Hill Country Secret
Auteur·e
Kit Hawthorne
Lectures
16,9K
Chapitres
23
CHAPTER ONE
A LOUD CRASH jolted Lauren Longwood awake. The October sunshine, so warm and bright when she’d settled into the porch swing earlier in the afternoon, had faded to an eerie twilight. A hard, straight wind cut through her thin T-shirt and rumbled over the metal roof.
She sat up and pulled the quilt around her shoulders, upsetting the gray barn cat nestled in its folds. Cushions tumbled to the floor, along with a worn copy of Ghost Stories of the Texas Hill Country.
She’d fallen asleep reading the sad tale of Alejandro Ramirez: husband, ranchero and soldier in the Texas Revolution. Now that was a man. Fearless, faithful, unstoppable. Not even death at the hands of Santa Anna’s army could keep him from protecting the woman he loved.
“Durango!”
The wind swallowed her voice. She tried again, louder. This time the sleek black-and-white border collie came racing up the walkway. He cleared the porch steps with an easy bound and nuzzled Lauren with his pointy snout.
A clenched fist of tension inside her relaxed a tiny bit as she rubbed Durango behind the ears. Dogs made everything better, and these days she was humbly grateful for any shred of comfort.
She’d been hurting long enough to grow used to the pain. Cling to it, even, like a ratty old blanket. She could function well enough, go through the motions of work and meals and personal hygiene, but not much more.
Durango followed her into the house. The LED displays on the electronics and kitchen appliances were blank. Wind must have taken out some power lines. So much for streaming something light and frothy on TV.
She fell to the sofa with a groan, still cocooned in the quilt. She’d been glad, sort of, to have the entire ranch to herself this weekend—as glad as she was about anything these days. Dalia was a good friend, but even her easy company was a burden at present. Lauren needed to get her head on straight, and La Escarpa had quiet and solitude to spare, with nothing to remind her of Evan.
But she didn’t need reminders. Evan filled her thoughts no matter where she went or what she did. She felt beat up inside, and all she really wanted was sleep.
She was on the verge of dropping off again when something creaked.
She opened her eyes. The old wooden cradle that stood before the fireplace was rocking.
Suddenly Lauren was wide-awake. She could feel the stiff spine of the ghost story book in her hand, and she remembered Alejandro’s story vividly. Just before leaving to fight for Texas independence, he’d told his pregnant wife, Romelia, that he’d be back in time to place a spray of yellow esperanza blossoms in the cradle beside their child.
But Alejandro had been killed by a Mexican musket ball at the Siege of Béxar and buried in a hasty grave far from home. He’d never seen his only son, or returned to the young bride he’d left behind just months after their wedding.
Years later, during a bad drought, wildfires raged through the pastures of the rancho. As Romelia and the vaqueros fought to save the buildings and livestock, she’d seen a shadowy form moving through the smoke, fighting the fire—her husband’s form. The house and outbuildings were saved, and not a single life was lost, human or animal.
And ever after, it was said, whenever danger threatened, Alejandro returned to save his family and their rancho.
This rancho. La Escarpa.
Cold prickles ran up Lauren’s spine. Could this be the very cradle Alejandro had built with his own hands before leaving home to defend his country?
Durango lifted his head, fixed his ice-blue eyes on the cradle and growled.
In a flash, Lauren freed herself from the quilt and bolted out the door.
An esperanza bush stood near the porch steps. Its branches tossed in the wind, scattering leaves and yellow petals as Lauren ran past. She hurried down the walkway, through the gate and onto the long winding driveway. Durango kept pace, stretched out low and sleek at her side. She could feel the crunch of gravel beneath the soles of her boots, but couldn’t hear her own footsteps over the wind’s hollow roar.
The adrenaline rush lasted about a quarter mile before leaving her to crash and burn. She slowed to a walk, forcing herself to keep moving, keep putting one shaky limb in front of the other. She felt like she was going to throw up.
She laced her fingers behind her head and looked back toward the house. Had the cradle really rocked? She’d been half-asleep; maybe she’d dreamed the whole thing.
Of course she had.
In any event, ghost or no ghost, she couldn’t keep running forever. She had to go back sometime.
Vincent Van-Go was parked close to the machine shed, his silver paint looking dim in the twilight. She’d sleep there tonight instead of in Dalia’s guest room. Surely no self-respecting ghost of a nineteenth-century ranchero would bother to haunt a Ford Transit cargo van.
