The Cowboy’s Hidden Agenda

Chapter 8

Her thirst quenched, Lauren straightened, smoothing water over her face and neck like oil. She gave Bronco a sideways look and said, “I’m curious. If you hated the U.S. Army so much for what they did to your ancestors, why did you join?”

Shoot, thought Bronco, if that wasn’t just like a lawyer. Ask him a question from a conversation so far back he could hardly remember it-probably just trying to trip him up. Erotic thoughts scattered like pollen on the wind, and as before, there was a part of him that felt disappointed at their going.

“I was young and stupid,” he snapped. Then, his irritation dissipating as quickly as it had come, he added philosophically, “And out of options.” He pushed himself to a sitting position and slapped his hat once on the leg of his Levis before he handed it back to her, along with a wry smile. “I was a pretty wild kid.”

“Gil said you had a problem with alcohol.” She pitched that at him boldly, then waited for his response.

He looked at her for a moment while he considered what it would be, and decided on a line drive up the middle. “Runs in the family,” he said evenly. “My old man was a drunk.”

If he’d hoped to shock her, he was disappointed. She fielded it with a nod, without even flinching. “Gil told me your dad was killed in an automobile accident.”

“Seems like Gil told you a lot of things about me.” He offered her the half smile again, sort of as a peace offering.

“I think he was trying to warn me off,” she said dryly, then threw him a quick glance and added before he could get in a smart remark, “Not that he needed to.”

Bronco gave a short huff of laughter and replied in a tone as sardonic as hers, deliberately misunderstanding which way she’d meant that remark. “Ol’ Gil looks out for me.”

He got to his feet and took his time stretching out his kinks so he wouldn’t have to look at her. “As far as my old man goes, the best thing you could say about him is at least he didn’t kill anybody besides himself.”

“I take it he’d been drinking?”

He nodded. “As always. His luck finally ran out. I was in…seventh grade, I guess.” He made a show of thinking about it. “Yeah, that’s right, because he’d have been my math teacher the following year.”

He expected Lauren to be surprised by that; he knew the kind of preconceived notions most people had about Indians. She didn’t let him down.

“Your dad was a teacher?”

He turned to find her squinting up at him, shading her eyes with one hand. Her skin had already dried to a rosy matte velvet that made him think of ripe peaches. “Both my parents were,” he said matter-of-factly.

Her careful exhalation was like a whisper barely heard. “So, your mother was a teacher, and she was-”

“From Portland, Maine,” he finished for her. “A fine old New England family-their name was Livingston, I believe. She was fresh out of college when she met my father-came out here to teach the poor little Indian children.” He wanted to look away but didn’t. Instead, he locked eyes with her and dared her to ask…

“What happened to her?”

As quiet as her voice was, he heard the quiver of emotion in it. And as carefully as he’d guarded against it, he felt an answering vibration begin in his own chest. This was dangerous ground, forbidden ground. In a way, sacred. And yet something in him acknowledged that he could have avoided going there if he’d truly wanted to.

He gave a shrug, a small one, just a slight dip of his head. “One day she left. Went back to Maine.”

“Just like that?” Her voice had gone hollow with her disbelief. “She just left you? Left her own child?”

Bronco nodded, still holding her gaze, giving no quarter. “When I was seven.”

“My God, why?” And he could hear the vibration in her voice growing stronger, giving him the impression that she was trembling.

Perhaps that was why-although he’d meant to laugh it off, to be flippant and smile-he frowned and said almost gently, “I wondered that myself-I think I might actually have asked her. I don’t remember what she said. My dad told me she was unhappy out here, that she missed her home and family back in Maine.” Now he did manage a smile, but there was nothing at all of humor in it. “But no matter what he said, I knew it must be my fault. I must have done something. I’d been a bad boy, or I wasn’t a good enough son, or-” he broke off when he heard Lauren’s small stricken gasp. “Hey,” he added softly, “I was seven years old. What can I say?”

He was good at hiding pain-he’d had a lot of years to get good at it. Plus, he had an ancestral reputation for stoicism to maintain. So why did he have the distinct feeling, one that grew stronger the longer she stared at him, that this woman wasn’t one bit fooled? Gazing back at her, he felt the years falling off him like worn-out clothes, until he was left to stand before her, naked as a newborn baby. And as vulnerable.

