CHAPTER TWO
“What the devil?” Penny sputtered and swiped her arm across her face. Danged if she didn’t feel like she’d been dragged through a knothole backwards. Dark night revealed no hint of the moon to shed light. Raindrops had wakened her and wind whipped more streams of rain her way. She held still for a moment to regain her composure.
The rustlers…
Her right hip hurt like a sonofagun. She felt for her revolver and found the holster empty of Daddy’s special Colt. Dropped out when she fell or rolled downhill.
Feeling around, she located the source of her most painful injury, the Colt under her. No wonder her hip ached. Pausing, she brushed grit off the revolver and reloaded before she slid the firearm into its holster.
She sat in a cave-like fissure at the base of a ravine. Must have been knocked out when she fell from her horse. At least she still had her Colt and Winchester. A bolt illuminated the night and thunder rumbled. Fear silenced her while she surveyed her surroundings.
Another sheet of lightning split the sky and shook the earth. From the torrent of water running down the ravine, this downpour would soon flood her hiding place. She needed to get out while she could.
Listening for the rustlers, she heard nothing except the cloudburst. The lightning moved away with distant thunderclaps. No shouts or yells from the men hunting her echoed through the black night.
How long had she been out? Had those scurvy coyotes searched and given up or were they waiting for her to emerge? Could they be waiting at the ranch for a showdown when she returned?
Slowly she crawled out of the tiny rock cleft. Struggling up the ravine’s mud-slicked sides, she skidded and slid back to the bottom. She landed on her rear with a spine-tingling splat. Cursing the men who’d chased her, she clambered up again.
Before she reached the crest, she lost her balance and slithered down the ravine on her stomach. Muddy water slapped her in the face at the end of her glide. On all fours, she tried again, recovering the Winchester along the way. As she inched over the edge, she kept a careful watch for anyone lurking near.
Her horse was nowhere in sight. I feel like I’ve been swimming in mud, but this rain will soon wash the grime away. Probably ruin my best riding skirt. At least I have Daddy’s guns for protection. Surely Jake will send someone searching when Star shows up riderless—unless the rustlers had the little mare. What if they had harmed Jake?
Dear Lord, don’t let those skunks hurt Jake.
With no lightning to illuminate her way, the night remained dark as a cellar. She knew this ground like her own bedroom, but she must be almost two miles from home. Letting out a string of curse words, she cradled her rifle and began walking. Ranchers never walked anywhere. That’s what horses were for.
Within half a mile, heavy rainfall had saturated her boots inside and out, and each step squished. Drenched clothes clung to her skin. The leather skirt’s weight was like walking with an anvil tied to her waist. She shivered from cold rivulets that ran down her face and sluiced down her body. Only her anger fueled her.
She never cried, but—mud or no mud, storm or no storm—she had a strange longing to plop down right here and bawl. None of this trouble ever would have happened if Daddy hadn’t died last year. At least he’d taught her everything about ranching and she was good at her job. She cursed again.
No one alive could run her ranch better than she could. No one. No one had the right to steal her cattle just because she was a woman.
The longer she walked, the madder she got. She cursed the rustlers, her foreman, and her good-for-nothing cousin.
“Daddy,” she shouted. “How could you go and get yourself killed?”
“Mama, how could you die when I was a little instead of sticking around to raise me?”
Penny didn’t forget the prissy teachers at that female academy her Daddy had made her attend for two long years, or the catty other students. When she’d cussed at everyone she could think of, she started over on each one.
She’d show everyone that—woman or not—no one was taking her ranch away from her. The land had been in her family for sixty years, ever since Sam Houston himself gave her granddaddy a Republic of Texas Land Grant in 1836. She’d see it stayed in her family for however long she lived. She hoped that was a long time—in spite of those rotten rustlers.
Wait until she got home. If Jake was still all right, she’d send him for Sheriff Cravens. No waiting until daylight and give those cowards time to escape—or to strike. She’d see each of them locked in jail. They’d realize they’d tangled with a wildcat before she finished with the rotten polecats.