“Well, Durango, I guess we might as well go check the stock. Come on, boy.”
Durango’s ears perked, but he wasn’t listening to Lauren. He was staring away from her, away from the house, with that weird fixed look in his eyes. Then he took off like a shot, without so much as a bark.
Lauren called him, but she knew it was hopeless. Within seconds he’d disappeared around a bend in the drive.
Great. Now I’ve lost Dalia’s dog.
There was no point in chasing him. He had to be making thirty miles an hour. Lauren was a good runner, but not that good.
Well, he’d come back when he came back. No doubt he’d be fine, with his border-collie intellect and his mad sprinting skills.
On the way to the barnyard, she passed a long, low building, overgrown with brush. Jagged shards of glass edged the broken windows, and she thought she saw something moving inside. A varmint, or a ghost? At this point, she was too tired to care.
The barnyard complex offered some protection from the cold. The various outbuildings and enclosures formed an organic cluster that harmonized with the lay of the land. Over in the paddock north of the house, the horses had taken refuge in a little hollow backed by a natural windbreak of dense cedar trees. She couldn’t see the cattle, but they’d surely found shelter, as well, somewhere in their pasture. The chickens had wisely gone into their coop; they looked fluffed and surprised, but healthy. She checked their water and gave them some feed. Dulcinea, the Jersey cow, was on a once-a-day milking schedule and wouldn’t need any attention until morning, but she was so sweet and pretty with her big black eyes and long eyelashes that Lauren stood a long time scratching the shaggy mop of golden-brown hair on the top of her head.
Last of all, she headed to the enclosure that held the Angora goats.
The Angoras brought in good money for La Escarpa. Their long, silky mohair coats were sheared twice a year and sold to be spun into yarn. Already the cream-colored wool was growing in thick and curly since their fall shearing.
Lauren stopped in her tracks. Just outside the goat pen there was an ancient mesquite, with heavy, sprawling limbs as thick as the trunks of mature trees. One of these had split off at the fork, flattening the fence wire and snapping one of the posts.
Straddling the massive mesquite limb was a man.
And what a man he was.
Her first thought was that he was dressed like a mariachi, but plainer, in his short jacket, ankle boots and dark neckcloth tied in a soft bow. But the suit was a rich butternut color, not black, and the embroidery running along the jackets’ wrists and rounded lapels, and down the sides of the tight trousers, was made of plain floss, without any spangly bits. And he didn’t have a hat. In an intuitive flash, Lauren knew this must be the sort of clothing that had inspired mariachi costumes to begin with.
Which meant it must be old—really old.
But the outfit, striking as it was, was nothing to the man himself.
He was lifting the fallen branch from the fence wire. The broad plains of his thigh and shoulder muscles strained against the butternut-brown fabric. His head was bent deep, chin to chest, and his black hair streamed behind him like a banner.
He was absolutely magnificent.
“ALEJANDRO.”
The name came out of her mouth before she knew she was going to say it. She couldn’t help it. The name fit him, belonged to him, like a worn pair of leather work gloves.
He raised his head, and his eyes—almond-shaped, amber-colored beneath black crescents of eyebrows—met hers. Sinew stood out in his neck, and his lips were drawn back from strong white teeth.
“Ayudame,” he said in a strained voice. Help me.
The fallen branch was more or less parallel to the fence. It didn’t just cross the wires at a single point; it was lying over them for several feet. The wires were caught on the branch’s bark and twigs. The mariachi cowboy, or whatever he was, could handle the weight all right, but he couldn’t drag the branch free from its tangle of fencing.
Lauren hurried over and started breaking twigs and pulling the wire loose. A mesquite thorn pricked her finger.
The man didn’t say anything. She was close enough to see the actual warp and woof of the cloth he wore. The shoulder seam of his jacket had the slight waviness of hand stitching.
The goats hadn’t made a break for freedom. Durango had them huddled together in a corner, curly coats ruffled by the wind. He stood a few yards off, facing them with his ice-blue stare, keeping them in place.
The branch came free. The man released it, sending it crashing to the ground.
He stood to his full height, brushed off his hands and stepped over the branch toward Lauren. She hadn’t realized how tall he was. He positively towered over her. His face was broad and well-formed, with high cheekbones and a square cleft chin—a hard, stern, severe face.
“¿Checaste los pollos y la vaca?” Did you check the chickens and the cow?
“Sí, están bien,” Lauren said.
He smiled. His lips barely edged up, but somehow the smile reached his cheekbones and eyes right away.
