The wide front porch of the Walking Diamond’s homestead welcomed them. Well, at least the house seemed glad to see them. Miss Caro Cardova was about as warm as a rattlesnake and probably as deadly.
But she was a beauty. Her dark hair, secured with a strip of leather at the nape of her neck, hung down her back and bounced with the rhythm of her horse’s gait. And even though he couldn’t see her face now, he had no trouble recalling her eyes. Dark like molasses with a vivid ring of fire tucked deep inside.
Chisholm forced his gaze away from Caro and back to the house. While a far cry from El Regalo, the enormous 7 Heart ranch house at Chisholm’s home, the Walking Diamond’s hewn-log home sported two floors, three dormer windows on the front and three on the back, and a summer kitchen. He glimpsed a smokehouse out back and a barn and large corral to the east. Just the kind of spread he’d like to have someday.
The group dismounted in the yard, and a barrel-chested man with more salt than pepper in his hair came out of the house. He glanced from Chisholm to Ricardo and frowned. “Rangers, is there a problem?”
After introductions were made, the ranch owner, Hank Reynolds, dismissed Caro to her duties in the kitchen and asked the Rangers to join him in the house. Inside, it didn’t take Chisholm and Whit long to explain the situation they had happened upon.
“I can’t thank you enough for what you did.” Reynolds leaned on the edge of a walnut desk in the corner of the parlor. Whit and Chisholm sat across from him in wide, leather-clad chairs. “So you’re here to address the cattle-rustling problem we’ve been having in these parts?”
Whit nodded. “We’ve been assigned to get to the bottom of the situation. What can you tell us about this man Slade?”
“Slade McCord’s the owner of the Mesquite. His ranch has been hit hard by the thieves, and he’s the kind of man who’d use someone like Ricardo to teach others what happens if you mess with him.”
“So, you don’t think your Ricardo is in on any of this?” Chisholm asked.
“It’s doubtful. Ricardo gets into his fair share of trouble, but he’s never done anything illegal.” Reynolds glanced up when a woman came to the doorway. She seemed to be an older version of Caro, only more serene. Her eyes were filled with kindness, but her demeanor spoke of a quiet strength. “Eat! Eat!” She waved her hand toward the table.
“Gentlemen, I think you’ll find Maria and Caro’s food a treat.”
The men took the seats Reynolds indicated, and Caro brought out three heaping plates balanced on a tray. Scents of seasoned pork filled the air, tugging on Chisholm’s heart and reminding him of home. Caro placed the first plate in front of Chisholm, but he passed it on down to Whit.
“No, no, se?or. That’s for you.” She smiled, he believed, for the first time since they’d met, and his suspicions rose. What was this beautiful spitfire up to? Still, he took the plate back and thanked her.
Without saying grace, Reynolds untied the string around the cornhusk. “Caro, why don’t you and your mother join us at the table tonight? We have so few guests it would be pleasant for all of us to celebrate. Grab some plates and sit down.”
Chisholm heard some disgruntled conversation from behind the door, but then the two women emerged and sat down in the empty seats.
Both Caro and her mother bowed their heads in prayer before placing their napkins in their laps. Caro lifted her head and again smiled in Chisholm’s direction. “I do hope you like your food.”
“I’m sure I will.” Chisholm untied his cornhusk and forked a bite of the dough-wrapped pork. He blew on his fork, then slipped the morsel between his lips. Flames exploded on his tongue. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and heat crept into his cheeks.
Boy, howdy, this was delicious! He closed his eyes and savored the sensation. It had been so long since he’d enjoyed a meal like this.
When he opened his eyes, Caro was staring at him, mouth agape. It was his turn to grin. “My compliments to the cook. I haven’t had food like this since I left home and signed up to become a Ranger. Our cook, Perla, is known for her fine Mexican table, and this is every bit as good as hers. It’s the kind of food I grew up on. I think even she’d admit it was excellent.”
“But…”
“I like things spicy, Miss Cardova.” He fought the desire to add a wink. “Guess you should know that.”
He’d ask Whit later how hot his tamale had been, but Chisholm guessed it wouldn’t come close to the fiery concoction Caro had made for him. She certainly had a creative way of making her point of how welcome he was and how thankful she’d been for his assistance. Watching her squirm throughout the rest of supper brought him more satisfaction than it should. He’d have to ask God to forgive him.
Whit blotted his napkin against his mustache and pushed his plate away. “So, I’m assuming y’all discovered your missing stock after spring roundup. Have there been any more recent losses?”