Remember Me, Cowboy Page 3

  “Slate Walker, with his crazy Indian notions, was the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

  Cole’s statement, with an edge of anger, caught her by surprise. Her own temper kicked in. “That’s not for you to judge, Cole. My past is my business.”

  “Slate is the one who put those crazy horse ideas in your head.”

  Cassidy couldn’t ignore that, and she didn’t have to try. What she fully intended to do was keep the conversation away from Slate. The shock of seeing him was too fresh, too sore, and Cole would find out soon enough that Slate was back. “I know you don’t like the way I train, but you can’t deny my success. So let’s just leave this conversation here, before we make each other mad.” She smiled at him. “I count on you, Cole. You’ve been a good friend. Let’s not argue.”

  Cole turned off his engine and got out of the truck. He walked slowly up to Cassidy’s window, and his smile was warm. “That sounds like a deal. In fact, let me take you to the dance. I was headed out to the Double O to ask you.”

  Cassidy had forgotten about the summer dance that was held each year at Stubby Olman’s ranch. It was one of the social events of the season for the area ranchers—a time for them to get together and brag about calves and foals and hay crops. It was always a good time, and a rare chance for her to visit with friends who were as busy as she was. “I don’t know…”

  “Don’t tell me you have a date?” Cole asked.

  “No, I haven’t. I actually forgot. My mind has been on weaning the foals and putting up better fencing in the pasture that borders the creek.” She shook her head. “I really have too much to do, Cole, but I thank you for the invitation.”

  “I won’t take no for an answer. You need to have a little fun. And if you need some help with fencing, I’ll send a few of the men over. Things are kind of slack at Vista Blue. I can come and help with the horses.”

  Cassidy took a breath. “You’ve been a good neighbor, but I won’t take advantage of you. I’ll have a trainer soon, and the horses will be weaned in plenty of time.”

  “Then, the fencing?”

  To refuse both offers would make her seem ungrateful. “Thanks. That would be nice. We can get the fence up in a matter of hours.”

  “And that’ll clear you for the dance. Hook’em Billings is doing the barbecue.”

  There was no graceful way to refuse. “Thanks, Cole.” She smiled. “That sounds like fun.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven Saturday. And by the way, if you have any horses out on the west range, you might want to bring them in. That stallion’s been running over there.” Cole’s mouth hardened. “But he won’t terrorize us for much longer.”

  Cassidy felt her stomach knot, and she looked over to find that Lindsey had awakened and was listening, her blue eyes alarmed by the hard tone in Cole’s voice.

  “He’s not really bothering anyone,” Cassidy offered.

  “He stole four of my best cow ponies, and when my men went to bring them back, he tried to kill them.”

  “Having your stock bred by that devil isn’t the worst thing that could happen. He throws some fine babies.” Cassidy tried to keep her voice light, but she could feel the anxiety.

  “He’s a menace. I’ve tolerated him long enough.”

  “What are you going to do?” Cassidy hardly dared to ask.

  “If we can’t catch him, then we’ll kill him.”

  It took every ounce of control not to argue, and luckily Lindsey unbuckled her safety belt and stood on the seat.

  “You better not hurt him,” the child said, her eyes narrowed in anger.

  “Well, well,” Cole said, laughing. “You’ve got your mother’s temper. When she was in the first grade she punched me in the jaw.”

  Lindsey, diverted for the moment from the horse, looked at her mother. “Did you?”

  Cassidy couldn’t help but laugh. “I did. He was trying to make me eat dirt.”

  Lindsey whirled to the man. “You were?”

  “She had put a big handful of dirt down my pants.”

  Lindsey slowly turned to her mother. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  Cole laughed. “Now, that’s an understatement, Lindsey.” He tipped his hat at Cassidy. “I’d better get busy. The men will be over to mend the fence tomorrow, and I’ll pick you up Saturday.”

  “When are you going after that stud?” she asked.

  “Next week. I found a ravine that might work as a trap, but it’s going to take some work to disguise it. If I can catch him, I can make a lot of money selling him to the rodeo. If not…” He shrugged.