“Bueno,” he said.
And then...
Lauren heard music. Classical guitar. Faint, but unmistakable. She had a quick thought—this ghost has a soundtrack?—before the apparition spoke again.
“Oh, sorry, I better get this.”
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cell phone.
“Hey, Tony, I figured you’d call. You been watching the weather, huh?... Yeah, it’s pretty gusty, but everything’s fine. I’m at your place now and... What?... Yeah, Lauren’s fine, too. She’s right here... Yeah, the stock is fine. We’re all fine. Look, we got it covered, okay? So you and Dalia have a good time on the River Walk and don’t worry. All right, then. ’Bye.”
He put the phone away and gave Lauren another smile. “Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the whole truth. But he doesn’t need to know about the fence just yet. Nothing he can do about it, and Dalia would just worry. Now that we’ve got that tree branch moved, we can rig a temporary fix with some cattle panels and cinder blocks. Tomorrow morning I’ll come back and hitch up the post-hole digger to the tractor, and we’ll replace that broken post and fix things up right. Good thing the tractor’s running again, huh?”
Lauren found her voice. “I, uh...wait. Who are you?”
His smile faded. “I’m Alex Reyes, Tony’s brother. We met at the wedding, remember? I was the best man, you were the photographer?” He paused, then added, “We danced?”
A wave of embarrassment washed over her. Of course this was Alex Reyes. She remembered him perfectly now. He even looked like Tony a little.
To be fair, it had been over a year since the wedding, and he sure hadn’t been dressed like that. But the fact that she was capable of forgetting, even for a little while, a very attractive man, whose picture she’d taken, whom she’d danced with—her best friend’s brother-in-law—just went to show what a flake she was.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came by to drop off the tractor. I work at the shop. See, there’s my truck.”
He pointed down the caliche driveway to a truck hitched to a flatbed trailer. Limestone Springs Auto and Tractor Service was printed on the side of the cab, and on the trailer was a Kubota tractor. Lauren remembered now that Tony had said the tractor might be delivered over the weekend. Alex must have driven up and parked while she was in the barnyard.
“Um...what’s the story with your clothes?” she asked.
Alex looked down at himself. “What, these? Oh, I belong to a group of historical reenactors. I just picked up my new outfit today and decided to give it a trial run before my next event. I like my reenactor clothes to have some honest wear on them, so they don’t look too costumey, you know? Plus the pants have to be broken in. They’re made to fit kinda tight.”
She let her eyes linger on the long contours of his thighs. They sure were.
The wind picked up. Thunder crashed, and sheet lightning flashed across the sky.
“We’d better get that fence jury-rigged,” Lauren said. “I guess Durango will stay put?”
“Oh, yeah. He knows his business, don’t you, boy?”
Durango’s tail gave a flicker of acknowledgement. He didn’t take his eyes off the goats.
In the tool shed, Alex pulled out a sturdy four-wheeled cart and started loading it with cinder blocks and wire fencing.
“Why’d you speak Spanish to me?” Lauren asked.
“Did I? Maybe because you called me Alejandro. Made me feel like I was back on my grandparents’ place. Hey, wait a minute. If you didn’t recognize me, why’d you say my name?”
Lauren felt her face grow warm. She kept her back turned so Alex wouldn’t see. She hated being so quick to blush, so pitifully transparent.
“Did I?” She added some wire tighteners and fencing pliers to the cart. “I guess you just look like an Alejandro.”
“Huh. Well, at least Durango remembered me. Came running to meet me as I drove up.”
Lauren felt her blush deepening. So that’s why Durango took off down the drive with that weird look in his eyes. He heard the truck engine.
Durango was still standing in the gap when they returned with the cart. It was getting dark now, but Alex found some battery-powered torchlights in the goat shed.
Lauren shivered. Why didn’t I grab my hoodie before running outside? Oh, yeah, because I was spooked half out of my mind by a book of ghost stories.
Alex took off his jacket and handed it to her. He was very matter-of-fact about it, with no overblown gallantry or remarks about chivalry not being dead. He had a waistcoat on underneath, in a darker brown with a woven stripe.
Lauren was too cold to politely refuse. “Thanks,” she said, slipping her arms into the sleeves. “Wow, this feels like putting on an electric blanket.”
“Yeah, I’m like a human furnace. Always have been.”
Together they pieced and spliced and rigged the fence back into passable shape.
“You’re good at this,” Alex said.
