Last Chance Cowboys

  Also by Anna Schmidt

  The Drifter

  The Lawman

  The Outlaw

  The Rancher

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  Copyright © 2018 by Anna Schmidt

  Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Judy York

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  One

  Arizona Territory, Early Spring 1891

  Trey Porterfield stood in the open doorway of the outbuilding that served as the ranch’s office. From there, he could see Juanita Mendez moving around the kitchen of the main house, a large rambling adobe structure that spoke well of the prosperity of the ranch and its owners. As usual, Juanita, who had been with the family for as long as Trey could remember, was gesturing to someone out of his view—her husband, Eduardo, no doubt. The evening was mild with a lingering hint of this year’s unusually cold winter. But a good deal more than the weather had brought hard times over the last several months. The trouble was not between man and nature, but between man and man—neighbor against neighbor.

  “Hola, Jefe.” Javier, Trey’s best friend and Juanita’s younger son, crossed the yard, the smoke from his cigarette trailing after him.

  “Better not let Nita catch you smoking,” Trey said.

  Javier smiled. “I’m twenty-three, and Jefa still treats me like a kid.”

  “I dare you to call your mother ‘boss woman’ to her face,” Trey teased, but then he sobered. “’Course Nita’s that way with me too—babying me and bossing me in turn. Especially since Mama died.”

  The two men were quiet for a long moment. “I miss her—your mama,” Javier said as he blew out a long stream of smoke. “I miss them all—Maria and Chet, Amanda too. Seems awful quiet around here these days.”

  Trey nodded. It was true. The family had scattered after his mother’s death. His sister Maria and her husband now lived in California with their three children. His sister Amanda had married an undercover Wells Fargo detective; he’d since left that job to become sheriff of the entire region. They lived in Tucson—close, but not close enough to Trey’s way of thinking.

  “I miss Helen too,” Javier said quietly.

  Helen Johnson had caught Javier’s eye a few years earlier when his older brother, Rico, had been courting Helen’s sister. But after her father died, Helen and her mother had gone back east where they had family.

  “You still have Rico—and Louisa.”

  Javier grunted. “It’s Rico’s fault that I never got my chance with Helen. Running off the way he did with Louisa? How was Mr. Johnson ever supposed to trust me to do the right thing by Helen?”

  Old Man Johnson had disowned Louisa after she and Rico had eloped and announced if he so much as thought he saw Javier coming around his youngest daughter, he would shoot to kill.

  “Rico and Mr. Johnson made their peace,” Trey reminded his friend.

  “And then the old man up and dies, and Rico’s got his business to run, so he can’t take on running the ranch for Mrs. Johnson.”

  “You could go east, find work closer to Helen there,” Trey reminded him, wanting to shift his friend’s focus to something more positive.

  “I guess.” It was a grudging admission and one he would probably never act on. “Rico says I dodged a bullet. He never much cared for Helen, the way she didn’t stand with Louisa.”

  “Tell you what. Let Addie know you’re looking for a wife, and my guess is she’ll have you matched up in no time.”

  Trey’s older brother, Jess, was the marshal in the nearby town of Whitman Falls, and his wife, Addie, had taken over her father’s medical practice.

  Javier snorted. “I doubt Jess would want her to get involved with the likes of me. I’m not exactly your brother’s favorite cowboy these days.”

  When a sheep rancher bought the Johnson place after the old man’s death, Javier had turned all his frustration on herders in general, picking fights whenever he and any sheep rancher crossed paths. Trey had had to get him out of jail more than once, and Jess had warned them both that next time, Javier would be bound over for trial and sit in jail until the circuit judge reached town.

  “But he’s my foreman—our foreman,” Trey had argued, reminding his brother that the ranch still belonged to the entire family. “We’re short-handed as it is.”

  “You wouldn’t be if this cowpoke could keep his mouth shut. You should get Rico to come back.”

  “Rico has no interest in working for us now that he’s taken over the livery and moved his family into town. Besides, Javier is family,” he had reminded Jess. “What we need is to find a way for herders and cattlemen to share the land.”

  Jess had laughed. “Not likely in our lifetime.”

  Arizona Territory still had a good deal of open range, acreage that now needed to accommodate both cattle and sheep. In the fight over land and water rights, the “herders,” as the sheep ranchers were known, were at a distinct disadvantage. It took only two or three men and some well-trained dogs to manage a couple thousand sheep, while the same number of cattle required a dozen or more cowhands. So right away, the herders were outnumbered four to one, and lately, that disparity had cost them dearly. Just six months earlier, a herder named Calvin Stokes and his shepherds had been murdered. Trey hadn’t known Calvin, but as a peace-loving man who treasured the land, Trey wanted no part of violence.

  As if to underscore his thoughts, Trey heard the distant bleating of sheep.