  “See you Saturday,” Cassidy said, buckling Lindsey’s seat belt and heading home as fast as she could.

  “Is he going to kill Joker?” Lindsey asked.

  “No way, baby. We’re going to catch him first.” She only hoped that she would not have to go to her daughter and tell her that she’d lied. She’d do everything in her power to catch Joker and protect Lindsey from getting hurt.

  Even if it meant keeping Slate Walker out of their lives.

  Chapter Two

  As the rolling Hill Country of west Texas slid by, Slate was aware more than ever of the intricacies of memory. Gazing out the window of his old truck as he sped along the highway, he felt strangely at ease. The truck responded in a way that teased his memory, and the roll of the land to the left and right was more than simply beautiful—it was home. He knew this in a way he could not fathom or explain.

  The Guadelupe River wound through the area, and Slate found that he was fascinated by the green depths of the fast-moving water. He knew the river’s color came from limestone deposits that were the foundation for the rugged land. And it was that same limestone that was the bedrock of the pasture where he saw a herd of beautiful mares and foals grazing.

  He continued down the road, looping back and following the sign to Center Point. As he read the name of the town, he knew that more Texas rangers had been killed in Center Point than any other place in Texas. He didn’t know how he knew these things, he simply did. Like he knew how to drive, or how to saddle up Stargazer and cut a cow from Hook’em’s herd. How was it possible that he knew trivial facts, but he couldn’t recall his mother’s face or remember a single incident of his past at will? Perhaps the psychiatrist was right—maybe he was repressing his memories because he didn’t want to confront the type of man he was. Or why he’d been so deeply affected by Cassidy and her daughter. He drove slowly down the main street of Center Point, crossed the Guadelupe and headed toward Comfort. He knew the route to take without having to ask directions. What he didn’t know was if his trip to the county prosecutor would do any good.

  RUSTY JONES LEANED his head back against his leather chair, but his gaze never left Slate’s. His dark eyes seemed emotionless.

  “Are you accusing me of tampering with evidence and setting you up?” he asked softly.

  Slate shook his head. “No.” The problem was that he didn’t know what he was doing.

  “You come in here and say you think you’re innocent.” Rusty slowly sat up. “You want to see the evidence. You want to see the police reports. Let me ask you, Slate, why didn’t your lawyer obtain these things for you when it might have made a difference? You’ve done the time. My advice to you is to put the past as far behind you as you can. You grew up here. You were respected and well liked in the community before the attempted robbery. If you show folks here that you’re sorry for what you did and looking for a decent life, they’ll give you a second chance.” Rusty’s voice grew harder. “Just don’t keep rubbing their noses in the past.”

  Slate kept his mouth shut and nodded. The words that threatened to spill out would only make it harder—on him. He forced a civil tone into his voice. “I appreciate the advice, Mr. Jones, and I want to make it clear that I’m not accusing anyone of any wrongdoing. I’m simply looking for the truth.”

  “Memory can be a convenient thing, Slate. Maybe you don’t remember because you don’t want to have
to face your own actions.” He stood up. “I have an appointment with Judge Brisko.”

  That was the judge who’d presided at his trial, but Slate kept a poker face. He’d tried to make an appointment with the judge but had been told that Frank Brisko was too busy to see him. “Even though you don’t feel it’s necessary, would you do me the favor of getting those reports released for me? I’d like to take a look at them, to satisfy my own mind.”

  “Suit yourself.” Rusty put on his coat. “But you’d do a lot better to spend your time in a round pen with a horse. You have a talent for working with animals.” He smiled. “Take the advice. It’s free. This time.”

  Slate rose to his feet. He didn’t remember Rusty Jones, but he had the distinct impression they had a past. “Is my father’s gun still being held as evidence?”

  Rusty was on his way out the door, but he stopped and turned around. “It’s been nearly five years, Slate.”

  “Once a trial is over, the evidence should be held or returned to the owner. Unless that gun went to my mother, it should be in the safekeeping of the county. At this point, I believe it’s legally mine.”

