the hard part."

Here, the doctor had paused and held his fancy letter-opener poised between the fingertips of both hands while he stared thoughtfully at his patient.

"For you, Cal," he said, finally, "the hard part is going to be the growing up. Your kid days are over, Cal. You'll be able to ride, but not in compet.i.tion. I'm telling it to you straight and I hope you're hearing what I'm saying. You get some of that rough stock between your legs just once, and that mean sonofab.i.t.c.h makes his first turn in the air, and I promise you, you'll never walk right again."

Cal repeated those words to himself again, for the thousandth time.

You'll never walk right again.

"Ah, s.h.i.t!" The ugly word seemed to echo off the tile walls, his private horror chamber, and he had to wait a long time till he felt the silence again.

Well, you're a grown man, Cameron, and a grown man doesn't cry. He just gets mad. But you asked for it. This is what you wanted. You always knew you'd get broken bones out of it. Isn't a rodeoer in the world isn't all broke up. And only if you were a hundred percent lucky it wouldn't get worse than that.