The Taming Of Tyler Kincaid. Sandra Marton
nose and a foolish disposition, came wandering by.
“Woof?” said the dog.
The mare rolled her eyes and danced backward. Caitlin held firmly to the bridle, calmed the horse, shooed the dog and devoted another five minutes to telling her life was not as awful as she imagined. When the horse nuzzled her again, she decided it was time to ease herself gently into the saddle.
That was the moment the dog reappeared, this time in hot pursuit of a ball of hissing orange fluff.
Caitlin felt the mare’s muscles bunch beneath her thighs. The animal whinnied, reared and pawed the air before she brought it under control again.
Abel Jones, Espada’s foreman, had been watching the goings-on from his window at the eastern end of the stables. He stepped out the side door into the paddock and spat a thin stream of tobacco juice into the grass.
“Ornery critter, that horse.”
“She just needs to run off some steam.”
“Manuel ain’t doin’ nothin’ much this mornin’.” Able spat another stream of juice down toward his boots. “He’ll take her out, if you like.”
Caitlin shot a grin in Abel’s direction. “And spoil my fun?” She leaned forward, ran a gloved hand over the chestnut’s quivering, arched neck. “I’ll do it. Just toss me my hat—it fell off when this little girl tried to make like Trigger.”
The old man bent down, plucked the Texas Rangers baseball cap from the dust, dusted it against his thigh and handed it up. Caitlin pulled the cap on, tucked her dark auburn curls up under it and tugged the brim down over her eyes.
“Open the gate, please.”
“Sure you don’t want to give Manuel somethin’ to do?”
“Open it, Abel.”
The foreman grunted. There was no mistaking an order, even when it was issued in a quiet voice.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and flung the gate to the paddock wide. Horse and woman shot through in a blur.
“That there mare’s a wild one,” Manuel said, coming up alongside. “Think the señorita can handle her?”
Abel’s narrowed eyes stayed locked on the receding figures of horse and rider. “She’ll handle the mare, all right.” He worked the mouthful of chewing tobacco into his cheek, spat and wiped his pepper-and-salt mustache on his sleeve. “It’s a stallion’s gonna give her trouble, someday.”
Manuel gave the foreman a puzzled look. “We got a new stallion? Nobody told me about it.”
The old man laughed. “It’s what they call a figger of speech, kid.”
“A what?”
Abel sighed, reached for a pitchfork and thrust it at the boy.
“Go muck out the stalls,” he said, and stomped away.
Tyler Kincaid was driving a battered old Chevy pickup along an unpaved road that undulated through the Texas countryside.
He’d paid some old geezer four hundred bucks for the truck after the plane he’d chartered had flown him to a small airfield just outside town. The P.I. he’d hired said there was a private landing strip on the Baron ranch but Tyler had decided that a man reconnoitering a situation was better off doing it without drawing too much attention to himself. That was why he’d dressed inconspicuously, not in a suit and tie but in weekend clothes—faded jeans and a cotton T-shirt. He’d even resurrected his old Stetson and his roper boots from the back of his closet.
Tyler had figured he could rent a car someplace near the airstrip but he’d figured wrong, which was how he’d ended up with the Chevy. The old truck groaned and rattled like the bucket of bolts it was, and there was dust kicking up through the holes in the floorboard and settling like tan snow on his boots but according to the map in his bag, he didn’t have far to go. It was only another ten or twelve miles to the Baron ranch.
The radio worked, anyway. Tyler fiddled with the dial, settled for a station playing the kind of country music he hadn’t listened to since his years breaking horses in the hot Georgia sun, first at Boys Ranch and then on his own, after he’d left the Marines. The sentimental songs were made for the hard life of a cowboy. Right now, he just wanted them to take his mind off what he’d set out to do because he suspected that if he thought about it too long, he might admit he was making a mistake.
Why pay a private investigator to dig into the circumstances of his birth and then go out on his own? It was foolish, maybe foolhardy…but this was his life. If anybody was going to find the answers he sought, it was going to be—
The engine hiccuped, made a noise like a sick elephant and came to a convulsive stop.
Tyler frowned, did a quick appraisal of the dashboard gauges. Gas was okay and so was the oil. The engine temperature read normal. He waited a couple of seconds, then turned the key.
“Dammit,” he said, and flung the door open.
It was hotter than blazes with the sun beating down. A chorus of insects filled the silence with a melody of their own devising.
Tyler walked to the front of the pickup and lifted the hood, springing back as steam spewed into the already humid air. He mouthed an oath, waited until the cloud dissipated, then leaned forward and peered at the engine. It was a mess. Rust and dirt, frayed wires and worn hoses…It was years since he’d done much more than pump gas into his Porsche but he reached right in. There were some things a man just didn’t forget. Things like how you really couldn’t expect to get very far with a radiator that leaked like a sieve, and a temperature gauge that had evidently packed it in a long time ago.
Tyler slammed the hood shut, wiped his hands on his jeans and tried not to think about the old codger back at the airstrip, who had to be looking at his four hundred bucks and laughing his head off.
“Hell,” he said, and then he sighed. It was his fault, nobody else’s. Any man who’d lost touch with reality enough to think he could breeze into a town that was little more than a wide spot on the road, flash some hundred dollar bills and expect not to be taken, was a jerk.
Now what?
He stepped away from the truck, looked back toward where he’d been and then ahead, toward where he was going. The view both ways was the same, nothing but a rolling, dusty road that stretched from horizon to horizon with tall grass waving on either side and trees backing up the grass. He was halfway between nowhere and no place. It was a great title for a country ballad but not a very useful location otherwise.
Tyler stomped back to the truck. He snatched his hat from the front seat and put it on, yanked the map from his bag and checked it. The road went on straight for a couple of miles before taking a sharp right. According to the P.I., he’d see the wrought-iron gates and longhorn logo that marked the entrance to Baron land just before it did.
Going ahead was the only logical choice. If life had taught him anything, it was that taking a step back was never an option.
Tyler folded the map, tucked it into the bag and looped the straps over one shoulder. He tipped the wide brim of the Stetson down over his eyes and started walking toward Espada.
Three weeks of digging, and all the P. I. had come up with was the name of the ranch where John Smith had been born. Well, it was something. At least he knew now that John Smith had begun life not in Georgia but in Texas.
That was how he thought of the boy he’d been, as if he and Smith were two separate people. The skinny kid with the ropy muscles who’d had to fight for his place in the world was a stranger to the successful man who had everything he could possibly want.
A jackrabbit zipped across the road ahead, moving so quickly it was almost a blur. Maybe the rabbit had places to be, Tyler thought with a tight smile. If the rabbit didn’t, he surely did yet here he was, walking a dirt road in Texas when he had a life to live, a corporation