Полная версия
Texas Standoff
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
Copyright
It was one of the stormiest nights ever to beset Cheyenne Moon.
Seasoned hands in the bunkhouse reminisced about old times and tried to top one another’s stories. The fresh-faced newcomers listened intently to the tales, never knowing what was truth and what was pure exaggeration.
Though the lady boss was a savvy woman and rarely got taken in by the wild yarns spun around a campfire, she’d fallen for a good-looking, smooth-as-silk stranger in a heat-flash.
If someone had told the crew in the bunkhouse what was happening up in the big house, none of the boys would’ve believed a word. Anybody who knew Elise Winston knew she wasn’t a gullible gal. She was foolish over only one thing-the land that had belonged to her family for better than a century. Never would she lose her head because of some man.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ruth Alana Smith draws inspiration from current events as well as her vivid imagination. When she learned of a title dispute over the hill country of central Texas-”one of my favorite places”-she immediately wrote a story about “the high emotions it engendered.” That love of the land and the love of a good man drive her heroine, E. Z. Winston, throughout Texas Standoff. Family ties and other ties that bind are the inspiration for Ruth’s eighth Superromance novel, about a Texas family fighting to keep what they consider to be rightfully theirs.
Ruth Alana Smith lives in Pasadena, Texas.
Texas Standoff
Ruth Alana Smith
CHAPTER ONE
“BOY, OH BOY it just keeps comin’ down, folks.” The DJ’s West Texas drawl was slower than the pickup’s sluggish wipers. In between the halting tha-thumps of the worn blades rubbing against a cracked windshield, the driver could catch a glimpse of the winding road ahead. A second later the arch of visibility disappeared, and the driver was forced to navigate the twolane blacktop by reflex betwixt the damnable pauses.
“And according to the weather boys, this storm system’s stalled smack-dab on top of us, which is not good news any way you cut it,” the announcer warned. “It’s rained eight inches in less than an hour and they’re predictin’ twice that amount in some parts of the listenin’ area.”
The yellow hound dog lying on the seat next to the driver yawned, stretched and sat up for a look-see. A zigzag of lightning split the dark horizon. Thunder boomed in stereo, making the truck rattle inside, as well as out. Now, to the tha-thumps, ka-booms and radio static, was added the nervous whine of a hound dog.
“It’s okay, Hombre.” The driver chanced onehanding the wheel just long enough to give the dog a reassuring pat. Eighty pounds of canine hunkered tight against faded Levi’s, and a ring of drool darkened the denimed thigh beneath the hound’s sagging jowls. Loyal to the core, old Hombre had blind faith in his mistress, and considering the present circumstances, it was being put to the test.
“Sixteen inches is a gang of rain. Most of y’all know what that means, but for those first-timers or passersthrough who haven’t been privy to these kinds of floods, let me pass along a word of advice. Get off the roads and find high ground. The quicker the better. In these parts when we say, ‘God willin’ and if’n the creek don’t rise,’ it ain’t just an expression, folks. It’s for real. The water comes up faster than you can blink. Believe me, you don’t want to be one of those stalled-out souls stranded in the middle of nowhere with the water comin’ up around your ears.”
The woman driving the pickup certainly didn’t relish the prospect. She leaned her slim frame closer to the steering wheel, her fingers tensing as she noticed between tha-thumps that the side ditches were already swollen to capacity, the muddied rainwater spilling onto the road. Elise Winston was not nearly as upset with the weather as she was with herself. She wasn’t some uninitiated greenhorn. She was rural through and through, born and raised-except for the couple of years spent in England-in the Hill Country. She knew better than to gamble on a fifty-fifty chance of severe weather. Flash flood warnings were commonplace in her corner of the world and not something she generally ignored.
