She waited until he’d finished and had released his hold on the horse’s leg. “Then give me something I can pass on to the Rangers.”
Ricardo stuffed the hammer in his back pocket. “Sometimes knowing things can be dangerous, mi prima. I won’t put you in that position. It’s for your own good.”
Her throat tightened, and fear nestled in her belly. “Are you one of the rustlers?”
“No. You have my word.” He wiped his brow with a kerchief. “But, Caro, you must stay out of this. It’s for your own good, and if you care about the gringo Rangers, you’ll get them to leave soon.”
Her hand went to her chest and her heart skipped a beat. “Would the rustlers hurt them?”
Before Ricardo could answer, Se?or Reynolds rounded the corner of the barn. “There you are, Ricardo. Is my horse done?”
“Yes, se?or.” He handed the roan’s reins to the ranch owner. “Ready to ride.”
“Good, then you have time to run that errand I asked you to.” Se?or Reynolds turned to Caro. “And you can go back to work. I believe you’ve spent enough time away from your chores lately.”
Caro stood dumbstruck for a moment. Usually gregarious, Se?or Reynolds seldom spoke to her so sharply. And wasn’t it his request that she help the Texas Rangers? Perhaps he’d grown tired of the Rangers’ interruptions, or perhaps Ricardo’s recent mistakes had brought shame on their family.
Whatever the reason, she needed to be more mindful of her true responsibilities lest she, her mother, and Ricardo find themselves without a home.
Chisholm heaved his saddle over the wall of the stall, then hung the rest of his tack on a peg. He reached for the brush and curry comb. Bullet deserved a good rubdown since he’d been working hard for days. Chisholm released a long sigh. Bullet wasn’t the only one who could sure use a rest. Chisholm had barely slept a wink last night.
Whit brought Buckshot in and removed the cinch from the horse’s girth. “I can’t believe we went all that way just to find out that the wranglers miscounted the stock and they weren’t missing any cattle.”
“We still learned something.” Chisholm drew the brush down Bullet’s flank. “We now know only the two ranches are involved—the Mesquite and the Walking Diamond. Whoever the rustlers are, they have a good operation going.” He straightened and looked at Whit. “You know, we really need to wrap this up. We’ve been imposing long enough, and I think we’re going to have to do something different. We need to catch the rustlers in the act—at night.”
“You want to sleep under the stars?” Whit filled each of the feed boxes with oats for the two horses. “Which ranch?”
“Let’s stay here tonight.” Chisholm paused and looked at Whit over Bullet’s back. “If we don’t see anything, we’ll move on to the Mesquite tomorrow. And, Whit, I don’t want the cowboys to know about this.”
“Are you going to tell Caro?”
“No, not even her.” Guilt poked him in the gut. Caro would hate being left in the dark, but he had a job to do and he couldn’t risk anyone—especially Ricardo—finding out their plan. “We’ll slip out after supper.”
With the horses well cared for, Chisholm left the barn and headed to wash up at the pump. Whit followed a minute later. When his partner drew close enough, Chisholm splashed water in his direction. A melee ensued with water volleying back and forth, and soon they were both drenched from hair to boot. A little silliness was exactly what Chisholm needed right now.
He suddenly stopped and held up his hand. “Wait, something is burning.” He turned and saw smoke billowing from the door of the summer kitchen. “Quick! Get some buckets from the barn!”
Chisholm bolted for the small building, praying Caro wasn’t inside. He shouldered open the door. Thick, black smoke poured out. He coughed and covered his nose and mouth with the wet kerchief from around his neck. “Caro! Maria!”
No answer. Fire from a pot licked at the beam above the cookstove. Chisholm grabbed a heavy rag rug from the floor and tossed it over the pot, smothering the fire. Whit appeared at the door with the buckets.
“Let’s toss the water up there. That beam is smoldering.” Chisholm coughed several times. Whit tossed a bucketful of water at the beam, and droplets rained down on them. “Where’s Caro?”
“Thankfully, not in here.” Keeping the rug in place, Chisholm grabbed a towel and pushed the pot toward the back of the cooking area.
A shriek outside made the Rangers turn. Maria Valenzuela stood in the doorway with her hands pressed against her mouth. Caro stood beside her. “It’s all my fault.” Maria seemed near tears, and her voice shook. “I forgot the oil on the stove. I was going to make fried apple pies, but I had such a headache.” She tipped her face upward. “Gracious Dios, protect us.”
“It will be all right.” Caro, her face pale, wrapped her arm around her mother’s shoulder.
“But what if Se?or Reynolds puts us out?”