When Jack returned to the veranda, the slim and wiry rider was starting to hitch a strawberry roan mare to the hitching post in the yard below the house. The horse did not seem to be suffering greatly but was breathing heavily and frothing some at the mouth, igniting the rancher’s anger. He started to say something when he saw Jordy walk up behind the rider.
The lean, sinewy cowhand, who easily passed the six-foot mark without his boots, towered over the visitor, “Can I see to your horse, ma’am? Appears to have had a hard ride. Let me get her to some water and wipe her down a bit. A little grain be okay?”
The rider lifted the front of a low-crowned hat and looked up at Jordy. “I would appreciate that. Her name is ‘Dancer.’”
Jordy took the reins from her hands and turned away, leading the tired mount toward the stable, but Jack saw him give the newcomer quick scrutiny.
A young woman. What in blazes?
She looked up at him from the bottom of the stone steps that led up the slope to the house. “I’m looking for Jack Wills,” she said.
“I’m Jack Wills,” he replied. “Why don’t you come on up? We’ve already set another plate for supper, and Consuelo’s fixing up the spare room for the night.”
She bound up the steps, ignoring the sturdy handrail that had been installed a few years back mostly for the benefit of Jack and Rudy. When she reached the landing in front of the porch, Jack stepped back so she could join them there. He saw Rudy searching his trouser pockets for his choppers and, finding them, slipping them into his mouth, something he only bothered to do for female company or at mealtimes. Jack tipped his hat when she stepped onto the porch, and she pushed her own higher on her forehead revealing lightly bronzed skin and long sable hair tied back in a ponytail. He guessed her to be several inches over five feet tall, a head turner to any male but a blind man. He waited for her to speak.
“My name is Sierra Wills,” she said.
The natural response would have been to ask if she was a relative, but he had none that he knew of. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Wills. The geezer sitting on the rocker is Rudy Kilgore, and the fella snoozing on the floor is our watchdog, Thor.”
Rudy remained seated and lifted his hat just enough to give a hint of his bald pate. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “Welcome to Lucky Five.”
Thor slept on, but Jack figured if the animal had sensed a threat, he would have been up and poised by his owner’s boots. He was certain that Thor’s hearing wasn’t much better than Rudy’s, yet the dog seemed to hear when he wanted to or whenever he sensed danger. Jack had to admit his own hearing missed a thing or two these days, but he had convinced himself it was far better than Rudy’s. Of course, they argued some about that.
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” the lady who called herself Sierra Wills said, her tone a bit snippy, he thought.
He had always been slow with a reply, tending to choose words carefully, especially when speaking to strangers. “Ma’am. You are welcome here. You have been invited for supper and offered a room for the night. If you would care to state your business, I’d be glad to oblige with some more conversation.”
“You did notice that we share a last name?”
“Well, yes, it seems we do.”
“Did it occur to you we might be related?”
“No, ma’am. I have no blood kin.” None that would carry his name, anyway. His youthful exploits did not rule out the possibilities that a Kiowa or Comanche woman had nurtured his seed to bloom. And there had been other short-lived romances during his time with the Texas Rangers and, before that, his roaming years following the war for Texas Independence. He had been no saint and was still uncertain if he regretted that.
“You do have blood kin. I am your granddaughter.”
Chapter Two
“We will talk about this after supper,” her grandfather had said, after Sierra informed him that she was his granddaughter. He was a stone-faced man, and she had seen neither shock, rejection, nor acceptance in those searching hazel eyes that seemed to be sizing her up for veracity.
Jack Wills had escorted her into the house and introduced her to Consuelo Cortez, a pretty Mexican girl who appeared several years younger than her own twenty. Consuelo was obviously fluent in softly accented English, but she was thrilled when she found that Sierra spoke near flawless Spanish, and the two easily jumped into a conversation of language hopscotch.
Consuelo led Sierra into the large kitchen, where she met the young woman’s mother, Josephina, a short, buxom woman who embraced her with a welcoming hug. Josephina was also bilingual but struggled not to stray from English and tendered a big smile when Sierra shifted the conversation to the woman’s first tongue. The aroma in the cooking area reminded Sierra that she had not eaten since breakfast.
Consuelo led her through the house, the elegance of which contrasted to the drab exterior. It was decorated Texas style with obligatory mounted buck antlers and steer horns fastened to the walls of the large sitting room and above the wide fireplace built of dark gray stones that she guessed to be granite. A buffalo hide rug was stretched out in front of the fireplace. The furniture pieces, even several rockers, were upholstered