“Thanks. So are you. Are you a rancher yourself?”
His mouth tightened. “Trying to be. It’s a long story.”
And not a very happy one, judging from the look on his face. Probably best not to pry.
“I guess that’s it,” Alex said at last, giving a final twist to the last of the wire tighteners.
One of the goats let out a bleat like it agreed with him.
Alex laid the wire tighteners in the cart, then straightened and looked down at Lauren. He was a big man, and he had a way of carrying himself that made him look bigger still. Lauren’s eyes followed the curve of his waistcoat’s shawl lapel as it widened over the broad expanse of chest before tapering to the single row of buttons over the flat abdomen.
“What about tomorrow?” Alex asked. “Shall we say around eleven?”
Her mind went blank. Had he asked her out? Had she accepted?
“To fix the fence,” he said. “I’d like to have it done right before Tony and Dalia get back. This patchwork will keep the goats in overnight, but it won’t keep coyotes out.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, eleven’s fine. Other than watching the ranch, I’m free all weekend.”
Great, now she sounded like she was hinting. Please ask me out, handsome vaquero guy. I’m totally free all weekend.
Alex thought a moment. “I don’t know what the weather’s supposed to do tomorrow. Let me give you my number. If it gets bad, we can reschedule.”
He felt for the inner breast pocket, where he’d put his phone before, but he wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore. Lauren was. He made an instinctive movement toward Lauren and the pocket, then seemed to think better of it and jerked back his hand.
She started to take off the jacket. “Nah, that’s okay,” he said. “I’ll walk you to the house when we’re done and give you my card.”
By the time they’d put away the tools, the thunder was growling continuously, with lightning flashing like a strobe light. Still no rain.
On the way back to the house, Lauren asked, “Hey, what’s the deal with that creepy broken-down building just off the driveway?”
“That’s the old bunkhouse, where the vaqueros used to live. Raccoons have taken it over. It’s trashed on the inside, but the architecture’s still solid. I’d love to fix it up one day.”
“Huh. That’s not a bad idea.”
When they reached the porch, she took off the jacket and handed it to him. He pulled a small ornate metal case out of the pocket, opened it and handed her a card.
“Phone number’s on the back,” he said.
Printed in a lovely old-fashioned typeface was Alejandro Emilio de Reyes—nothing more. Not a business card, but a genuine nineteenth-century calling card.
She read the name aloud. Both the sight and the sound of it struck her with a strange, half-pleasurable ache.
“Dang, girl, where’d you learn to roll your R’s like that?”
“Oh, I lived in Mexico a few months. Long enough to upgrade my high-school Spanish to functional fluency.”
The rain fell in a sudden torrent. Alex let out a whoop.
“Finally! I hope it comes down all night. We sure need it. ’Course, it’d be better if it slackened down to a nice soft patter. A downpour like this is satisfying to hear, but as dry as the ground is, it’ll just run off instead of soaking in, and it might flood. Not that I’m complaining!”
“That’s what everyone in Texas says about rain. It’s like you’re afraid to offend the rain gods. You could be getting carried off by a flash flood, and just as it swept you away you’d yell, ‘Not that I’m complaining!’”
“Well, I don’t know about rain gods. I’m a Baptist. But, yeah, I guess you have a point. We’re always scared of drought, haunted by it. Even in a wet year we know there are more droughts to come, waiting.”
Lauren understood the feeling. But the things haunting her were empty dreams, lost hope and broken promises.
Alex put on the jacket. One long wavy tendril of hair caught beneath the collar. Lauren felt a sudden urge to tease it free with her fingers.
“Would you like to come inside?” she asked.
The question sounded as doubtful as she felt. This was an exceptionally attractive man, but Lauren knew very well that she had no business getting involved in any way with any man whatsoever. Her life was more than complicated enough just now, and she had someone besides herself to think of.
He looked toward the drive. Rain poured off the edge of the porch roof in a solid gray curtain.
“I don’t want to intrude,” he said.
“It’s no intrusion. Anyway, there’s no way you can unload the tractor in this downpour. You’d be swept away for sure.”
He turned those amber eyes on her again. They were tilted downward ever so slightly at the outer corners, giving his face a sad, solemn look.
Then he smiled—just a slight smile, like before, but one that altered the whole character of his face.
“I’ll make us some Mexican hot chocolate,” he said.
A beautiful man in historical vaquero garb was offering to cook for her—to cook chocolate, no less. Heaven help her.