Fear crept into his heart, and like a cadre of vigilant militia forces, anger rushed to surround and vanquish the intruder, as it had rushed to his defense so many times in the past. He felt the familiar heat and turmoil rising inside him and slowly flexed his fingers and clenched them into fists, beginning the exercises that would take the anger away and send it to a safe and quiet place.

Then he heard Lauren’s voice, like a soft sweet wind. “Funny-” she murmured.

“What’s funny?” His voice was a snarl.

“Your mother-”

But that was as far as she got. Bronco’s body went rigid and still, and his hand shot out reflexively, motioning her to silence.

“What-”

“Stay there.”

Leaving his bewildered prisoner crouched in the grass, he moved swiftly to higher ground-a mound of gravelly debris washed down by monsoon cloudbursts from the rocky point that stood between them and the main camp. From there he could see what his ears had already forecast: three all-terrain vehicles rocking and jouncing across the meadow toward the main gate, leaving faint dust plumes and the snarl of engines behind. He shaded his eyes with his hand, trying to see who was leaving in such a great hurry, but he was too far away to tell with any certainty. Nevertheless, he was sure Ron Masters was one.

All traces of anger, fear and vulnerability had vanished. His mind felt calm and quiet.

It would happen soon. When it did, he must be ready.

“What’s happening out there? Talk to me, man, talk to me.” Rhett Brown’s hand gripped the telephone receiver so hard Dixie wondered that the plastic didn’t crack under the strain.

He’d been waiting for word-any word-pacing like a caged animal. She’d never seen him like that before. And yet she understood. It was the helplessness-that was the worst part. The feeling of being utterly and completely powerless. How ironic it was, she thought, that a man possibly destined to become the most powerful man on earth should be reduced to such a state.

He was listening now, his body tense, face set in gaunt lines that betrayed all the fear and strain and uncertainty of the past few days. As he listened he put out his arm, and Dixie moved out of old habit into its comforting shelter. She put her arms around him and pressed her face against his shoulder, and her heart ached when she felt his body tremble.

“My God-” his voice cracked “-how could you let this happen?”

Then he listened again for a long time, offering only monosyllables himself and those in leaden tones, while Dixie waited with her hand against his thumping heart, her body as rigid as his and every nerve vibrating with suspense.

It seemed to her half a lifetime before Rhett placed the receiver back in its cradle. It took him two tries.

“Bad news?” she whispered, cold inside. Numb with dread.

“There’s been a shooting.” He was staring past her out the window, squinting hard as if there was something out there of great interest to him, but he couldn’t quite make it out. “At McCullough’s Ranch.”

Dixie’s eyes were locked on her husband’s face. “Not-”

His head moved-one quick, hard shake. “No, not Lau ren.” His arms encircled her and pulled her close so that she heard the rest as a whisper of exhaled breath. “Not Lauren…”

“Rhett, what happened?”

It was a while before he answered her. In the quietness she heard the busy chick-chick-chick of the sprinklers in the horse pastures, the haunting cry of a mourning dove from somewhere down in the river bottom and the high-pitched whinny of a colt calling to its mother out in the paddocks. She was glad they were here; it was always so peaceful on the Tipsy Pee, and she knew Rhett found some comfort in being here in Texas, that much closer to the last place his daughter had been seen alive, in the last place she’d called home, before…

But Dixie wouldn’t let herself think of that. She wouldn’t even consider the possibility that Lauren, that bright beautiful wonderful young woman she loved like her own flesh and blood, might never come home again.

“They’re calling it a mistake,” Rhett said, his voice a growl. “No one seems to know exactly who’s responsible-the FBI and ATF are blaming each other, naturally. I told you they’ve had the main compound surrounded and the whole place under surveillance?” Dixie nodded. “The situation was that the ATF wanted to go in with their warrant to search for illegal weapons, on the assumption their man had already gotten Lauren safely away from SOL. The FBI-at my request, through the attorney general-has been holding off until they heard something definite from the ATF’s man. Meanwhile nobody’d gone in or out of the place, which in itself is suspicious.” He exhaled restlessly, trying to force himself to relax.