This once, though, the hardworking, headstrong, head honcho of Cheyenne Moon Ranch had indulged a feminine whim-again, not something she was prone to do. Because of such foolishness she now faced the unsavory possibility of not making it back to the ranch before the bridge over Whistling Creek became impassable. The thought of how the hands would ride her about the frivolous reason for courting a swim on her way back from San Antonio-namely, the off-theshoulder lavender sundress with a two-hundred-dollarplus price tag-caused her to give the pickup more gas. Not smart, either, but then, it was fast becoming a choice between the lesser of two evils-risk hydroplaning out of control or being swept away by rampaging waters.
“The sheriff’s department has asked me to pass along some high-water trouble spots,” the DJ’s voice sputtered from the radio speaker. “The following counties are gettin’ the worst of it-Bexar, Bandera and Kerr. In particular, they want y’all to shy away from the areas around Parsons Pass, Two Forks Crossing and Whistling Creek. The first two are already closed ‘cause of high water, and the deputies tell me someone phoned in to say that the water’s risin’ faster than feed prices over at Whistling Creek. They figure the bridge will be out of commission within the hour. There’s already been a report of a car being washed away near Parsons Pass, one person rescued, another drowned. ‘Course, that’s unconfirmed as yet, but it does happen, folks. That’s why we want y’all to heed the sheriff’s warnings and stay off the roads if possible. For those foolhardy enough to brave this mess, for goodness’ sake, use good sense. If you can’t gauge it, don’t risk it. The water’s probably deeper than you think and it’d be a mistake to wade in. Just park and climb a tree, if need be. A vehicle can be replaced. People can’t.”
As the oversize tires of Elise’s pickup plowed through the standing water, the backwash spray against the bottom of the metal bed produced a gushy roar within the cab. The pickup’s forward momentum waned and it was difficult to hold the truck steady on the slick road.
Though it was only four in the afternoon, the sky was pitch-black. The high beams didn’t penetrate but a few yards directly in front. Elise concentrated on the intermittent patch of road she could now and then make out. Her mind was singularly focused. Just another mile or so and she’d reach the bridge and the meandering creek that fringed her property. Think positive, she told herself. The idea of having to dog-paddle the creek with a party dress clenched between her teeth in order to justify the three-hour trip and mucho dinero she’d spent really irked her.
“The bridge won’t be down,” she muttered to herself. Hombre cocked a floppy ear, then exhaled a sigh. Since he was a pup, the dog had loathed water. He hid whenever it was time for his twice-monthly bath. It was almost as if he understood his present predicament. Elise just wasn’t sure if his sigh represented relief or resignation. Hombre’s senses were more reliable than hers. He was simply reacting to the thundering drumroll and the anxious scent emitting from her.
It wasn’t only the rough weather that gnawed at her nerves, or even the unsavory prospect of swimming the cold, spring-fed creek. No, it was something else, something akin to a feeling of expectancy-a strange premonition that a crossing of a different sort than the one she anticipated awaited her at the edge of Whistling Creek.
She shrugged off the queer sensation, chalking it up to the strain of the treacherous drive. “Silliness,” she told herself, concentrating, instead, on keeping the truck in the middle of the road and far from the steep side ditches, which had become invisible under the surging storm waters.
“I SAID I’M UP to my Mercedes emblem in water, lady.
As we speak, I’m stranded on the side of some godforsaken back road with water creeping up to my-” he almost said, “crotch,” but checked himself “-knees.
This is an SOS,” he yelled into the receiver of the portable phone.
The voice of the mobile operator on the other end was mostly garbled static, with only an occasional intelligible word filtering through.
“What.” Hiss, crackle, then silence punctuated by a faint human sound. “Location, please,” he managed to snatch from thin air.
What is your location? he guessed, filling in the gaps. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for the sticky note on which he’d scribbled the directions. He couldn’t remember exactly what turnoff he’d taken. No sooner had he removed the slip of paper than he realized he’d left his reading glasses on the console inside the car. The deluge of rain blurred the ink, making deciphering the directions next to impossible. Rivulets of water rolled down his face and dripped off his nose. Where the hell was he? He couldn’t clearly recall any of the road signs he’d passed.