  “I’ll check on it.” Rusty started out the door.

  “My mother identified the gun. But she was a very sick woman. Are you certain, in your mind, that the gun belonged to my father?”

  “Mary Walker, sick or well, knew her own mind.” Rusty turned to him. “But I didn’t need her to identify the gun. Most everyone in town knew what it looked like. I knew it, too. I remember the day when we were fourteen and we took it from your father’s holster and went out to the cattle tank to shoot cans. And I remember the trouble we both got into. The handle was carved teak, an intricate pattern of a wolf. A shaman carved it for your father. It was one of his most prized possessions.”

  Slate saw that the other man was breathing light and fast, his response emotional. It made him wonder if Rusty Jones had something to hide. “The gun was in my hand?”

  “In your hand.” Rusty walked toward him. “I would have preferred to convict someone other than you. You claim you don’t remember, and I have to believe you, but we were friends once. Good friends. It gave me no pleasure seeing you go to prison. But the past is over, Slate. If you don’t put it behind you, it will destroy you. And you’ve got a lot to live for if you’ll only look for it.”

  Slate swallowed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  CASSIDY WALKED UP the steps of the Comfort Ranch Bank and found that she had to draw an extra breath and steady herself with the handrail. Seeing Slate had reopened all of her old fears. After the trial, it had taken her a long time to be able to walk into the bank without feeling as if she were going to burst into tears. Time had passed, and she’d put the nightmare behind her. And now, once again, she was an emotional mess. All because she’d seen Slate on the street. He hadn’t even recognized her. He hadn’t felt a thing for her.

  She pushed through the door and stopped, in her mind seeing Slate lying on the floor, blood oozing from his head and a gun in his hand, a sack of money at his side. Thank goodness Dray Tyree’s shot had been off, or Slate would have been dead.

  She walked to the teller’s window and spoke to the young blonde, Betty Brown, a woman she didn’t know very well. “Is Amanda in?”

  Betty smiled. “You haven’t heard? She quit.”

  “This is obviously good news,” Cassidy said, judging Betty’s wide smile.

  “She’d wanted to quit for a long time, and Dray finally told her that she could.” Betty leaned forward and lifted her eyebrows. “I think she may be pregnant,” she whispered. “And it’s about time. They’ve been wanting a baby for a long time.”

  “Well, congratulations are in order, then.” Cassidy tried not to show her surprise. She and Amanda Best, now Amanda Tyree, had been best friends. Over the past three years, since Cassidy had bought the Double O, their friendship had cooled—partly because Cassidy didn’t have time, and partly because of Amanda’s role in Slate’s conviction. But a pregnancy? It hurt her that Amanda hadn’t told her.

  “Don’t tell her I said so,” Betty urged. “She acts like she’s afraid to tell anyone or it will go away.”

  “I’ll keep it a secret.” Cassidy looked around. “Is Mr. Barlow in?”

  “I’ll buzz him. Karlie ran down to the store to pick up something.” She rang the bank president’s desk. “Miss O’Neal is here to see you.” She nodded at Cassidy. “He said to go right in.”

  Cassidy passed Karlie’s empty desk and entered Clyde’s private office. His bald head gleamed in the light from the window, and he steepled his hands in front of a paunch that strained at the buttons of his vest. “It’s good to see you, Cassidy. You know you’re one of my best success stories.”

  “Thanks.” She had done well since she bought the Double O. In three years, she was way ahead on her notes and looking at another profitable year. “I’ve been lucky.”

  “Lucky and smart. An asset to our community. The day you came back to Comfort from the big city was our lucky day. What can I do for you?”

  She hesitated. “Slate’s back in town.”

  Clyde sat forward, his hands moving to the arms of his chair. “I’ll never know what possessed that man. I would have loaned him the money. He didn’t even ask.” He looked out the window.

  “Clyde, is there a chance Slate didn’t do it?”

