Tracker's Sin. Sarah McCarty
home.
Everyone had assumed Arianne would be grateful to leave whatever hell she was living in for the chance to be with her sister, but she looked settled here. She might not want to leave the older couple to travel across the state. Whatever had happened since the Comancheros had sold her, she’d clearly found a measure of peace here. People could be funny about peace. They rarely wanted to leave it.
The letter rustled under his fingers. A promise was a promise. If he had to bring Ari kicking and screaming to Hell’s Eight, he would. She wasn’t safe here. The attack on Sally Mae had made it clear that Desi and Ari’s enemies were still hunting her, and if he’d found her, they could, too. Swinging up into the saddle, he steered Buster toward the ranch. Leaving wasn’t an option, so he needed a legitimate reason to stay while he checked the lay of the land. Word in town was the old man was looking for help fixing the place up.
Tracker patted Buster’s neck. “Guess we’ll go see a man about a job.”
Chapter Two
The old man was sharper than Tracker had expected. He took one look at him outside the barn door and grabbed up a pitchfork.
“Que quieres aquí?”
Tracker halted just inside the door, keeping a safe distance between the tines of that fork and his midsection while his eyes adjusted to the change in light. The last thing he wanted was to hurt an old man who’d taken in Ari and given her peace.
He answered in English. “A job. Word in town is you’ve got one available.”
The old man squinted and looked him over from head to toe. Tracker knew what he saw. The scar on his face alone gave people pause. Coming hard off the trail, dressed in black, his hair long and the scar advertising his way of life like a red flag, he looked like what he was: trouble.
The man didn’t lower the pitchfork. “I am looking for a handyman.”
“I’m handy.”
The old man’s gaze went to the guns on his hips. “With a hammer.”
Tracker didn’t bother to smile. It made people nervous when he smiled. “I’m good with that, too.”
“I do not need here the kind of trouble a pistolero brings.”
Tracker’s eyes had adjusted to the interior. There was no one else lurking about as far as he could tell, and the hairs on the back of his neck weren’t standing on end in warning. That was about as much of a guarantee as he ever got. He relaxed, pushing his hat back from his forehead. “Is that so?”
The old man showed no sign of relaxing in turn. “That is so.”
“From what I saw last night in town, it seems to me a man with a pretty young woman on the property could use all the help he can get. With a hammer and other things.”
The old-timer took a step forward, the tines dipping to align with Tracker’s gut. “You will stay away from mi hija.”
Daughter? He called Ari his daughter? That was going to complicate things. “Don’t have any intention of getting close. That kind of trouble I don’t need.”
It wasn’t precisely a lie. He was only going to get as close as it took to spirit Ari safely back to Hell’s Eight.
The old man lowered the pitchfork slightly. “No, you don’t.” He jerked his head toward town. “They would string you up by your cajones.”
Interesting. “And who would they be?”
“Los gringos who came to town last winter.”
“There weren’t any gringos in town last night.”
The old man spat. “They come. They go. But when they come it is muy malo.”
Likely a gang of outlaws who were intent on making the town of Esperanza their refuge. “Not the neighborly sort, huh?”
The old one stood the pitchfork on the ground. “No.”
The cow mooed restlessly, clearly unhappy with having her morning milking interrupted.
“Then I reckon a handyman who’s also handy with a gun might be useful.” Tracker held out his hand. “Tracker Ochoa.”
Not by a twitch of an eyelash did the old man show any sign he recognized the name. Tracker wasn’t surprised. Esperanza was very close to the Mexican border. Not much worry a Texas Ranger’s rep would carry this far.
“Vincente Morales.”
Vincente’s hand was callused and worn from years of work. His grip was lighter than Tracker expected. As soon as he felt swollen knuckles that indicated arthritis he lessened his own grip. Vincente leaned the pitchfork against the outside of the stall.
“This getting old, it is not for a coward.”
“You looked pretty damn intimidating wielding that pitchfork.” Tracker took a step forward and indicated the cow. “Mind if I finish this up?”
“I would be grateful.”
Tracker readjusted the stool near the animal. “She got any preferences?”
“No. Abuelita is a good cow.”
Tracker set his hat down and leaned his forehead against the animal’s side. It’d been a long time since he’d milked a cow. He hated the damn things, but he couldn’t sit by and watch an old man with pained hands struggle with the chore. It took only three seconds to figure out that there were some things a man didn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried. Milking a cow was one of them.
Two tugs and the milk hit the bucket in a hard stream. The old hound moaned and looked hopeful. Tracker smiled and squirted in the dog’s direction. His aim was a bit off but the hound compensated, licking the milk off his whiskers with slow swipes of his big tongue. Vincente chuckled.
Tracker caught his eye. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“No. He can no longer hunt rabbits. It is one of his few pleasures.”
“A body’s got to have his pleasures.”
“Sí.”
The barn fell quiet, the only sounds being the hound scratching and milk splashing into the bucket. Vincente broke the silence.
“The job does not pay much. A room here in the barn and supper.”
Tracker cocked his head so he could see the man. “Your wife a good cook?”
Vincente patted his rounded belly. “Very.”
Tracker bent his head and hid his smile. He could see Caine saying the same thing about Desi forty years down the road. Then he chuckled. It’d be worth living that long to see Caine with a belly. “That’ll do.”
The cow was about dry. She stomped a hoof, signaling the end of her patience. Tucker squirted the last of the milk into the bucket and leaned back. Too late he remembered the other reason he hated cows. Her tail whapped him in the face, the bristly hairs stinging, adding insult to injury.
“Son of a bitch.” He jumped to his feet, barely missing spilling the milk. The cow turned her head and stared at him reproachfully, as if he’d done something wrong.
“Don’t look at me like that!” He rubbed his cheek. “I’m not the one swinging wildly.”
He grabbed the bucket in case she was one of those cows that delighted in making a waste of an unpleasant task by kicking over the container.
Vincente laughed outright and handed him the lid. “There will be danger for you here.”
Tracker laid it in place, fitting the notches between the bucket’s handles. “From the unneighborly sort?”
“No.”
Grabbing