Chapter Twenty-Three
“Still sleepin’ alone in a king-sized bed, eh, son?” Tom’s words sounded semi-serious but the tone, and the twitch of his lips, gave away his teasing mood.
Ben sent him a sour look. “You can damn well shut up.”
“Ah, well, it ain’t all beer and skittles.” Grinning, he used his Bowie knife to peel a few more strips of bark off the piece of wood he had begun to whittle. “I often think it takes a man with real heart and balls to be a great husband. Not all of us weak males can do it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m beginnin’ to figure I’m one of those weak males.”
“Hell, Benny, boy, you never had a chance with Diane. So you can’t count that first one as much of a marriage. And you’ve barely got a start on the second one.”
They were perched, these two lanky Texas cowboys, on stumps set in the shade of the barn. Earlier, Ben had discarded the day’s wrinkled suit for his favorite uniform of Levi’s, chambray shirt, and worn boots, and then wandered out onto the grounds to track down his consigliere and mentor. The man to whom he had always, even as a young boy, taken his problems and concerns. Tom had never failed him. Never once.
“However you managed t’ pair up with Carrie, Ben, I think you’re luckier than you realize,” said Tom quietly. Another splinter of wood curled up on itself, paper-thin, and fell to the ground from his knowing hands. “Caroline is one of the good ones. She’s makin’ a fine mother to that little girl of yours, and she’ll make you a fine wife. If you’ll but give her the chance.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. But that’ll mean tellin’ her the truth.”
“No. You know I can’t do it. You know why.”
“Son, Caroline is married t’ you,” Tom explained patiently. As if the fact needed repeating. “It’s only right. It’s only fair. You gotta trust her sometime, and she deserves t’ know about the past.”
Rising suddenly, Ben hitched at his jeans and took a step away. “I said no, Tom. Ain’t gonna happen.”
“Things kept secret too long have a way of gettin’ out, Ben. Better tell her b’fore she finds out on her own. If that happens, she may never take you for your word again.”
Ben whipped around in confrontation. “You’re the only one who knows. The only one. So does that mean you’re gonna be blabbin’?”
“Well, I can’t rightly comprehend. I tend t’ talk in my sleep.” He offered the sweet smile of a benevolent angel and went back to whittling.
A snort of disgust was all that greeted this admission. Damn these moldering old cowpunchers that had outlived their usefulness, anyway!
Hands stuffed into front pockets, sombrero’d head lowered in thought, Ben scuffed through the gravel around the side of the house much like a disgruntled boy being punished for some mischief. He had no particular destination in mind; he was just walking aimlessly while his brain chewed through a series of problems to be dealt with.
Fine thing, returning to his home after going out to fight the corporate wars, only to find the routine all out of kilter and his best friend taking up support for the wife who was causing such dissension! And what was this whole arrangement with Mrs. Wyeth? Last Ben had heard, the woman was going to be put out on her—well, her ear.
Besides, his back hurt, from too many hours spent in an uncomfortable position aboard the jet; and his head ached, probably from too much tension. He wanted some kind person to give him a little TLC, but he sensed that was a vain hope.
His wandering footsteps took him to the nearest corral, a tree-shaded green-sodded area where a few quarter horses browsed or dozed. The sight of the livestock on this ranch never failed to lift his heart; and he laid both folded arms onto the top rail and leaned forward, to let the pleasure wash over him and soothe the ruffled spirit caused by his talk with Tom.
He was staring gloomily out over his holdings: the buildings, the sheds, the pastures. It was a hot day, as befits the beginning of July, but a clear, sunny one in God’s country. Only a few puffy white clouds were easing slowly across the azure sky, like sheep strolling through a meadow, and the air smelled of gathering dust and, perhaps, a hint of rain off in the distance.
It was almost lunch time, and his empty belly was beginning to complain. Hell. Might as well go back inside and face the music. With a sigh, Ben turned away from the old-fashioned rail fence.
Just then, Caroline emerged from the front door. At her sight of him, schlumping around like a lost soul, she came out of the shadows. “Ben!”
“Yeah.”
He seemed so downcast, even seen from a distance, that she might almost have felt the tiniest twinge of sympathy for his situation. Except that she constantly carried the hurt of his behavior, festering deep inside like a splinter unremoved. Not a grudge. No. At least, she didn’t view it that way.
It was an injury that could not heal. Nor would she allow it, and that probably wasn’t right, either.
“Are you ready to come inside and eat?” she called, hardening her resolve. “We have soup and sandwiches. And please let Tom know.”
Ben’s middle rumbled, but his attention had shifted from hunger to curiosity.
A dirty, twenty-year-old blue truck, whose paint job was peppered with rust holes, had turned into the end of Ten Buck’s lane, circled around, and parked there, with the engine running.
Ben squinted into the distance and frowned. Odd behavior. Had someone chosen the wrong road, and was now trying to figure out directions before pulling back out into traffic? He considered heading forward to offer help. But that was a long way to walk in high-heeled boots. Even comfortable, broken-in boots, like his. Better to wait and see if anyone approached.
Sure enough, a minute or two later the driver climbed out and down from the cab. A man. A large, beefy man whose stance and carriage seemed vaguely familiar. Reaching over the side, into the pickup’s bed, to retrieve whatever was needed, he turned to face the Ten Buck homestead.
Suddenly the hair stood up on the back of Ben’s neck, and all of his catlike instincts went into overdrive.
Even as he shifted position, to get out of the way of possible danger, the unidentified driver put a Winchester rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and fired.
His aim was excellent.
The first bullet took Ben directly in the chest and spun him partly sideways as a second bullet cut across his upper arm.
He let out only an agonized groan as the force and the pain hit home, and slowly began to crumple.
Caroline screamed. Helpless witness, pinned in place by shock and disbelief, she finally uprooted her feet as Ben hit the ground. And ran, still screaming to wake the dead. Which might already be true.
Even as she sank down beside him, desperately hauling his limp, gory body across her lap and into her embrace, the gunman fled. Only a trail of dust in his wake gave evidence that someone had just tried to murder the young master of the estate.
And possibly succeeded.
Tom found her, keening, slumped over her husband’s form and smeared with his blood.
“Carrie!” he shouted. Having heard the report of a rifle where there should be none, and the fearsome cries, he had come racing from the barn to see what had befallen. “Are you hurt?”
She raised a tear-streamed, grieving face, whose every muscle trembled, and barely managed to shake her head.
“All right, then.” He stabbed an emergency number into his cell phone to request assistance, then attempted reassurance. “They’re comin’, honey,” he told her huskily. “We got help comin’. Let’s see if we can plug up them holes till the EMT’s get here.”