Buch lesen: «Molly's Garden»

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

MOLLY MCNAIR TIGHTENED her grip on Nitro’s leash and charged up the steps. Bursting through the double doors into the sheriff’s station, she stood looking for Deputy Roy Powell.

A uniformed clerk set down the phone, eyeing her big guard dog warily. “May I help you?”

The woman stepped out from behind her desk and the black-and-rust Doberman growled low in his throat. The clerk immediately retreated.

“I got a message from Deputy Powell. Ramon Flores was in some kind of an accident. He was driving one of our McNair trucks to markets in Laredo.”

The woman turned as Roy Powell, in his khaki uniform, emerged from a back room and signaled with a hand. “Park your dog outside and come with me, Ms. McNair.”

Molly tightened her grip on Nitro. “My dog stays with me, if you don’t mind, Deputy Powell.”

She spoke a low command and the animal relaxed.

“Then see he behaves.” Powell went into the room and waited for her.

She stepped past him and pulled up short. “Ramon. Good grief, what happened?”

Her driver sat hunched over in a straight-backed chair. His hair was matted with blood. One eye was nearly closed and beginning to bruise. His shirt and pants were torn and dirty. Fresh blood oozed from several cuts on his arm and through one pant leg.

“Why is he here and not at the hospital?” Molly asked Powell, who’d gone to sit behind his desk. Nitro sniffed at Ramon and sat. She remained standing.

“Mr. Flores told officers at the scene that he wasn’t sure he had a medical policy. He has no identification. Frankly we contacted you, as the registered owner of the vehicle, not knowing whether he’d stolen your truck.”

“Ramon, where’s your driver’s license?” She turned to Powell. “I provide all employees an insurance card.”

Looking miserable, Ramon continued to clutch his ribs as he spoke. “Three men in a black SUV forced me off the road before I reached the highway. They pulled me out of the cab. One beat me while the others destroyed the crates...and the produce inside. One took my wallet.”

Molly gaped at him. “He plainly needs medical treatment. What do I have to do for you to release him so I can take him to the emergency room? Or, Ramon, do you need me to call an ambulance?”

He shook his head even as the deputy drummed his thumbs on a manila folder. “Can you prove he’s in Texas legally?”

“Prove? Ramon’s parents migrated from Mexico a long time ago. Daddy helped them become naturalized. And you know my father was a straight arrow.” Her voice trembled as she spoke and Nitro sat up. Reaching down, she stroked between his pointed ears.

“It’s been a year since your dad passed. A lot has changed. Rumors say you aren’t as choosey about who you hire as Mike was.”

“What? That’s not true. Daddy supported me and all the farm decisions I had to make after he got prostate cancer. I’ve been at this long enough now...why are there suddenly questions? I was in the Peace Corps, for crying out loud, doesn’t that warrant some kind of respect for my decision-making?”

“Raising cattle is a worthy occupation. Your dad’s wranglers were mostly local cowboys.” The deputy delivered a dark look as he closed the folder. “You should have stuck with raising beef.”

Molly stiffened. “Meaning you don’t think providing fresh fruit and vegetables to hungry families is admirable?”

“Depends on who you’re feeding. You don’t want to be encouraging people to come here who don’t belong.”

“You know what? None of that matters. This man works for me. He belongs and he needs a doctor. I’m taking him to the hospital. If you plan to detain us, I’ll phone Gordon Loomis.”

Molly pulled out her cell phone. Loomis, her godfather, was the most respected lawyer in the area. His name carried weight. He’d been their family attorney even before Molly’s mom died. And she had few memories of her mother.

“Out of curiosity, are you looking for the men who did this?” she abruptly asked.

Powell stood. “I don’t need you to tell me my job, little lady. Your produce truck might’ve been hijacked by the very folks you’ve been feeding. Maybe you should sell your farm and go back to your old job in... where was that again?” he drawled. “Africa?”

“You mean where we were treated with respect?” Pocketing her phone, Molly dealt the deputy a dirty look. Shifting Nitro’s leash to her left hand, she leaned down to help her driver to his feet. “I’ll send someone from the farm to collect my truck to see if we can salvage any of the load. I assume you have no reason to hold it.”

“If you have known enemies, Ms. McNair, I’ll take their names. The mischief-makers were gone by the time a passerby phoned our dispatch.”

Molly indicated Ramon’s injuries. “This looks like more than mischief to me.”

“A lot of old-timers hate the influx streaming across our border. You ought’a be extra careful about who you put on your payroll. I’ll be checking.”

Ignoring the arrogance of the paunchy deputy, Molly slowly led her driver out of the office, through the main room, which had fallen silent, and out the door.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save the vegetables.” Ramon spoke with effort. “I think one man was the same one I told you hassled me at the market on Monday.” He faltered and she stopped to steady him. “I can’t be your driver anymore,” he said slowly, staring down at his feet. “Elena worries. And we have three children. You pay me more to drive, but I’ll go back to hoeing or picking... They threatened to hurt my family.”

She took a sharp breath before nudging him forward again. “None of this makes sense. Why would anyone be so upset that I’m selling fresh vegetables at local farmers’ markets?”

Frowning, Molly unlocked the doors to her old SUV. She removed Nitro’s leash and he bounded into the backseat. Carefully she helped Ramon into the front passenger’s seat.

“I don’t want to get dirt and blood on your upholstery.”

“This is a working farm vehicle. The seats will come clean. I’m sorry this happened. I should have paid closer attention when Danny Ortega quit. To be honest, he griped about everything so I assumed he’d finally had enough or had heard they were hiring in Brownsville for an offshore oil rig that paid more. Maybe he was being harassed, too.”