Dixie leaned back in the loose circle of his arms, and his hands slipped to her shoulders. “Last night…” he began, and had to pause to clear his throat. He was still looking past her out the window, and she could see a muscle working in the side of his jaw. How hard this must be for him, she thought. These were his people. He would hold himself responsible.

“Last night,” he went on in a hard determined voice, “apparently a couple of local sheriff’s deputies showed up and demanded to be allowed into the ranch-said they’d been asked by ‘concerned relatives’ to check on Mrs. McCullough to make sure she was all right. Claimed they hadn’t been able to reach her in a while. Which seems reasonable, except that, according to the information already given to ATF by their man on the inside, these two deputies were known to the members of SOL. As I understand it-” Rhett slowed and spaced his words as if summing up a complex scenario for a jury “-the two deputies got into an altercation with federal agents within view of the ranch house. Whereupon Mrs. McCullough, who knew the deputies as friends and did not know the agents from Adam, came to their aid with a shotgun.”

“Oh, God.”

Rhett nodded; his face was grim. “When ordered to put down the weapon, she refused and, instead, opened fire. She got off one round before they took her down.”

Dixie whispered, “Is she-?”

He shook his head. “As of this morning she’s out of surgery, but still in critical condition. Apparently-” he took a deep breath “-the bullet severed her spine.”

Dixie closed her eyes, but opened them quickly when she heard her husband’s soft anguished swearing, and laid her hand along the side of his face. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said in a tense grating voice. “It wasn’t. Those people took our daughter. They’ve threatened to kill her. If they-”

“But this woman was innocent!”

“You don’t know that. And even if she is innocent, it’s her husband who’s to blame for what’s happened to her, not you! If he hadn’t taken Lauren…” She fought for breath, for calm. He didn’t need her falling apart on him, not now. He needed her strength. Especially with the national convention due to convene in Dallas tomorrow.

She drew the calming breath she needed and asked the only question that mattered: “What does this mean…for Lauren?”

Rhett stared back at her with eyes almost black with fear. He didn’t answer.

Lauren resigned herself to spending the afternoon cooped up in the tent. Which she had to admit was a lot closer to the way she’d have expected a prisoner of war to be treated. But it was still hard to take after being allowed to enjoy an illusion of freedom all morning.

As for that, the time spent with the horses and Bronco in the meadow now seemed a strange and contradictory interlude. Looking back on it, she felt a lovely little burn of pleasure, like the feeling she’d get after a great day spent skiing or at the beach when she knew she’d had more sun than was good for her, but so much fun it was worth it. And yet, when she remembered conversations, specific words, expressions and gestures, she found her emotions leapfrogging from one mood to another. And it was a lot like trying to catch a frog, she thought; no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quite hold on to one.

It was true that some of the things Bronco had told her had made her sad, but there’d been something exhilarating about it all, too, a thrilling sense of discovery. And was it really sympathy she’d felt for the little boy whose mother had gone away and left him, or had it been more like…kinship? She remembered the scalp-prickling tingle of recognition she’d felt when he’d told her, the deep inside ache of bewilderment and anger. That was me-me, too! she’d wanted to cry out to him. I know what it feels like to have your mother go away and leave you behind!

She’d been on the verge of telling him that when they’d been interrupted, and then Bronco had whistled to the horses and rushed them all back to the camp with great urgency. After a stop at the latrine, he’d zipped her into the tent and warned her to stay put or else, then had left to go down to the cabin to get her some food. And now she felt a restless frustrating disappointment, a sense of something important left undone.

Oh, yes, and there’d been those moments of fear, hadn’t there? But why was it she couldn’t remember exactly what it was she’d been afraid of? Was it possible it hadn’t been fear she’d felt at all, but rather some crazy sort of excitement? The kind that called up memories of a certain long-ago summer night, fireflies winking in the humid darkness, dock lights reflecting on black lake water and little girls whispering and giggling, running through the woods that separated their camp-Camp Kawea? was that the name?-from the boys’ camp nearby. She’d been thirteen that summer, her one and only summer-camp experience, memorable mainly because of the humiliating crush she’d developed on the boys’ swim instructor. Most of that summer had slipped through the cracks of her memory long ago, but she still remembered the sweet delicious heart-thumping apprehension.