  The bank president didn’t answer immediately. He got up and went to close his office door. When he returned, his face was expressionless. “I was busy. I didn’t see any of it until I heard the shot and rushed out there. What I saw was Slate on the floor, bleeding, with the gun and the money. Dray held a gun in his hand and had obviously shot Slate. I testified to what I knew.”

  Cassidy felt her hopes drop further. “I know. It’s just that…you helped raise money for his defense. And you paid for the psychiatrist to examine Slate about the amnesia.”

  “Slate’s mother was a valued customer of the bank, and she was also my wife’s dear friend. What I did was for Mary more than Slate. Put the past behind you, Cassidy. Slate isn’t the man for you. There’s too much baggage there. If he’s smart, he won’t stay in Comfort.” He placed his manicured hands on the desk. “If you want to help him, urge him to move along.”

  “I saw him…” She broke off and shook her head. “You’re right. It would be best for everyone if he moved away.”

  “Especially best for Lindsey.”

  Cassidy’s gaze snapped to him. “She doesn’t know, and I don’t want anyone telling her.”

  “Then encourage Slate to leave. He never was a stupid man, and if he finds out about the two of you, it won’t take him long to put the facts together and figure out that Lindsey is his daughter.” Clyde’s eyes narrowed. “She’ll have to grow up knowing her father was a convicted felon. That’s something you should spare her if you can.”

  Cassidy wanted to protest that statement, but not even she could deny facts. Slate had been tried and convicted. And it didn’t matter that she’d never really believed him guilty.

  There was a soft tap on the door and a feminine giggle. “Oh, Clyde…” Karlie Mason hurried in and then started with surprise. “I didn’t know you were here, Cassidy,” she said, glancing at Clyde. “Cly—Mr. Barlow…I didn’t mean to intrude.” She fidgeted nervously.

  “I was just leaving.” Cassidy rose. She was out the door before she remembered that she’d come to pay off her truck and get the title. She turned around abruptly and started back, but she halted. Both Karlie and Clyde were staring after her, and both of them looked worried. She changed her mind about the truck and quickly left the bank.

  THE ROAD TO THE DOUBLE O RANCH wasn’t exactly familiar, but Slate knew exactly the way it would wind up the slopes, meandering through live oaks and outcroppings of rock. He stopped his truck and finally got out. Even though the day was hot, the wind pushed through the dry grass and leaves of the trees with a gentle rustling sound. Slate turned so that the breeze str
uck his back, sticky from the leather of the truck seat.

  On impulse, he walked along the edge of the ridge until he saw the sparkle of the creek below. The laughter of young boys floated to him on the wind, and he strained to see them, finally realizing that the sound was in his mind. He had played in a place like this. He knew it, though he couldn’t remember where.

  There had been an old rope and a deep swimming hole worn into the bedrock of the creek. The water had been icy, and he had played there with his friend…Rusty Jones? He clearly saw the snaggle-toothed face of his friend grinning at him. It had been Rusty. And the power of the memory was so strong that Slate wanted to simply sit and think a moment.

  He started down to the creek, his boot heels catching in the tall grass and his toes tumbling small rocks that clattered before him. The sun was hot on his back, and the gurgle of the creek promised cool relief. Slate forgot that he had driven to the Double O to apply for a job. He forgot that he was on another’s property.

  As the ground leveled out, he started to jog. The cypress trees in the creek bottom were huge. The bed of the creek was scattered with rocks as large as potatoes washed smooth by the rapid current. Slate went directly to the deep hole, worn into the creek bed. An old rope dangled above the creek. It was exactly as he knew it would be.

  He stripped off his boots and jeans, unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall to the ground, and dove into the water. For a split second, he thought the shock would drive the air out of his lungs. But once he got his breath, he wanted to shout with the simple joy of a cold dip on a hot summer day.

  A red-winged blackbird perched on a cypress bough just above his head and watched him with open curiosity. Slate whistled at the bird, imitating its call. The bird answered, then turned its head from side to side. Slate swam across the creek and pulled himself out on a large, flat rock. In the heat of the day, it wouldn’t take him long to dry. He stretched out on the rock and closed his eyes.