“You promised to stay near home.”
Caro ignored her mother’s pleading and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “You promised, Mamá. Not me. But I won’t go far. I only want to ride out to see if the bluebonnets have bloomed. They are close, and they’d make a lovely bouquet on the table for our guests.”
“Very well.” Her mother kissed her cheek. “But I wish you’d wait for one of the Texas Rangers to escort you, or even Ricardo.”
“He should be in the barn. If it pleases you, I’ll ask him to ride with me.”
Her mother smiled. “Thank you, my precious one.”
Caro searched the barn, but Ricardo was nowhere to be found. Worse, his chores were not yet completed. Where was he now? If Se?or Reynolds discovered Ricardo had shirked his responsibilities again, he’d be fired for sure.
She rolled up her sleeves and reached for a pitchfork. She had little choice. Instead of riding out in search of bluebonnets, she needed to muck out stalls.
Family or not, Ricardo would pay for this one.
Chisholm fought the urge to give Ricardo a lecture all the way back to the ranch. Since the man wouldn’t remember a word of it, it wouldn’t do any good. He’d save their “discussion” until Ricardo was sober. He’d better wait until Whit returned from town, as well, because Whit could make sure Chisholm didn’t haul off and hit the cowhand.
Where had the idea of hitting Ricardo come from? When Chisholm became a Christian, Pastor Darby encouraged him to stop using his fists to settle problems and start using the brain God had given him. It had been years since he’d truly wanted to pummel someone, but that desire was growing every time he looked at Ricardo.
Chisholm dismounted in front of the barn and hurried to assist Ricardo before the man fell. Caro would be furious if he let her beau get hurt. “How could you do this to Caro?” The words exploded from his mouth before he could contain them.
Ricardo gave him a lopsided grin. “Caro, mi prima.” He muttered something unintelligible in Spanish.
Chisholm led the man inside the barn and stopped short when he spotted the back of a shapely woman in a calico dress, heaving manure out of a horse stall. Like Ricardo, she released a string of exasperated words in Spanish. Chisholm translated enough to know Caro was not a happy woman.
Ricardo made a retching sound, and Chisholm whirled to find him with his hand pressed against his mouth. Chisholm grabbed hold of his arm. “Oh no, you don’t. Not in here.”
Chapter Six
Chisholm dragged Ricardo outside and let the man empty the contents of his stomach beside a fence post. Behind him, he heard the rustle of Caro’s skirt.
She laid a hand on Chisholm’s arm. “Is he ill?” She appeared to catch a whiff of the air, and her face paled. “He’s drunk again?” Skirting Chisholm, she faced Ricardo, who had yet to stand. She slapped the hat off his head. “You promised, Ricardo. No more liquor. Are you listening to me?” When he didn’t answer, she picked up a tin bucket and banged it against the fence.
Ricardo winced. “Stop, mi prima. The world is spinning.” He rubbed his brow. “I’m sorry. So, so, so sorry.”
Chisholm slipped his hand under the man’s arm. “Help me get him to his bed.”
Caro didn’t move. When she turned toward Chisholm, her eyes shone with tears. “I … I can’t.”
Her pain was palpable. First her father and now the man who held her heart. Another man had let her down. Chisholm made a silent vow to not be the next one.
Once he’d deposited Ricardo in his bed, Chisholm followed the scraping sound of the pitchfork, punctuated by Caro’s rantings, to a stall in the far corner. He stilled the pitchfork with his right hand. Caro pivoted, holding fast to the tool. Tears slid down her dust-covered cheeks. Chisholm gently grasped her wrist. “I’ll handle this.” She met his gaze defiantly, but like a milk bucket with a hole in its side, the fight seemed to seep out of her. When he gave the pitchfork a little tug, she released it.
What he’d give to take her in his arms and comfort her, but that was Ricardo’s place. Something the man didn’t deserve.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. In one swift movement, he slipped his free hand around her waist and pulled her into his arms.
Caro leaned into his embrace. Did he make her feel safe? Secure? Like she wasn’t alone? He lifted his hand to stroke her hair.
She suddenly yanked away and raised her hand to slap him.
Chisholm caught her wrist. “What was that for?”
“For being a man.”
“You’re afraid you might like me, aren’t you?”
Her cheeks bloomed with color, but before he could say another word, she whirled and marched from the barn.