And could that have been, she wondered now, because it was the last time she’d allowed herself the luxury of breaking the rules? She didn’t think she’d ever been a difficult child, even before her mother’s selfish pursuit of happiness had taken her off to that cliff house in California with the director of the Des Moines children’s museum.

And then, just as Lauren was entering what should have been her rebellious years, her dad had begun his first run for governor, and the last thing she’d wanted to do was give his political enemies ammunition that could be used against him in an election campaign. The years had gone by and one campaign had followed another, and she’d gotten used to living in the public eye, used to being the model daughter in the perfect middle-American family. She’d al ways believed that was who she really was. Until recently. She wasn’t sure she knew who the real Lauren Elizabeth Brown was anymore.

What’s wrong with me? Who am I, really?

She remembered, suddenly, sitting in her pickup truck in the parking lot outside Smoky Joe’s, feeling frightened and confused and so alienated from the person she’d always believed herself to be. Wondering how on earth she could be attracted to a bad hombre like Johnny Bronco, while even then her skin was growing hot and her heart beginning to pound and her breath quickening at just the memory of the way his hard supple body had felt lined up against hers.

And she remembered, suddenly, the way he’d looked this morning, standing in the meadow tying a rolled red bandanna around his forehead, with his long raven-black hair blowing in the wind and his eyes burning fierce and angry as a warrior’s. And the way she’d felt then-the strange violent lurch inside her, as if her heart had turned upside down.

Yes, Lauren thought, that was it exactly. She-or her whole world-had turned upside down. She didn’t know what to believe anymore.

The crackle of footsteps in the pine needles outside the tent sent her heart into her throat. Confusingly, it stayed there, hammering away, even after she heard Bronco’s voice growl, “My hands are full. Could you open up please?”

“Said the guard to the prisoner,” Lauren remarked sarcastically as she zipped open the tent flap. The surge of joy she felt at his return was so powerful the only thing she knew to do with it was to bury it in annoyance. “About time you got back. What took you so long? I’m starving.”

He stepped into the tent in one quick tense motion, bringing with him the smells of chili and of danger-Lauren wasn’t sure which it was that made her stomach churn and growl.

“Didn’t know if you like salsa or not,” was his only comment as he handed her a metal container of the pungent mixture of chopped tomatoes, peppers and cilantro, along with a foil-wrapped package that was warm to the touch.

She opened the foil. Burritos again-shredded beef, beans, rice and cheese this time. She sniffed and said sourly, “Since it looks like it’s the only veggies I’m going to get, I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?” She bit into a burrito, which was so delicious she had to fight to keep from moaning.

She stopped in midchew when Bronco pushed aside the tent flap and ducked down, preparatory to going out. “Where are you going?”

He paused and looked at her without straightening. He was wearing his hat again, with his hair vanished into a tight club tucked close to the nape of his neck, all but hidden inside his shirt collar. To Lauren he looked lean and lethal, like a panther on the prowl. “There’s a lot goin’ on in camp right now,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’ve got things to do.”

“And I’m just supposed to stay here?” The trembling fear and bitter disappointment she felt appalled her, and she chose once again to hide her humiliating emotions beneath a crackling crust of anger.

He straightened slowly, then came toward her.

Her breathing stopped; she swallowed the bite of burrito and it felt like a brick.

Crazy impulses went through her mind-and, oh, how glad she was that she was able to control them! What on earth would he have thought of her, and how would she have lived with the humiliation, if she’d followed the dictates of those impulses and thrown herself against his broad chest and begged him to stay?

But instead, she stood rock still and faced him, while her heart hammered against the base of her throat.

“You’re an intelligent woman,” he said softly. “I think you’ll stay here.”

And then he was gone.