  Javier threw down his cigarette and ground it into the dirt with heel of his boot. “Them woolies sound closer than they ought to be, Trey. I’ll just get a couple of the boys from the bunkhouse and ride out there and…”

  “You get some sleep. We need to get started on branding early tomorrow so we can move the herd to higher ground for the summer. I’ll take care of this.”

  “But—”

  Trey rested his hand on Javier’s shoulder. “Last thing we need around here is more trouble, Javier, and you know how some of the h
ands feel about the sheep ranchers.” He chose his words carefully, even though it was Javier’s constant harping on the damage sheep did to the land that had gotten the other hands riled up in the first place.

  Javier snorted. “You’ve always been a dreamer, Trey. You still think we can all live in peace? After what’s happened these last months? There’s a war comin’, amigo.”

  “A war with a price that’s too dear to pay, Javier. When neighbor turns on neighbor, it’s time to find another way.” Trey headed for the corral, lifting his saddle from the fence as he passed. “I’ll be back directly. You and the others get some sleep.”

  Javier wasn’t easily dismissed. “Calvin Stokes was not our neighbor or friend,” he argued.

  “He was a good man,” Trey said as he pulled the cinch tight on the saddle and patted his horse’s flanks. “A good man with a wife and a youngster. A good man who was the first of our neighbors to die because of this ruckus. We need to be sure nothing goes that far ever again, or he will surely not be the last.”

  “If Stokes’s wife had the sense God gave her, she’d pack up and head back where she came from.” Javier stroked the horse’s muzzle while Trey mounted.

  “Now there’s a thought. She just abandons that flock of woolies, leaves them to roam free and deliver the lambs they’re carrying all on their own while she hightails it back east or wherever she might have people. That’s your plan for her?”

  “She’s got family here. Word is she’s no longer in charge. From what I hear, her brother and her husband’s cousin have been running things since the funeral.”

  Trey frowned. “You think she signed everything over to them?”

  “Don’t know details.” Javier shrugged. “There’s been some talk about her and the cousin marrying. Seems to me if the cousin is willing to take on the debt plus her and the boy, that might be her best choice.”

  “That’s one option, I suppose.” Trey had noticed the family in passing when they started coming to his church. He had been vaguely aware of the woman and boy. She usually wore a sunbonnet that covered her features and did not stay after to visit with the other women, even wives of other herders. Calvin Stokes had made sure of that, hustling his wife and son away as soon as Reverend Moore spoke the benediction and took his place by the door to greet his congregation.

  Once, Trey had found himself standing in the aisle next to Stokes. He had smiled and extended his hand in greeting. “I’m Trey Porterfield,” he’d said.

  Stokes had stared at Trey’s outstretched hand for a moment, then ducked his head and ushered his family up the aisle. By the time Trey had reached the exit, they were walking briskly down the road. Herders rarely used horses. They traveled by burro or on foot. The Stokes woman had matched her husband stride for stride while the boy rode a burro.

  Javier lit another cigarette. “You got something else in mind for the widow Stokes?”

  “What if I was to buy her out, leaving her free to go back to her family? If that’s what she wants.”

  “You’re saying you’d make the Double J part of this place and bring it back to cattle?”

  “I’m saying maybe it’s time to explore what might happen if cows and sheep shared one ranch.” Trey was as surprised as Javier was to hear himself say this. But the more he considered the idea, the more he thought it was well worth contemplating. “Seems to me if we could make it work for the animals, we could make it work for the people,” he added as he gathered the reins.

  “You’re joshing me, right?”

  Trey shrugged. “Maybe.” He grinned down at his friend. “Maybe not.”

  As he rode away, he heard Javier laughing and was pretty sure he heard the word loco echoing through the silence of the night.

  Of course, Javier was right to ridicule him. The idea was absurd, and the truth was, he hadn’t been thinking anything beyond finding some way the sheepherders and cattlemen might work together. Still tonight, as he left the boundaries of his property and heard the distant bleats, he had to wonder: What if both sheep and cattle could share the land? There would have to be separate pastures to accommodate the differences in grazing, but with all this land, why wouldn’t it work?

  As he crossed the open range where the sheep were settling in for the night, Trey tipped his hat when one of the shepherds keeping watch glanced his way. Joining forces might just work if he could persuade Mrs. Stokes to hear him out.

  His best approach might be to take Addie’s advice. The Stokes boy was sickly, as Trey had been as a boy. Addie had been after him to stop by and visit.

  “Especially now,” Addie had argued, “with his father dead and no siblings to lean on, Trey. Seeing you and all you’ve accomplished in spite of being so sick would maybe help them both see possibilities for the boy’s future.”