“I think I’m on Calvary Road. No, that’s not it. Maybe it’s Canterbury,” he guessed. “Hell, I can’t remember. It could be Calcutta, for all I know.”
There was no response except for intermittent blips of a female voice. “. landmark…near.” He could barely hear over the percussion of the rain.
He looked about. “There’s a bridge about twenty yards ahead, but I can’t make out the sign,” he hollered, trying to compete with the rolling thunder. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated the sky. Seconds later the cellular phone went dead. The signal was lost. No mobile operator, not even static.
“Crap!” Frustration overtook him. He reared back and threw the useless object as far as his anger would carry it. It was a stupid thing to do, but then so was his decision to continue driving in this foul weather, especially in an area totally foreign to him. It rained in Dallas, same as it did elsewhere, but he’d never experienced a storm as sudden or as intense as this. The road had become a lake in a matter of minutes, and it was impossible to tell where the shoulder ended and the road dropped off into a steep drainage ditch. Hence, the reason for his sleek Mercedes plunging into the ditch and taking on water like a sinking ship while he could do nothing but bail out with portable phone in hand to signal an SOS. Great idea that was!
“Monsoon season in the boonies,” he grumbled to himself, his heart sinking as he noted the ever-rising benchmark of brown water on his cream-colored car. The Mercedes was now half-submerged. Ruined. A total loss. He mentally pictured his insurance agent’s reaction when he filed a claim. Then he pictured how ridiculous he must look at the moment-perched on the hood of his car, sitting cross-legged, barefoot, his perfectly tailored trousers rolled up to his knees, starched shirt soaked to the skin and expertly cut hair plastered to his head. He looked like a human downspout. What a sight! And what fun his associates in Dallas would have at his expense if they could see the always unflappable, impeccable Colin Majors at this ego-deflating instant.
There were many lawyers who’d secretly relish the idea of Colin Majors finding himself in a situation where he was in over his head, where his smooth orations and snappy comebacks wouldn’t sway the balance, where he was no longer in his element but rather at the mercy of the elements. He could object to high heaven, but Mother Nature would overrule him. Oh, yeah, there were more than a few who’d sat at opposing tables throughout many a trial, wishing, probably even praying, he’d be struck by lightning. His present humiliating circumstances would give them immense satisfaction, if only symbolically.
Another crack of lightning fractured the heavens, streaking to earth with serpentinelike fury and slithering along the ground until finding its mark-a nearby tree. The solid oak split upon impact, groaning and sizzling in its sudden demise. Colin flinched so violently he nearly fell off the hood of the car. The smell of charred wood hung in the wet air for only a moment, then it too died under the onslaught of unrelenting rain. Half in awe, half afraid, Colin sat stupefied, unable to detach himself from the havoc of the storm’s unchecked power. Crazily, the freak lightning strike brought to mind an especially harsh remark made to him at the conclusion of another highly charged incident. The exchange took place a few years back, at the end of a sensational murder trial, but he still remembered the stinging rebuke as though it were yesterday. After his client was acquitted, a family member of the victim ambushed him on his way out of the courtroom.
“You’re as sorry as that monster you’ve turned loose to walk the streets again. If there’s any justice in this world, God’ll strike you dead for what you’ve done.” The sobbing accuser had spit in his face. He’d never forget the pain in the woman’s eyes or the bitterness of the attack.
Colin cast a wary glance in the direction of the charred live oak. Surely a damnation uttered years ago hadn’t brought him to this particular place to suffer a fate similar to the one that awaited the serial killer he’d defended once upon a time. In Texas the death penalty was carried out by lethal injection, not electrocution.
He shook off the unsettling notion of karma playing a part in his traveling plans. He had no intention of becoming a sitting duck in the midst of an electrical storm. He forced his eyes and mind to dismiss the felled tree and its implications. “Get a grip, Majors,” he told himself. It was nuts for him to roost like a chicken on the hood of a car with floodwaters nipping at his butt. What did he think? That just because he was a cardcarrying member of the auto club, a tow truck would magically appear?