As his footsteps rustled away into silence, Lauren’s legs buckled and she sank onto her sleeping bag with a sharp exhalation. She stared down at the food she still held in her hands-the bowl of salsa in one, and in the other, the foil wrappings in which nested three fat burritos, one with a bite out of it. Her stomach turned over. She would eat-she had to. She was hungry, and who knew when they’d feed her again? But how on earth would she swallow with this lump in her throat?

You’re an intelligent woman. Oh, sure. If she was so intelligent, how could she have forgotten for one minute the danger she was in or how truly alone she was? How could she have allowed herself to become emotionally dependent on the very man whose job it was to keep her prisoner? Stupid, Lauren, stupid. And weak.

Since the scolding seemed to be helping reduce the lump in her throat to manageable proportions, she ventured another bite of burrito and chewed mechanically while she thought about what Bronco had told her. There’s a lot going on, he’d said. What did that mean? Did it have anything to do with her? Probably, or why would Bronco be acting so…intense?

Something’s going on. I wonder…when will they come for me?

When they did come for her, she thought, it would almost certainly mean the end of this ordeal-one way or the other.

She took a small taste of the salsa. It was hot-very hot. She dipped the burrito in the salsa and bit into it. Tears sprang to her eyes. She sniffed and took another bite. She sat and ate burritos and salsa and thought about all the people she loved that she might never see again, while tears ran down her cheeks and dripped off her chin.

The evening news was on when Lucy Rosewood Brown Lanagan took her great-aunt Gwen her dinner tray.

“Anything interesting going on in the world?” Lucy inquired as she always did, placing the tray on the piano bench, which had been pulled up close beside the old lady’s wheelchair to serve as a table.

Gwen arched back as though it was a surprise to see Lucy there-as she always did. She gave her musical grace note of laughter when Lucy dropped a kiss on the top of her head, on curls as white and soft as dandelion fluff.

“The FBI shot somebody again,” she said loudly. At nearly a hundred, Gwen wasn’t a bit deaf, but for some reason seemed to think everyone else was.

Busy arranging the tray and utensils so her aunt’s cramped and gnarled fingers could grasp them easily, Lucy murmured, “Oh, dear. Who was it?”

“They said some rancher’s wife. Out in Arizona. Said it was supposed to be one of those militia groups holed up in there, but then all it turned out to be was this fellow’s wife.” She hitched herself up a little so Lucy could slip a pillow behind her back.

“That’s a shame,” Lucy said. She made a mental note to ask her husband, Mike, for details when he got back from his weekly trip to his office at the Chicagoan, the daily newspaper from which his nationally syndicated column originated. “Is she dead?”

“I don’t think so-not yet.” Gwen was busy refocusing her still-sharp eyes on the TV screen, where a commercial break had just ended. Now the correspondent was talking about the presidential race, working up to the national convention, which was due to begin tomorrow in Dallas. “Anyway, they said she shot first. Hush-” she interrupted herself “-look, there’s Rhett.”

Silently the two women watched the familiar dark head-which was beginning to silver a bit, Lucy noticed- work its way through a crowd at a fund-raising rally somewhere in the South-Mississippi, was it?-while the correspondent gave the figures from the latest polls.

Gwen arched her eyebrows at Lucy. “What do you think about your brother being president?”

Lucy shrugged. There was an ache in her throat. “I just keep thinking…I wish Mama and Daddy could have lived to see it. Well, I wonder who that is,” she said as the phone rang. It was the wrong time of day to be Mike or any of the children.

“Salesman, probably,” said Gwen. Another commercial had come on, and she concentrated her efforts on the task of picking up her soup spoon while Lucy went to answer the telephone.

It didn’t take her long. And when she returned to the parlor her heart was pounding, though she couldn’t have explained exactly why. “Guess who that was?” she said to Gwen, and went on to answer herself. “Speak of the devil-that was Rhett.” She gave a small huff of bemused laughter. “He wants us-Mike and me-to join him and Dixie down at the Parish ranch.”

“That’s in Texas!” the old lady exclaimed in the same tone she might have used to respond to a proposed jaunt to Mars. “What does he want you down there for?”

Lucy shook her head. “I don’t know, but he says he’s called Earl, too. He has something important to tell us, it seems, and he wants us all there. Isn’t that just like Rhett,” she added with a touch of asperity. “He always was so darn bossy.”