  She made a good case. Maybe tomorrow, he would ride over there and pay a neighborly call on Mrs. Stokes and her son. For now, he would just enjoy the night ride over the range that lay between the two properties, the free range that was fast disappearing as more and more people discovered this land Trey loved so deeply.

  * * *

  Juanita saw Trey ride away and shook her head. He was the youngest of the four Porterfield children she and her husband had helped raise and, to her way of thinking, the least prepared to deal with the realities of life.

  “There he goes, riding off to who knows where when he needs his rest,” she fussed, setting a plate of fresh churros on the kitchen table. The pastry was Trey’s favorite. “That niño has about as much business trying to run a ranch as I do.”

  “That niño is a grown man, Nita,” Eduardo reminded her. “He is doing a fine job.”

  “Pushes himself and he’ll pay a price.” Juanita poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down heavily in the chair next to her husband. She rubbed her swollen knees with one hand, held her cup in the other. “That boy is an artist more than a rancher or businessman. He needs to get back to that.”

  “Trey is no longer a boy, Juanita, and thankfully, his health is no longer a question. If you insist on worrying about someone, I suggest it be our Javier.”

  They sat in silence for a long moment, both knowing that Eduardo had a point. Their youngest son had changed a good deal over the last several months. These days, the boy Juanita remembered as so good-natured had become impatient and sullen, taking the most innocent question or comment as criticism. She frowned and sighed as she stared at the dark liquid in her cup. “He spends too much time at the Collins ranch,” she said.

  Eduardo nodded. Pete Collins was not only antagonistic toward the herders, but as the area’s second-largest landowner, he had the power to persuade others to join in his fight. “Perhaps Trey could speak with Javier.”

  Juanita shrugged and sipped her coffee. After a moment, she said, “I miss the old days. So much is changing.”

  Eduardo covered his wife’s hand with his. “Remember the first day we came here?”

  The memory could always pull Juanita out of a sour mood. They had driven their rickety wagon up the trail toward the small adobe house that now served as the ranch’s business office. Juanita had been pregnant with Javier. Their older son, Rico, had been nine. The sun was setting, and that thin line of smoke rising from the chimney was like a star they had been following for the last half hour.

  Isaac Porterfield, Trey’s father, had stepped outside, and when he saw them, insisted they stay the night. Eduardo had accepted and offered to sleep in the barn. He would repair their wagon, and they would be on their way at dawn.

  And that was when a woman with hair the color of a sunset burst through the door. She’d carried a frail-looking boy of about three or four—Trey. Three older children pushed forward as well.

  “Absolutely not,” Trey’s mother, Constance, announced.

  Juanita recalled how she had assumed the woman was objecting to the offer of hospitali
ty, but how wrong she had been. Constance Porterfield had ushered them inside the small house, sent her children to fetch a wooden bench from outside to add sitting space at the table, dished up a meal, and started planning the rest of their lives. By dawn, Juanita and Eduardo had work at the ranch, she as housekeeper and cook and her husband in charge of the chuck wagon that traveled with the cowboys as they followed the herd.

  And when the Porterfields completed the larger adobe house that became the hub of the ranch’s vast acreage, there were rooms for Juanita and Eduardo and their children. From that first night, the Porterfields had treated them as family, making it clear to their own children that if Juanita gave them a chore to do or reprimanded them, she was to be obeyed without question. When young Trey’s health had caused endless nights of worry for his mother, Juanita had prepared special broths to ease his breathing and poultices to treat his racking cough. She had sung him Spanish lullabies and, when he showed a talent for sketching, posted his work in the kitchen for all to admire. And no one had ever doubted—or objected—that of the four Porterfield children, he was her favorite.

  That had been over twenty years earlier. Both Isaac and Constance were gone now. Juanita and Eduardo were not that young anymore. All either couple had wanted in life was to see their children well settled. Now only Trey and Javier had yet to find their ways. Trey would be all right, but her baby? Her Javier? Juanita had her doubts.

  * * *

  Nell Stokes was exhausted, but sleep was not a luxury she could afford. Calvin’s death—his murder—had left her with a bank note to pay off, a couple thousand sheep to manage, a large house, and acres of land surrounded mostly by cattle ranchers who hated sheep—and by association, her. There were lambs coming any day now, and most distressing of all, she had a ten-year-old son who had lost his father at a time when he spent a good many of his days sick in bed and needed constant care.

  When some soldiers from nearby Fort Lowell had discovered her husband’s body and brought him home to her, Nell had at first been so consumed by grief and panic that she’d ignored the rage building within her. But as the months passed with no progress in catching Calvin’s killers, she felt a hardness growing at her very core. It was formed of anger at the unfairness of it all, how they’d been treated since Calvin had bought the ranch from the Johnson family, who had been cattle ranchers like many of her other neighbors.