Jesse searched the horizon and found what he was looking for. The copse of pecan trees stood along the far western border of the Flying Diamond. He rode toward the trees hoping that his contact would be there waiting for him. He spotted the glint of sun off cold steel and headed toward it.
"Kind of risky carrying a rifle around these parts with everyone looking out for badmen, don't you think?" Jesse said. He tipped his hat back slowly, careful to keep his hands in plain sight all the time.
"Don't know who you can trust nowadays," the other cowboy answered. "Your name Whitelaw?"
Jesse nodded. "From the description I got, you'd be Mort Barnes."
The cowboy had been easy to identify because he had a deep scar through his right eyebrow that made it look as if he had come close to losing his eye. In fact, the eye was clouded over and Jesse doubted whether Mort had any sight in it. The other eye was almost yellow with a black rim around it. Mort more than made up for the missing eye with the glare from his good one. Black hair sprouted beneath a battered straw cowboy hat and a stubble of black beard covered his cheeks and chin.
Jesse evaluated the other man physically and realized if he had to fight him, it was going to be a tooth and claw affair. The cowboy was lean and rangy from a life spent on horseback. He looked tough as rawhide.
"Tell your boss I got the job," Jesse said.
Mort smiled, revealing broken teeth. The man was a fighter, all right. "Yeah, I'll do that," Mort said. "How soon you figure you can get your hands on that prize bull of hers?"
"Depends. She keeps him in the barn. He's almost a pet. It won't be easy stealing him."
"The Boss wants-"
"I don't care what your boss wants. I do things my way, or he can forget about my help."
Mort scowled. "You work for the Boss, you take orders from him."
"I don't take orders from anybody. I promised I'd steal the bull for him and I will. But I do it my way, understand?" Jesse stared until Mort's one yellow eye glanced away.
"I'll tell the Boss what you said. But he ain't gonna like it," the cowboy muttered.
' 'If he doesn't like the way I do things he can tell me so himself," Jesse said. "Meanwhile, I don't want any more cattle stolen from the Flying Diamond."
The look in Mort's eye was purely malicious. "The Boss don't like bein' told what to do."
"If he wants that bull, he'll stay away from here. And tell him the next time one of his henchmen shows up around here he'd better not be carrying a gun."
Mort raised the rifle defensively. "I ain't rid-in' around here without protection."
Jesse worked hard not to smile. It was pretty funny when the badman thought he needed a gun to protect himself from the good guys.
"Don't bring a gun onto the Flying Diamond again," Jesse said. "I won't tell you twice."
It was plain Mort didn't like being threatened, but short of shooting Jesse there wasn't much he could do. The outlaw had kept a constant lookout, so he spotted the rider approaching from the direction of the ranch house when there was no more than a speck of movement in the distance.
"You expectin' company?" Mort asked, gesturing toward the rider with his gun.
Jesse glanced over his shoulder and knew immediately who it was. "Dammit. I told her I'd come get her," he muttered. "It looks like Mrs. Farrell. Get the hell out of here and get now!"
Mort grinned. "Got plans of your own for the Missus, huh? Can't say as I blame you. Mighty fine lookin' woman."
Jesse grabbed hold of Mort's shirt at the throat and half pulled the man out of the saddle. The look in Jesse's eyes had Mort quailing even though the outlaw was the one with the gun. "That's no way to talk about a lady, Mort."
The outlaw swallowed hard. "Didn't mean nothin' by it."
Jesse released the man's shirt. He straightened it with both hands, carefully reining his temper. "Back up slow and easy and keep that rifle out of the sunlight. No sense me having to make explanations to Mrs. Farreil about what you're doing here."
Mort wasn't stupid. What Jesse said made sense. Besides, the Boss would skin him alive if he got caught anywhere near Mrs. Farrell. "I'm skedaddlin'," he said.
Without another word, Mort backed his horse into the copse of pecans and out of sight. Jesse whirled the stud and galloped toward Honey to keep her from coming any closer before Mort made good his escape.
Why hadn't she waited for him at the ranch, as he'd asked? Damned woman was going to be more trouble than he'd thought. But she was sure a sight for sore eyes.
Her hair hung in frothy golden curls that whipped around her head and shoulders as she cantered her bay gelding toward him. She ought to be wearing a hat, he thought. As light-skinned as she was, the sun would burn her in no time at all. He remembered how her pale hand had looked in his bronzed one, how soft it had felt between his callused fingers and thumb. Never had he been more conscious of who and what he was.
Jesse hadn't known at first what it meant to be part Indian. He had learned. Breed. Half-breed. Dirty Injun. He had heard them all. What made it so ironic was the fact that neither of his two older brothers, Garth and Faron, nor his younger sister, Tate, looked Indian at all. He was the only one who had taken after their Co-manche ancestors.
His brothers hadn't understood his bitterness at being different. They hadn't understood the cause for his bloody knuckles and blackened eyes. Surprisingly, it was his half-English, half-Irish father who had made him proud he was descended from a warrior people, the savage Comanche.
That knowledge had shaped his whole life.
Jesse had often wondered what would have happened if he had been born a hundred years earlier; he often felt as barbaric as any Comanche. He had not been able to settle in one place, but needed to wander as his forebears had. While it was still a ruthless world he lived in, the conventions of society had glossed over the ugliness so it was not as apparent. Except, he had chosen a life that brought him into daily contact with what was cruel and sordid in the modern world. And forced him daily to confront his own feral nature.
Jesse no longer apologized for who and what he was. He had not tied himself to any one place, or any one person. He had never minded being alone or even considered the loneliness and isolation caused by his way of life. Until he had met the woman riding toward him now.
His eyes narrowed on Honey Farrell. He wished he could tell her about himself. Wished he could explain how she made him feel, but he couldn't even tell her who he really was. Nevertheless, he had no intention of letting the circumstances keep them apart. It wasn't honorable to keep the truth from her, but he consoled himself with the thought that when this was all over, he would more than make it up to her.
It was unfortunate she didn't-couldn't- know the truth about him, but he convinced himself that it wouldn't matter to her. He would make her understand that they belonged together. And who-and what-he was would make no difference.
"Hello, there!" Honey called as she rode up to Jesse. ' 'There was a phone call for you after you left."
Jesse took off his hat, thrust his hand through his too-long black hair and resettled the Stetson. "Can't imagine who'd call me," he said. His family had no idea where he was-and hadn't known for years.
"It was Dallas."
Jesse frowned. "Any particular reason for the call?"
"He invited you to dinner tonight." Honey didn't mention that Dallas had invited her to dinner as well. She had tried to refuse, but Dallas had put Angel on the phone, and Honey had succumbed to the other woman's plea for company.