“Yeah, sure. You’re having a real wet dream,” he scoffed, hoisting himself off the Mercedes and dropping into the now truly crotch-deep water. He’d have to wade his way to some unknown destination beyond that bridge in search of some shelter and he hoped, a phone. Of all the things he should be considering at such a time-the approaching night, the rough terrain and the distinct possibility of encountering a snake along the way-what kept running through his head was a familiar phone company slogan. Boy! If ever he felt the need to reach out and touch somebody, it was now.
ELISE KNEW she was getting close to the crossing. The bridge ought to be coming into view any minute. She focused dead ahead. Her heart was working double time-two beats to every tha-thump of the wipers. The press of the pickup through the surging waters kicked up a lathered backwash. The water lapped at the door panels, and every so often she detected a distinct floating sensation. The sturdy old truck had taken her about as deep as it could. Hombre detected it, too. He began whimpering in earnest.
“Easy, old fella,” she crooned, feigning a calm she did not feel. She reached for the radio dial, trying once again to tune into an updated weather bulletin. The only thing coming in loud and clear was a gospel station. The preacher’s sermon carried a hellfire and damnation message. “Deliver us, Lord,” he prayed.
“Amen,” Elise chimed in. It was then that the front end of the truck dropped hard into a deep rut in the road, sending a brown breaker washing up over the hood and slapping against the windshield. Elise hung on to the wheel for dear life as the pickup bounced over the rut and shimmied precariously. She strained to see through the sheeting water.
Hombre’s bark warned her a split second before a dazzling display of lightning lit up the horizon like the Fourth of July. Silhouetted against the blinding glare was a shimmering distortion- a person directly in her path, arms waving wildly. Her foot went for the brake. When she depressed the pedal, she met no resistance. Like in a bad, slow-motion dream, the truck kept bearing down on the figure ahead.
Feverishly, she pumped the pedal. Panic swelled inside of her. “Get out of the way,” she shouted, frantically waving the wading fool off the road. A second before the impact, she squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the sickening thud.
When she registered no such sound as a bumper colliding with a body, her eyes flew open. The truck slowed to a crawl in the deep cushion of water, then came to a stop at the edge of the bridge.
Hombre continued barking. The hound paced between the side window and his mistress, alternately pressing his nose to the glass, then sniffing her over. Elise sat paralyzed, unable to pry her foot from the brake pedal or unlock her hands from the steering wheel. Hombre persisted. Satisfied his mistress was unhurt, he pawed and nudged at her until she responded to his fretting.
Regaining control of herself, she flung open the door and hopped down from the high cab into the pelting rain. Being petite of stature, she found herself immersed waist-deep in the chocolate whirlpool. She struggled against the water’s drag, half stumbling, half sidestroking her way around the front of the truck to the opposite side. She was relieved to see what appeared to be the shape of a head sticking up out of the water.
“Are you okay?” she hollered as she worked her way closer to the stranger.
No answer was forthcoming. Her concern mounted. She fell in her haste, taking a dunking in the process. Now she was wet to the shoulders but almost even with the helpless, near-drowned creature a few strides away.
In the darkness it was hard to distinguish the sex of this almost-road-fatality. Then the person spoke up.
“What the devil’s wrong with you, lady! Are you blind or crazy or both?” It was a man’s voice. An angry man’s voice.
“Sorry, mister. You’re lucky I saw you at all in this weather. Can you stand up? Where’re ya hurt?” She plunged a hand under the water, methodically feeling up his leg, certain she’d find a shattered bone protruding through the skin.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I prefer to know a woman a bit better before playing grab-ass.” He made a clumsy but successful effort to get to his feet.
