the test. You have a month to show your worth—at full pay, of course—and if you pass muster, you can stay on as long as you like.”
Dar motioned. “Save your gratitude. It won’t be easy. My men earn their pay the hard way. They work for it.” He nodded at the fox beside him. “My foreman, Berto, has the final say. It’s him you must impress.”
“I will try my best, senor,” Hijino promised. He looked at Berto and resorted to his most charming smile, but it had no effect.
“The rules are simple,” Berto said. “Do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. No drinking at the rancho unless it is a special occasion. No cursing, either, in the presence of the senora and the senoritas. Behave yourself and we will get along.”
“I rarely drink,” Hijino said, “and I never swear, senor.”
“Never?” Berto repeated skeptically.
“I have my mother to thank. My father died when I was young and she raised me by herself. She was very religious. She went to church twice a day, and three times on Sunday.” Hijino did not add that he grew so tired of her constant nagging to get him to go with her that one night he slit her throat and fed her to the hogs.
Chapter 3
“The socializing will be fun.”
Kent Tovey gave rise to mild exasperation. “It’s called a rodeo, dear,” he responded across the breakfast table. “The men take it quite seriously.” Of average height and build, there was nothing remarkable about him except his chin, which jutted like an anvil. He hated his chin as he hated few other things.
In the act of buttering a muffin, Nancy Tovey paused. “Too seriously, if you ask me. One of these years, the competition will end in violence. Mark my words.”
“Don’t I always listen to you?” Kent knew it was a mistake the moment he uttered the words.
“Don’t patronize me. You know how I detest being patronized. Just because I was born and raised in New York does not make me ignorant. And need I remind you that you were born there, too?”
Kent sighed and sat back. His wife of three decades taxed his self-control at times. No, he did not need to be reminded. He remembered his upbringing vividly; the pleasant years of growing up in New York City, the decision to follow in his father’s footsteps and go into business, the mercantile he ran until a chance encounter filled his head with visions of the fabulous opportunities awaiting the intrepid on the frontier. His move to Texas, and then, years later, uprooted to New Mexico Territory. Now here he was, in his forties and the owner of one of the largest and most profitable ranches in the Southwest. A success by any measure.
There were those who had warned Kent he would fail. His father, for instance, labeled leaving New York foolhardy. “What do you know about cows? You were reared in the city, not on a farm.”
Kent had a pat answer. “What I don’t know, I will learn. I will do as I have done with the mercantile, and only hire the best men for the job. Their experience will compensate for mine until mine matches theirs.”
His wife had objected, too. Nancy came from a wealthy family. She had been reared in the lap of luxury. That she fell in love with him and elected to marry him was a constant source of wonderment to Kent. She did not seem to understand that his decision to strike out west and make his fortune was in part motivated by his desire to give her the many things he could not give her as mercantile manager. “Bold dreams call for bold risks,” he had told her.
She had clucked in the annoying way she had, and replied, “I took you for better or worse, so where you go, I go. But if I end up in a boardinghouse ridden with lice and rodents, I will never let you hear the end of it.”
That was his Nance, as she liked to be called, always speaking her mind, and tact be damned. Kent loved her, sincerely and truly loved her, but there were moments when he sincerely and truly longed to throttle her. Now, forking scrambled eggs into his mouth and chewing, he gave thought to the preparations for the rodeo. “I must consult with Clayburn and Jesco today.”
“He scares me,” Nance said.
“Who?” Kent asked in surprise.
“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be Walt Clayburn.” Nance fluffed her light brown hair. For her age she was remarkably attractive. She had an oval face, full lips, and green eyes—the loveliest eyes Kent had ever looked into. Her dress came all the way from Denver, her shoes from Saint Louis. She insisted on wearing the latest fashions. Queen of the Circle T, people called her, and the title fit. “Walt is the nicest man who ever drew breath. He always treats me with the utmost respect.”
Kent agreed. But then, his foreman was wise to the wiles of men
“Don’t make it sound so preposterous. He is an enigma, that one. He hardly ever speaks to me. And he’s killed. Shot others in cold blood.”
Exasperation blossomed into anger, and Kent set down his fork. “I will thank you never to talk like that about him again. Jesco is quiet by nature, and shy around women. As for the shootings, he had no choice. I’ve had all the details from Clayburn.”
“Suppose you share them.”
“Really, now,” Kent said. “Breakfast is hardly the time to discuss bloodletting.”
“You’re the one who claims it was justified,” Nance said. “Prove it.”
When she took that tone, what choice did Kent have? “Jesco has shot four men that I know of. There are rumors of several more, but he never talks about them and no one would presume to delve into his past. That’s just not done.”
Nance sniffed in distaste. “Yes, more of that crude Western etiquette I am forced to live by.”
“Honestly,” Kent said. After all this time, he thought she would have adjusted.
“Go on.”
“All of Jesco’s shootings were done in self-defense. The first time, a saloon girl was involved. She fancied him, and the other man took exception.”
“Yes, I can see where a backward waif might be smitten by those exceptional good looks of his.”
A thought struck Kent. The thought that maybe his wife’s unease did not stem from fear so much as another emotion. Apparently, she did not realize how much her comment revealed. “Anyway, the other fellow drew on Jesco, and would have shot him down if Jesco had not been so quick.”
“You say that with a degree of pride.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Out here a man’s worth is not always judged by how much money he has or how much land he owns. Jesco does us a service by staying with the Circle T. His reputation serves to discourage troublemakers.”
“As if anyone in their right mind would dare try to do us harm,” Nance scoffed. “You have nearly thirty hands riding for you. A small army. You don’t need a man like John Jesco.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, dear,” Kent took delight in pointing out. “Most of our hands are plain and simple cowboys. They’ve never shot anyone in their life. Oh, they wear six-shooters, but those are tools of their trade, like their ropes and their spurs, useful for disposing of rattlesnakes and coyotes. Jesco is different. He is gun-savvy, as they say, and he is loyal to the brand, which makes him an important asset.”
“I still don’t see where it is anything to be proud of. Killing is killing. The day we start to place killers on pedestals is the day this country teeters on the precipice.”
Kent did not say anything. She was judging Western ways by Eastern standards, a failing of hers. He was to blame. He sheltered her from the harsher realities of life. Her view of the West had been limited to the view out the window of their house in Dallas when they lived in Texas, and now by her standing as co-owner of the Circle T. She never actually had to live among the common folk and see the world through their eyes.
“All that silliness aside, I look forward to seeing Juanita again. It has been over a month, and I do so miss her.” Nance’s brow furrowed. “Odd, isn’t it, that we should be so close? I mean, she comes from a poor family in a small village somewhere in Mexico, and I was raised in a mansion on the banks of the Hudson.”
“Juanita Pierce is a walking, breathing bouquet of roses,” Kent said.
Nance’s furrows deepened. “I had no idea you felt so highly about her. But for once we agree. She is a saint,
