“They are your own trees. You can take your pick. Are you needing some of the bladder powder?”
Jack sat down at the table in her tidy kitchen while Tess retrieved two mugs and the coffee pot on the woodstove. “I will need some powder. I’m leaving for a spell tomorrow. Probably be gone several weeks.”
Tess’s brow furrowed as she set a mug on the table in front of Jack and poured coffee in it. “You are trying to be too casual. This is serious business. Tell me about it.” She sat down across the table from him, reached her left hand out and took his.
Tess was a toucher, Jack thought. He had grown up without the memory of a female’s touch, his mother having died before his third birthday. The women he had known, including his only wife, had never been the touching types. He liked that part of Tess. But he could not think offhand of anything he did not like about her. “It’s a long story,” he said, “but I’ll give you a nutshell version and tell you more tonight if you want.”
He told her about the appearance of his granddaughter and her request. She listened attentively and did not interrupt. When he finished, she said, “You told me that you were married years ago. You thought she divorced you. How do you know this Sierra is your grandchild?”
“Her story fits. She’s got my eyes and some of my family looks. And she is sure as hell convinced of it. Why on earth would she pick an old fart like me to come to for help if she didn’t think I was her grandfather?”
“The old fart is something of a legend in this part of Texas, it’s not so farfetched that she heard you lived out here and thought she would rope you into helping her recover the horses.”
“She knows too much about Emily that rings true.”
“How do you know Emily didn’t have a relationship with another man? Maybe that’s why she sent you away.”
Jack gave a wry smile. “Not Emily. She crossed her legs so tight it took a pry bar to get to her love nest.”
“That’s not very nice,” Tess scolded. “I suppose you tell people I’m a slut, since I’m so easy.”
“I don’t tell anybody anything about us . . . except that we play checkers till we’re about to drop. They look at this decrepit old man, and I think most believe me, all but Rudy. He’s always pushing me for details.”
“He knows you too well. Anyway, Jack, I would be lying if I said I am excited about this adventure you are planning. I love you, and I’ll be worried sick while you are gone. But I can see there would be no changing your mind. I’m glad your granddaughter and you have met, and I’m so sad about your son. You must be devastated about that.”
“It’s so strange, Tess, I never knew about him. It is like this person they called J. T. is just a dream, and he’s a cloud floating around out there. I don’t even know what he looked like. And I’m half afraid to wake up and find out he was real.”
“You will probably wake up someday, Jack.” She squeezed his hand and released it.
Chapter Twelve
Tess watched Jack Wills ride down the wagon path that branched off the main trail to her place. Oh, if they had met each other forty years ago when Jack was thirty and she was thirty-two. They had missed so many years. But she supposed it was hard to say about such things. Perhaps, each would have been a different person then, and they would not have been ready to connect. It was possible, she supposed, that they had met at the time that was perfect for love to blossom.
She smiled. There were only a few secrets she had withheld from Jack over the years, having cut most of them loose a bit at a time, just as he had done. But he did not know her age. He had given up the guessing game a few years back, but he had always estimated her age at least ten years younger than the actual figure. She did not delude herself, however, that Jack would do anything but underestimate. He was too much a gentleman to do otherwise.
This latest venture Jack was embarking on worried her. Most Comancheros lacked any kind of moral compass, and they were known as fierce, reckless fighters. In many quarters, the threat of Comancheros in the vicinity struck more fear than the word that Comanches were nearby. They pillaged, raped and killed with abandon. If Comancheros came, a rancher was fortunate if all that he lost was a cattle or horse herd.
She consoled herself that Jack’s easygoing calmness and quiet nature often hid a keen mind that quickly made decisions and knew exactly what he was going to do and why. And he would never brag about his successes. She had found that a man who constantly reminded others of his own brilliance generally came up short when it came to brains. She consoled herself that Jack already had a plan. He was incapable of not having one. But no one else would know what he had in mind until he was darned well ready to tell them.
Tess started to reenter the house when she saw two riders moving her way from the direction of the Middle Concho. As they crossed the prairie and drew nearer, she recognized the rider astride a sorrel. It was She Who Speaks, the young female interpreter and unofficial counselor to the war chief, Quanah. The other rider was smaller, likely a child. When they rode into the yard, Tess waved and walked out to greet them.
She Who Speaks dismounted, raised her hand, and pressed her fingers against Tess’s. “Healer’s Daughter,” She Who Speaks said.
“She Who Speaks,” Tess responded. “What