Gwen gave her a look of amusement; if anybody had a reputation for being bossy, it was Lucy. “I guess you’d better go, then, hadn’t you?” Her cracked voice still carried a lilt of laughter. “Me, I’m staying here. Kathy Andersen can look after me. Is Eric going with you?”

Lucy glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Her son was due home from his summer job at Burger Heaven any minute. “I guess so,” she breathed, half in exasperation, “assuming he can get away. Oh, Lord, what is Rhett thinking of? I can’t just up and leave a farm in the middle of summer!”

Still fuming and fussing, she went off to call her husband. Lucy fumed and fussed partly because that was her way, but also because she felt a need to distract herself from the hollow feeling in her insides. Gwen would call it a premonition.

Lulled by the sultry late-afternoon heat and a belly full of burritos and salsa, Lauren had drifted off to sleep. Because of the burritos-or perhaps the salsa-her slumber was restless, plagued with dreams of horses-wild horses-and one wild rider, naked to the waist with long black wind-whipped hair.

Suddenly she sat up, trembling. Her chest ached and her throat was dry. In the distance she could still hear the sound of hoofbeats.

No-not hoofbeats! Thunder.

Lightning danced and flickered across the tent walls like an old-fashioned silent movie. Something-raindrops? pine needles?-pattered against the sides of the tent as a gust of wind hit and moved on with a howl like a banshee. The tent shuddered and so did Lauren. Born and raised in Iowa, she was fairly accustomed to violent weather. But up till now there’d always been solid walls and a strong sturdy roof to serve as a buffer between her and the forces of nature. She’d never actually been out in a thunderstorm before. It seemed a lot bigger, louder and scarier when she was perched on the side of a mountain with nothing between her and the violence but a thin nylon tent!

A tremendous cra-a-ack of thunder had her crouched in the middle of her sleeping bag with her arms crossed over her head. She thought about lightning. True, it would probably strike a tree before the tent, but what if it struck one very nearby? People got killed standing under trees, didn’t they? And what if it caught fire?

As if in answer to that, the heavens opened up. Wind-driven rain began pounding the tent with the force of a fire hose, and the frail structure shook like a rag in the jaws of a playful dog. Now she thought about flash floods. And whether the tent had been anchored down.

The thunder and lightning were almost continuous, the noise of the rain and wind so loud she couldn’t think about anything at all except how frightened she was. And Bronco.

Where in the world was he? Why had he left her here to deal with this alone?

Ashamed of her fear, Lauren chose to cling, instead, to anger. He was supposed to be looking after her! Keeping her safe! Some guard he was-and it would serve him right, she thought, if he came back and found his valuable hostage had been washed or blown away or roasted to a crisp by lightning. Serve him right.

A terrible thought came to her. What if something had happened to him? What if he’d been injured? There’s a lot going on right now. I’ve got things to do. What sort of things? The camp was crawling with men, dangerous men with guns. And Bronco didn’t carry one. And the horses! An animal terrified by the storm could easily kill or injure a man. Oh, God-if something were to happen to Bronco, who would protect her then?

The thunder seemed a little more distant now, the sound and fury of the rain and wind not quite as deafening. The storm was passing. But strangely, Lauren’s fear only intensified. Where was Bronco? Her heart hammered and her breath whimpered in her throat. Her jaws screamed with tension. Bronco, please come back.

It didn’t seem at all strange or unseemly to her then that she could wish so passionately for the man who should by rights have been her enemy.

She was pacing the sultry confines of the tent like a caged cat, thunder was rumbling away in the distance, and the rain had been reduced to fitful flurries when she heard at last the sound her ears had been straining for: the squishy crunch of boots on wet pine needles.

She gave a little whimper of relief and gladness that pride instantly turned into a humph of vexation. Over her dead body would that man ever learn how desperately she’d longed for his return! The words About time you showed up! were on her lips as the flap’s zipper whined along its grooves.

The flap was thrown back. But the man who stood in the tent opening wasn’t Bronco. Lauren felt the blood freeze in her veins as she stared into the cold blue eyes of Ron Masters.