Mom's The Word. Roz Fox Denny

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      Jake supposed he could delay the inevitable by letting Dillon think he’d ridden off without the package. But he’d always been one to take his punishment rather than lie. It seemed pointless at any rate, since he’d told his dad he’d fill Dillon in on the situation at the spring. He opened his mouth and out poured the story of Ben O’Dell’s demise—and Hayley Ryan’s appearance.

      “Let me get this straight. You and Dad just let that woman squat on the section of land Ben promised would be ours?”

      “She isn’t exactly squatting, Dillon. She filed legally. Instead of the claim being in Ben’s name, now it’s in hers.”

      “Did she show you the papers?”

      “No. But she has Ben’s truck and trailer. Why would she lie?”

      “Why wouldn’t you ask to see proof?” Dillon’s eyes, a shade darker than his brother’s, clouded as if heading into a storm.

      Jake touched the still-swollen knot over his ear. “She showed me all the proof I needed,” he said wryly. “The business end of a shotgun.” Because it seemed almost funny now, Jacob spun that tale, too.

      Laughing, Dillon slapped his knee. “What I wouldn’t have given to see that.”

      “I’m sure. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t be spreading the story around. It was an accident. Could have happened to anyone. She aimed over my head and hit a damned branch.” He gingerly fingered the lump on his head again.

      “Maybe you won’t mind telling me what insanity possessed you to have a second go at her today. Why in heaven’s name would you bring her food? My food,” he said irritably.

      “Regardless of the shotgun incident, she’s a woman.”

      “Yeah, a woman sitting smack alongside the only fresh water for miles around.”

      “Exactly. Wild animals aren’t my only concern. Granted, most illegals crossing the border aren’t looking for trouble. But who’s to say they’d consider a bitty woman trouble? Some might risk jail for her truck alone. Or a drifter might. Or the occasional homeless guy trying to live off the land.”

      “You have a point.” Dillon ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. His hair wasn’t as dark as Jake’s. He’d inherited more of Nell Cooper’s coppery highlights. When he did start to grow a beard, like now, it was redder still. “What did Dad say?” Dillon asked. “He’s not going to let her stay, is he?”

      “He and Mom went to Tombstone today. Dad’s planning to find out if Ben mentioned our deal to anyone. Then the folks are going on to Tucson. Mom’s been chafing to visit a new pottery-supply store she heard about. If Dad doesn’t get answers in Tombstone, he said he’d pay a visit to the county recorder. To take a quick gander at the record of claims.”

      “Makes sense. If the woman’s not savvy, she might have slipped up somewhere. Left a loophole or something.”

      “I wouldn’t get my hopes up. She seems knowledgeable about filing issues.”

      “Well, hell. Did she happen to say what’s so all-fired tempting about that twenty acres? Ben worked it for years and he never found diddly squat.”

      “We don’t know that for sure. The old guy was pretty closemouthed. Oh, he told some tall mining stories, but I can’t recall him ever giving away anything personal.”

      “He talked a lot about his silver mine. I had the idea it produced all right, didn’t you? Why wouldn’t that revenue be enough for his granddaughter?”

      “Depends on what you mean by ‘all right.’ Don’t you think if it’d been making good money, he’d have stayed home and enjoyed the fruits of his labor a little more?”

      “Prospecting gets in some men’s blood. It’s a lot like gambling. A fellow always thinks his really big strike is over the next rise.”

      “I found Ben more down-to-earth than that. I mean, if he had gold fever, he would have spent more than a couple of months a year on his claim. To me it seemed he treated it more like a vacation.”

      “Maybe. Gold fever, huh? So you think he was hunting gold?”

      “I haven’t a clue. I just used that as an example.”

      Dillon dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out a toothpick, which he stuck between his teeth. Modern cowboys, especially those who’d once smoked, had switched from tobacco to mint- or cinnamon-dipped toothpicks. Jake had never picked up the smoking habit. Dillon had, but quit at Eden’s request. But during serious talks, he sometimes reverted to it. He shifted the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other as he gazed toward the granite hills under discussion. “If communing with nature is all the yearly trek was to O’Dell, you gotta wonder why a woman snapped up the claim the minute the old guy cashed in his chips.”

      “I don’t know when he died. She just said he had. Don’t tell me you’re getting gold fever, Dillon.” Jake sounded amused. “Strikes were never plentiful in this neck of the woods. The Blue Cameo is so remote, nuggets would have to be lying on top of the ground for anyone to convert the ore to cash. Hauling anything out of here over dirt roads takes money and guts.”

      “It’s not so far to hook up with Interstate 19. No one’s ever found reason to lay out the money to improve the road, but that doesn’t mean no one would if they turned up something worth big bucks.”

      “I’d have to see it to believe it. It’s not that I think a woman is less capable than a man of hacking into a ripe vein by accident. But I am skeptical of that woman being Hayley Ryan. If you could’ve seen her poring over elementary mineral and gem books, you’d agree. Plus, she’s a flyweight.” He shook his head. “I think if we wait a while, she’ll eventually give up and go home.”

      “She might reach that conclusion faster, Jake, if you didn’t supply her with fresh produce. My produce,” Dillon reminded him.

      “I know, I know. But if that was Eden camped there, would you turn your back and walk away, big brother?”

      A sudden light dawned in Dillon’s eyes. “Are you saying you’ve fallen for this stranger?”

      “No!” Jake protested. A bit too fast and much too vociferously. “We were raised to look out for women. So get off my back. You’d do the same—don’t deny it.”

      Dillon gazed at his brother narrowly. The staring match lasted only seconds. Dillon capitulated with a shrug. “Then we’ll leave it at that. What’s your count of strays? I turned 1,010 head onto our leased grassland. Nine hundred and thirty to open range near Pena Blanca Lake. And twice as many near Hank and Yank’s dry spring. By my figuring, we’re down roughly five or six hundred head from the number Dad gave me.”

      “I can account for roughly half of that in little knots of two or three strays. The missing might have merged with John Westin’s herd. I’ll ride past his spread and ask if he’s seen any of our brand mixed with his.”

      Dillon gave his brother a playful nudge in the ribs. “This eagerness to volunteer to ride miles out of your way wouldn’t have anything to do with Ginalyn Westin, would it? Like, give you a chance to ask her to the fall harvest dance?”

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