A hand jostled his shoulder.
“Uh?” It could not be morning! He felt as if they’d buried him under blankets—under the earth—then parked a hay wagon on his chest. “No,” he grunted, rolling onto his stomach.
The knuckles returned to jab him harder. “I mean it. Get up! Wiggly wants you.”
That pierced his stupor. “Uh.” Wiggly?
Jake, one of the cowboys, nodded grimly, his square, freckled face level with the top bunk. “Yeah. What the heck’d you do?”
Reached for the stars? Miguel didn’t know, but a summons in the middle of the night—because it was still dark outside the window—this could not be good. Would be anything but. “Where…is he?”
“Out on the porch. And if I was you, I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”
Miguel didn’t. Tucking a clean shirt into his jeans, he zipped, buckled his belt, stepped out the screen door.
The foreman looked him up and down, not smiling. “The boss wants t’see you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
TANKERSLY WANTED to see him? Perhaps Miguel wasn’t even awake; this was a nightmare to punish his dream of the old man’s daughter!
But the packed dirt of the ranch yard felt solid and real under his boot heels as he walked toward the foreman’s house, where Wiggly had sent him. He glanced overhead. And the stars were all in their proper places. It wasn’t as late as it felt; by the moon it must be only eleven or so.
It hit him suddenly, bursting on his befuddled brain. Risa had taken his truck.
Ay, Dios, she’d wrecked it! He stopped short with a groan snagged in his throat. Oh, please, no! Over the years he’d lost friends to car wrecks. The men of the Texas Oil Patch were hard drinkers, hard drivers. When they raced back to the rig after a night of carousing, accidents weren’t uncommon. But to take that golden girl? God could not be so cruel!
Oh, but he could. He could.
What was I thinking, loaning her my truck?
He hadn’t been thinking, at least not with his head. He groaned again and trudged on toward the lit windows of the foreman’s house.
A thump on the back door brought an answering shout from within. Miguel swallowed hard and stepped into the light. “Mr. Tankersly.”
No answer. He drew a deep breath and moved on into the house. Passed through the kitchen doorway and found himself on the threshold of the living room. Ben Tankersly slouched in a leather easy chair, with a drink at his elbow. A bottle of whiskey sat on the table beside him, along with a bag of chips.
The old man lifted his drink and sipped deliberately, his dark, hooded eyes measuring Miguel over the rim of his glass.
No offer of a seat. Miguel unfisted his hands and waited, determined not to speak first.
The rancher set his glass aside. “Got a question for you, Heydt. Do you know where my daughter might be? Risa’s missing.”
Relief surged through Miguel like a river breaching a dam. ¡Gracias a Dios! He let out a long slow silent breath, fighting the smile within.
Which faded immediately. Because if Risa was alive and well, still he was in danger. And thank you, rubia! Lack of sleep must have made him stupid this evening. Any idiot would have realized that she was coming to a stranger for a car because her father did not approve or even know. Somehow he’d thought she came to him because…because… Just because.
Because she knows a sucker when she sees one! He shook his head. “Your daughter? No, sir. I have no idea where she might be.” She could be off most anywhere, breaking men’s hearts. She’d told him Durango, but maybe she’d lied. Clearly, Risa hadn’t troubled herself about a hired hand’s skin.
Or his job. Dios, if Tankersly fired him at this point, what would he do? He hadn’t evidence yet to prove his find. Besides, if Tankersly blamed him for aiding his daughter in her mischief, why should he do business with the man who’d helped her?
“Huh.” Tankersly took a long, considering sip of whiskey. “All right. Second question. What were you looking to find, prowlin’ around my land at night?”
“Sir?” Damn, damn, how did he know?
“If it’s gold or silver you’re after, then you can pack your bags. No man will mine Suntop while I’m alive. Miners are rapists—greedy swine—tearing down God’s mountains for a handful of shiny. Pah! Spoiling the land with their piles of tailings and the creeks with arsenic. Is that what you are, boy?”
Miguel pulled himself erect. “No, sir. I’m a wildcatter.” The elite of the oil business. The men who dared much and risked all. Those who sought oil far from the known fields, in places where it had never been found before.
“An oilman, huh, that’s no better! Rigs lit up like Christmas trees, trucks roaring in and out scaring the cattle, wastewater and oil spills. Well…” Tankersly stared broodingly off into the distance. “Well, that’s a pity. Tell Wiggly to cut you a check, and be gone by morning.”
He’d laid his fingertips on treasure, only to have it wrenched from his grasp!
But not without a fight. “Sir, it doesn’t have to be that way. It’s true that in the past oilmen have been careless, despoiling the land they drilled. But a man who cares can drill carefully, cleanly, taking the riches below without hurting the land above. The rig stays only till the pipe is set, then it goes away. The waste can be trucked out, the pits covered and resodded.” He flipped his hands palms up and shrugged. “The cows will get over their fright.”
“Huh.” Tankersly swirled the ice in his glass till it tinkled. “That so?”
“That is so. And if a well is made, the money can flow like a river.”
The rancher laughed a dusty, soundless laugh. “You think I don’t have a cash flow already?”
“Can a man ever have enough money? With more money you could buy more land, if that is what matters to you. Or better cows.”
Wry amusement froze to black ice. “There’s none better in the West than my herd!”
“Oh. Then more range for your cattle.” Perhaps a car for your daughter. But something was working behind the old man’s eyes and Miguel held his tongue.
Tankersly nodded toward the kitchen. “Go get yourself a glass.”
His palms were itching as if he’d scooped a double handful of luck. Still, he hardly dared to breathe; one wrong word and it could trickle through his fingers. And any minute Risa might drive into the yard in his pickup—its headlights would sweep these windows! Let that happen and her father would probably shoot him. But still, but still, he could feel his palms itch. This was a night to bet and bet big.
Returning, he held out his glass while the old man poured him a generous measure. Tankersly nodded at the sack of chips. “Some pork rinds?”
“Um, no, thank you.”
