The Maverick Returns. Roz Denny Fox

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СКАЧАТЬ the congealed cheesy macaroni, and be thankful for it. The vegetable—zucchini—was less appetizing, but it helped fill the hole in his stomach. After he finished, he rinsed his plate and left it where he’d found it.

       In the morning, he saw Willow and Lilybelle crossing the field that flanked the house. They disappeared over a rise, making no effort to contact him. No big surprise there.

       Coop scavenged through the toolshed that sat adjacent to the barn, searching for what he’d need to mend the fences and shovel out the barn. He was astounded that the shed and tack room were both devoid of any of the tools one would expect to find on a ranch.

      * * *

      NOT CATCHING WILLOW at the house or elsewhere on the property for two days, Coop made do with the hammers, pliers and crowbar he carried in his pickup.

       Like clockwork, his meals appeared on the porch outside the door. They proved to be as meager as the grain boxes Willow should have filled to begin fattening her steers for market. Coop didn’t want to track her down and complain about the lack of anything resembling meat in any of his meals when it was clear that times were tough. Breakfast was usually pancakes, lunch was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and supper, a noodle dish with tomato sauce or white gravy.

       Cooper was fed up by day three. By then it was readily apparent that Willow intended to pull out all the stops to avoid him, or send him away completely. At breakfast she’d set out an envelope with two days’ pay in it and a note thanking him for his help. With that, he fired up his pickup and headed into town to hunt up a good restaurant and a feed store. He left the envelope full of cash where it was.

       Not caring that it was barely ten o’clock in the morning, Coop went into a busy local café and ordered a steak with all the trimmings. Satisfied, he paid and gave the waitress a good tip. “Can you direct me to the closest feed store?” Coop asked her.

       “Hank Jordan’s is the only feed store serving our area,” she said, drawing him a rough map on a napkin.

       Coop arrived at the feed store to find Hank himself behind the counter.

       “I’m doing some work for Willow Walker,” Coop said. “I need twenty sacks of grain, two hundred-foot hoses and rye seed for a couple of fifty-acre fields. I assume Mrs. Walker runs a tab for essentials?”

       “You assume wrong,” Hank said, peering at Coop over a pair of wire-rimmed half-glasses. “You the latest of her part-timers? Last two guys came in and bought mash for their horses. Don’t see much of the widow. Now, her husband was a piece of work. Had an excessive taste for gambling and booze, but he never seemed short of money. The missus rarely came to town, but when she did, she paid cash.”

       Coop frowned. “I’m actually an old friend of Mrs. Walkers. I haven’t seen her since before she married Tate, but her ranch is a little the worse for wear, and I want to help her out.”

       “If you ask me, she shoulda left that no-good husband of hers a long time ago, but she stuck it out. You know how people in small towns talk. Well, I’ve heard from more than one source that while she was pregnant, she was seen with bruises. My wife, who sometimes cashiers here, said she noticed, and asked, but was told they came from working cattle. No one bought that story. And no one held any liking for her man, who bragged that his dad, supposedly a wealthy rancher up north, bought him this ranch and stocked it with prime steers. If you and the widow go back a ways, you probably know more about the family than I do. One thing I thought was odd—after the big brawl where Walker was accidentally shot, his father swooped into town, claimed his son’s body, and took him elsewhere to be buried. I figured he hasn’t been providing for Mrs. Walker ’cause she’s been selling furniture and tools for grocery money and to replenish her kettle ever since the funeral. I hope you’re what you say—a friend—and it don’t make things worse for her that I’m telling tales out of school.”

       “No, no,” Coop stammered. “I appreciate the information. I’ll pay for the stuff I ordered. While you’re at it, if there’s room in my pickup out there to add six bales of hay, pile it on.”

       After his pickup was loaded, Coop backtracked to the area’s big-box store, which sold a little of everything. He was frustrated to think that, given their history, Willow hadn’t come clean with him about her true circumstances.

       Forty minutes later, he came out with enough bags of groceries to fill the passenger side of his Ram. He fumed all the way back to Willow’s ranch, telling himself it was no wonder she looked as skinny as the branches on the tree for which she was named.

       On pulling into the driveway, he saw that her front door was open, except for the screen. Coop jumped out and quickly unloaded the many bags of groceries, transferring them to the porch. When he finished, he knocked loudly on the screen door casing, making a racket that brought Willow running.

       “Cooper, what on earth?” She wiped her hands on a dish towel and unlatched the screen. “I thought you’d taken off without the pay I set out for you, but then I realized you’d left your horses and trailer behind. What’s all this?” She swept a hand over the sacks of groceries, bending to pull Lilybelle back when she wriggled through the narrow opening.

       Coop stood there holding two more large sacks. Pushing open the screen with one foot, he thrust them into Willow’s arms. “I went to the feed store and tried to put a few items on your tab. Imagine my surprise,” he said tightly, “when the owner said you don’t run a tab, and only buy supplies when you have the cash. Seeing as how you’ve been feeding me the equivalent of rice and beans all week, I suggest it’s time you were candid with me about what’s really going on here.” He didn’t mean to sound gruff but couldn’t help it. He grabbed up two of the heavier boxes and steamrolled into the house, stomping on into the kitchen ahead of her.

       Coop let her stew silently while he brought in the remaining groceries. “Well,” he said, opening the almost-empty fridge to shove in three gallons of milk and a variety of other perishables. “Start spilling your guts.”

       Willow braced her hands on the grocery-covered countertop. Appearing anxious, she sputtered and ended by saying defensively, “I never lied to you, Cooper. Everything I said was the truth. I told you Tate died last year, but I assumed you already knew. I admitted the ranch is too much work. And I do have it listed for sale. But what’s to be gained by airing Tate’s and my dirty laundry to you, of all people?”

       “Why me of all people?” Coop asked, barely pausing as he opened cupboard doors and filled the shelves with cereal, bread, rice and various staples.

       “Because of…oh, just because,” she said, throwing up her hands. “Like you’ve never made a mistake in your life.”

       He laughed. “According to my brother I’ve made plenty. I sold my quarter horses, and I pissed away almost all of what I earned on the rodeo circuit.”

       “But you didn’t—you don’t—have a family to support. It’s different for you, Coop,” she said, her lips in a tight line.

       “Tell me how.” He merely stared at her, waiting.

       Willow sank down on a kitchen chair and laced her hands together in front of her. Faking interest in her fingernails, she whispered, “With what you’ve been privy to these past few days, I’m reasonably sure you’ve guessed that while Tate liked being seen as a ranch owner, he disliked the work required to actually run a ranch.”

       “And…he lost valuable ranch profits playing poker?”

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