Finally, the lights of home shone faintly in the distance. Nothing had ever looked so good. She couldn’t keep going much further. Damned if blisters hadn’t burned on her heels from walking so far in wet boots. She was near frozen in these wet clothes.
Wait.
How could she be so cold now when the heat earlier had nearly suffocated her? Nevermind, she just wanted to be home, safe, and in her bed. There stood the fence next to the paddock. Almost home now, keep walking.
Don’t pass out, don’t fall. One foot in front of the other. You can do this.
Stumbling from fatigue, she labored up the front steps onto the long wrap-around porch and bumped into a rocker. Who’d put that there? Just like Jake to move stuff around without telling her. How she’d love to sink into it and rest. First, she had to send for the sheriff and find out if Star came home.
At the door, she paused and listened for men talking—rustlers waiting to waylay her. She heard no sound. Lights shone so brightly, Jake must have waited up for her with every lamp in the house lighted. She eased opened the door, listened again, then walked in and leaned her rifle against the stair’s banister.
“Jake? Jake? Did Star come home?” She unbuckled her gun belt and hung it on the newel post—not something she’d do under ordinary circumstances.
Tugging off her gloves, she avoided a couple of cactus spines stuck in the fingers. How had they remained there without her feeling them? No matter, she sat down on the third stair tread to remove her boots.
She should have gone around to the back door, but she couldn’t walk another step. Weariness and sore muscles overwhelmed her and she wanted nothing more than to shuck out of her wet things and lie in her nice bed—if she could summon the energy to walk upstairs. She heard footsteps approaching and raised one foot. Eyes closed, she leaned back against the stairs.
“Had me a passel of trouble, Jake. Help me get these danged boots off, would you? Then I’ll tell you all about it.” A dog’s cold nose pressed against her cheek. She jumped and pushed her hair out of her eyes. A black and white dog stared at her. “Who are you?”
“His name’s Rascal.” An unfamiliar baritone said, “He’s mine.”
She looked up.
Whoa! The man who faced her wasn’t Jake. In spite of her wariness, her mouth dropped open in awe. Instead of her arthritic middle-aged cook, this man was young and tall and definitely fit. And handsome. Unbelievably, mesmerizingly handsome.
He might be as comely as a fairy tale prince, but the regal disapproval on his face appeared anything but friendly.
Energized by fear, she jumped to her feet and grabbed her rifle. “Who the heck are you?”
He crossed his arms and ignored the Winchester pointed at his middle. His dark hair glistened in light that seemed too bright. Dark blue eyes had tiny creases at the corners, as if he laughed a lot.
He sure wasn’t laughing now.
“I might ask you the same question. And what are you doing tracking in mud and dripping water all over my foyer?”
“Your foyer? This is my house, and it’s been my house since my daddy and I built it six years ago. Don’t you think for one minute I’ll let you steal my home.”
The dog growled, the fur of his ruff bristling.
The man snapped his fingers. “Quiet, Rascal.”
Who was this man? He didn’t look the type but maybe he was one of the men stealing her cattle. Could he and his dog have been waiting for her? She gripped the rifle with all her strength. Why hadn’t Jake shown up to help her?
Oh, no, had they killed Jake?
He glared at her. “Lady, I don’t know who you are, but this is my house, get it? I grew up here. My daddy grew up here. My granddaddy grew up here.”
Penny’s knees trembled, but she fought fear to appear strong. “Don’t try and trick me. The Double T ranch was started by my granddaddy in 1836. No con man is going to steal it from the Terry family, and you can take that to the bank.”
“The Terry family hasn’t owned this since Penelope Terry died in 1896. Knights have owned it since then.” He threw up his hands. “Hell, why am I arguing with a crazy woman?”
“Crazy?” She was about to light into him when the first part of his statement hit her. “Hey, what do you mean, I died? I’m as alive as you, whoever you are.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I see you’re alive. I said Penelope Terry died. Are you hard of hearing as well as nuts?”
Increasing fear spiraled inside Penny, knotting her stomach. How could this man think her dead? What kind of trick was he working? Had she been conked out long enough that Jake sent men out to look for her and they decided she’d died?
