Caro seemed to sense his unrest and said little. He guessed the early morning hours and long ride were taking a toll on her. Even her smart tongue seemed to be losing its edge. Only Whit kept a steady conversation going, mostly with himself. They stopped to water their horses and then hurried back to the road.
Without any further problems, they made it back to the Walking Diamond before sunset. Chisholm dismounted and went to assist Caro. To his surprise, she let him.
“I need to go help my mother.” She paused. “I know you are angry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset Mr. Harrison.”
“I’m not angry with you.”
She lifted her dark eyebrow and nuzzled Angel.
“Well, not really.” He drew in a long breath. “I didn’t like how he spoke to you.”
She blinked. Once. Twice. Her gaze did not leave his own.
“Mi prima!” Ricardo came out of the barn, walked directly to Caro, and pulled her into an embrace. “You are back. Your mother is waiting for you in the summer kitchen. How did your day go?”
She looked over her shoulder as Ricardo directed her toward the ranch house. Was that appreciation he saw on her face, or was Chisholm simply imagining that he’d made a crack in Caro’s ironclad armor?
Morning prayers on the front porch brought Chisholm a renewed sense of purpose, a clear head, and a direction to follow. This case was about rustlers and not Caro Cardova. When they’d shared their day with the Walking Diamond’s owner, Hank Reynolds, he’d said Digger Harrison wasn’t the type who’d hurt a lady. Still, he recommended they leave Caro behind if they went into town.
Since they didn’t have a lot to go on yet, Chisholm suggested that he and Whit would go into Brady City and ask some questions. Rumors in small towns were a lot like a ball of yarn. If you pulled the string of maybes carefully, you might finally get some honest answers.
Armor back in place, Caro handed them filled canteens and said they’d best be on time for supper as she had no intention of holding it for them. Still, something in her tone made him doubt she meant it. Somehow she seemed a little softer, more bark than bite now.
By midmorning they reached Brady City. Whit tied his horse to a hitching post in front of the town’s general store. “All I’m saying is you’re awfully protective of her.”
Chisholm let Bullet finish drinking from the trough and then tied him, as well. “I’d be protective of any woman, and you know it.”
“True, but if you dig down deep, I think you’d see you might actually like that she-wolf.”
“Like I’d like a case of measles.” Chisholm grunted. “You talk to the storekeeper, and I’ll head down to the saloon and talk to the barkeep.”
Chisholm’s boots thudded against the boardwalk, the familiar jingle of his spurs calming the irritation Whit’s words had caused. What was his partner thinking? Chisholm was a gentleman, and he’d treated Caro Cardova like any other female in Texas. But he had to admit she was a puzzle, and he liked a challenge. Was there an inkling of truth in Whit’s observations? Nah, he just felt sorry for her. She was alone, and the only man who cared for her seemed rather worthless. She deserved better than Ricardo.
He crossed the dirt street to the saloon and pushed through the swinging doors. Given that it was so early in the day, he was surprised to find several people already imbibing. He made his way to the bar, and the barkeep was quick to offer him a drink on the house since he was a lawman.
Chisholm put his foot on the brass rail at the base of the bar. “Make it a sarsaparilla, and we have a deal. But what I really want is some information.”
The barkeep chuckled. “Not sure I have much of that. You might try the school.”
“Oh, I imagine you know more about this area than most folks. For example, did you hear about the man who was almost lynched?”
“Ricardo?” The barkeep grinned, revealing a host of crooked teeth. He set a glass in front of Chisholm and filled it to the brim. “Even if he was innocent, it wouldn’t have been a great loss if they’d done it.”
Chisholm took a swig. “Do you think he’s innocent?”
The barkeep shook his head. “He’s not smart enough to do it alone, and he’s usually not—”
A chair fell over behind Chisholm, and he whirled to find a man stumbling. Ricardo? Here? Drunk before noon? Did Caro know?
“Hey! Give me back my sombrero!” Ricardo batted at the hat a man dangled just out of his reach.
Chisholm waited to see if the men complied with Ricardo’s request. When they continued to taunt him, Chisholm stepped forward. “Give it back.”
“We’re just funnin’ him.” A young redhead waved the hat again. “Why would a big, fancy Texas Ranger care about the likes of him?”
“Give it back.” Chisholm kept his voice firm and low.
The redhead relented and tossed the hat to the floor. Ricardo scrambled for it, nearly falling in the process. Chisholm grabbed the hat and stuck it on the unsteady man’s head.
The barkeep picked up a fresh glass and polished it with a white cloth. “Like I said, lately he’s not sober enough to do it, Ranger. Waste of good Texas air.”
Chisholm draped Ricardo’s arm over his shoulder and led him stumbling toward the swinging doors. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
He shouldn’t judge, but what did Caro see in this no-account drunk?