She took his sarcasm in stride. No doubt the man was shaken, considering his brush with death and all. “Rest easy, mister. I don’t intend to molest you. I was just checking to see if ya broke anything,” she explained. “I said I was sorry. My brakes aren’t working. Now, are ‘you going to stand out here looking and acting like some puffed-up toad, or climb into that pickup so we can get the heck out of here? That bridge isn’t going to Jiold much longer.” She motioned for him to follow.
Colin couldn’t distinguish the woman’s features, only that she was slim and just as wet as he. He nodded and she turned to make her way back to the driver’s side of the pickup.
“Friendly of her to offer me a ride after running me down like some road lizard,” he grumbled as he sloshed his way to the passenger door and yanked it open. He froze upon meeting a pair of glowing yellow orbs and an unwelcoming snarl. Now what? Was he supposed to share the seat with a wild dingo sporting a collar? Terrific! Just terrific! He cautiously backed up.
“Mind your manners, Hombre.” Elise settled herself behind the wheel, patting the place beside her for Hombre to take his former position.
The hulk of a dog obeyed, stretching out beside his mistress but keeping an eye on the stranger.
Colin hoisted himself into the cab, careful not to invade the hound’s space.
Before attempting the bridge, she decided to try again to make amends with, the stranger. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Let’s try again. Hi, my name’s E.Z. Winston.” She stretched out her hand and smiled. Referring to herself by nickname came automatically. Elise Zoe Winston was a mouthful, so her daddy had decided on a simpler substitution shortly after her birth. The initials had stuck. It never occurred to her how odd the nickname would sound to an outsider.
Had he heard her right? Did she say Easy? Good grief! What kind of name was that? He returned the handshake. “Colin Majors,” he supplied. “I do appreciate the lift.”
“My place is only a few miles ahead. We’re in luck. The bridge isn’t completely under water yet.” Elise put the pickup in low gear and prepared to make the iffy crossing. She thought about her earlier premonition and found herself glancing over at the man on her right. He had a strong profile, an interesting look about him. Aside from that, all she really knew about the stranger she’d, picked up on the side of the road was that he tended to be a bit sarcastic. Considering the circumstances, she supposed he had a right.
Colin was also mentally measuring the woman and the ridiculous situation. Why had he let his cousin talk him into this visit? Where in the Sam Hill was he, anyway? Dogpatch USA? So far he’d lost a costly car, almost his life, and now he was hitching a ride with Daisy Mae. He cast a circumspect glance in her direction. She looked like a drowned rat, but she was kind of an attractive little rodent. Yeah, the natural type, he decided. Which was not his type, as if it mattered. He wasn’t looking to get involved; he was just searching for the nearest phone.
CHAPTER TWO
COLIN EXPECTED the accommodations awaiting him at the end of the hazardous journey to be about as miserable as the ride itself. The “my place” mentioned by his rescuer was probably a shack in the woods with a pigpen out back. He envisioned the shanties from the pages of Tobacco Road. At best, it would be a small frame house with an assortment of cows and chickens milling about, simple but clean with a few amenities such as indoor plumbing and, please God, a telephone.
His assumptions were not so much based on the woman’s appearance or manner, neither of which was shabby, as they were on his concept of the area as a whole-sprawling hills sprinkled with homespun people who were content living apart from the mainstream. They were aliens to him-a strange breed. He lived in a different world and was a product of a fasterpaced, much more cosmopolitan culture. The simple life might hold a certain appeal for some, but not for him. He saw it as boring. Somewhere deep in his psyche he equated laid-back with lazy. It was probably an unfair and incorrect correlation, but.
Why was he even bothering to analyze his perceptions of a place and people that held no real importance for him? He’d only made the trip as a favor. He wasn’t staying on. Two days max, and he was out of here. In the meantime, he supposed it served no purpose to brood over a lost Mercedes. Sulking over his present predicament wouldn’t change it. So, the lady had nearly made him a hood ornament. She’d apologized, and at least it was dry inside the pickup. Considering his momentary dependence on the woman at the wheel, he supposed he should make a halfhearted attempt at congeniality.