Forcing herself to appear calm when she shook inside, Penny stood erect. “I’m Penelope Jane Terry and you can see I’m very much alive. Are you in with the rustlers trying to steal my ranch?”
He started to reach for the rifle barrel but she stepped back and cocked the gun. He exhaled and motioned her into the parlor. Light filled the room when he touched a place on the wall. He walked near the fireplace and pointed to the painting hanging above the mantel.
“That’s Penelope Terry. Her father—Harmon Terry—had that portrait done just before he sent her off to finishing school. Way I heard it, the schooling didn’t take and she was just as wild when she got back home.”
His comment stung but she had other things to worry about. Penny looked at her portrait over the fireplace, then back at him. “Don’t you think I know when that was painted? I sat for the infernal artist for two boring weeks. I thought he’d never finish the thing. Had to argue to convince him to leave off my freckles. That was before Molly showed me how to make them fade.”
He looked her up and down and shook his head. “You? Penelope Terry was a beautiful woman. I hardly think a drowned rat looks anything like the woman in that painting.”
Touching her dripping hair, she wondered how bad she looked. “I’m hardly at my best after walking two miles in that downpour.” She suddenly became aware of the room’s furnishings. She turned slowly. “Just another darn minute, what have you done to my parlor? Where’s my furniture?” She touched the oddly-shaped sofa. “Who put this in here?”
She heard someone approach behind her and turned. A man who looked very much like the first, but maybe younger, stood in the doorway.
“Hey, Jake, what are you carrying on about? And who’s our armed visitor?”
Penny whirled back to face the first man. “You’re not Jake. What have you done with him?”
“Ma’am, you are sadly confused. I am Jacob Knight and folks call me Jake. This is my brother Bartholomew, and folks call him Bart.” He turned to his brother. “This lady thinks she’s Penelope Terry and that this is her house.”
Bart folded his arms and glared at her. “Look, Lady, I don’t know what kind of scheme you’re running, but you can forget trying to con my big brother.”
“Me con him? Why you mangy coyotes! How dare you stand in my parlor and accuse me of trying to pull something on you. Now, you both get out of here before I send someone for the sheriff.”
“That should be interesting. As it happens, Bart is the sheriff.” Jake smiled.
Except his grin looked menacing instead of friendly. What was happening? Why was everything different? Her furniture gone, a different Jake, Cravens not the sheriff?
“Wh—what happened to Sheriff Cravens?”
Jake shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“B—But he’s been sheriff for ten years or more.” She looked first at one man and then the other. Penny smiled in spite of the confusion warring with her sanity. “I get it. You’re trying to confuse me. Well, it won’t work.”
She stepped back and pointed the rifle at the one who called himself Jake. “You might as well get your mangy hides out of here before I run you off the property.”
Bart said, “Ma’am, we don’t have to try to confuse you. ’Pears to me you’re already plenty confused. Our family has lived in this house over a hundred years. Our great granddaddy bought it at auction after Penelope Terry disappeared. He was in love with her, see, and he sort of kept this house as a shrine to her for years after she was gone. His will insisted we do the same.”
“No need to burden her with our family’s eccentricities,” Jake said.
Penny’s head hurt. The room spun around her. “Knight. You . . . you don’t mean Earl Knight?”
Jake nodded. “That’s right. He was our great granddaddy.”
“Earl Knight, the banker?” She needed to sit down. Heedless of her wet clothing, she dropped to a chair, her rifle cradled in her arms.
“You heard of him?” Bart took a step toward her.
“Dang right, I have. He’s been courting me. Wants me to give up ranching and marry him. He doesn’t understand how much a part of me ranching is. I could never be a prissy woman who goes to teas and such all day.”
Bart took another step forward. “Look, lady, you’re mistaken. Earl Knight died almost seventy years ago.”
“No, he couldn’t have. Only last week he came out and proposed again. Said if I married him I’d never have to do a lick of work. Oh, good Lord, what’s happening to me?” The spinning room turned to blackness.