She circled around, climbed in and started the motor. “You don’t suppose the guys who jumped you were FDA vigilantes or food safety activists? I’ve complied with the new rules of organic agriculture. We even installed water filters to the irrigation that the government won’t require until next year.”

She knew the FDA had become more aggressive in its inspections. But what grower wanted to sell tainted food? She’d gotten her degree in agriculture because she wanted to grow crops that helped families be healthier. It had been her main mission in going to Africa.

At the hospital, she found a shady spot and parked. Again assisting Ramon, she rolled the windows down a few inches and told Nitro to stay. The hospital only allowed service dogs inside. But the sun was waning and a nice spring breeze had sprung up. Later, when summer arrived, she wouldn’t be able to leave him in the vehicle.

The emergency waiting area overflowed with moms and crying children. Molly found Ramon a seat and then went to the counter to check him in. A harried clerk gave her a clipboard with a sheaf of papers, which she handed to Ramon to fill out while she phoned her insurance agent.

“Lawrence, Molly McNair. I have an employee in the emergency waiting room.” She quickly explained the situation, including the news about Ramon’s missing insurance card, and was advised to pay the bill and the agent would arrange for reimbursement.

“Do you happen to know anyone looking for a truck-driving job?” she asked Lawrence. “Someone big and burly? Or, failing that, someone proficient in martial arts?” She laughed, but there was truth in her statement.

“You need to work with the police, Molly. And be extra careful. Last time I visited your dad, Mike was concerned about you being left alone out there.”

“Dad carped on that,” she said, a smile in her voice.

“I understand why he’d worry. The ranch is about as remote as they come. Considering the increase in Rio Grande crossings...well, it’s dangerous for anyone alone.”

“Rather than lasso a husband, Lawrence, I got a Doberman.”

The man chuckled. “I’m just saying, when jobs get scarce some men get aggressive. I hope Roy Powell finds who ran your driver off the—” He broke off, then added, “Listen, I have a call coming in on another line. I’ll have my secretary see to Mr. Flores’s replacement card.”

“Thanks.” Molly clicked off and went back to Ramon, picking up the clipboard from the empty seat beside him. Looking at him for permission, he nodded, and she quickly scanned the paperwork. Uncapping the pen, she filled in the lines Ramon had left blank, showing him before returning it to the clerk.

Back in her seat, she called the farm to ask Henry Garcia, her dad’s long-standing ranch manager, to drive another of her hands out in the Jeep to collect the delivery truck. “Henry, see if there’s anything salvageable of the load. Maybe there’s stuff we can give to the food bank.”

She hesitated before adding, “Watch yourselves.”

She signed off and idly picked up a tattered magazine. She tried to think what next steps she could take to keep what had happened to Ramon from happening again. She remained at a loss as to why anyone would do such a thing.

While he was being examined, Molly stepped outside to call the weekly newspaper to place an ad for an experienced truck driver. She added a line about having to be able to heft fifty-pound crates. A crate rarely weighed that much, but maybe it would net her a brawny guy capable of holding his own against miscreants.

Going back inside, she sat again until Ramon came out of the examining room.

“The doctor didn’t find any bad injuries. He cleaned my cuts and gave me an antibiotic cream. He says I should do light duty for a week because my ribs are bruised.”

“I’m glad it’s not worse.” Molly paid with her farm credit card and they left.

They didn’t talk much on the drive.

As she dropped Ramon off at his house, she said, “Plan on potting in the greenhouses until you heal. Once you’re better you can join the irrigation crew where you’ll make a little more money.”

“I’ll work hard at whatever you want me to do.”

“I know that, Ramon.”

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER the newspaper with her ad came out and Molly alerted Henry to take phone numbers from interested applicants.

But for three days no one called. Busy harvesting lettuce, Swiss chard, radishes and bush beans, and with spring weather warming and ripening the tomatoes, Molly, who disliked driving the flatbed, packed her SUV and made extra trips to the markets. She took Nitro and remained vigilant. Luckily there were no incidents.

By Wednesday of the following week she’d only talked to two candidates. Both unsuitable. She began to worry that she’d blown it with the weight requirement...and had been too quick to dismiss those applicants. Although one had had no references and the other had been fired from his previous job for drinking, clearly thinking that wouldn’t come up in a reference check.

Thursday morning, as she prepared to go to a market in Carrizo Springs, Molly noticed a well-dressed man talking to a field hand in a newly plowed area earmarked for local students: a planting program she’d established for third-graders from two low-income schools.

“Henry, who’s the guy talking to Rick?”

The manager stepped out of the barn. “I don’t know. I saw him a couple of weeks ago walking the spinach rows. I thought from his clothes he was an inspector.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that?”

She stripped off her gloves and snapped her fingers to rouse Nitro from his snooze.

“I know all the food safety inspectors,” she said, clipping on the dog’s leash. The man in question wore pants, a short-sleeved shirt and a tie. She saw him squat and sift dirt through one hand. “Considering what happened to Ramon, I don’t like strangers wandering my land.”

It only took her a couple of minutes to cross the field and come up on the man from behind.

Nitro began to growl.

The stranger sprang up, dusted off his hands and backed away.

Molly delivered a hand command to Nitro, but the big dog strained at his leash.

“May I ask what you are doing? I’m Molly McNair. I own this land.”

“You grow some fine-looking vegetables. Good soil, I assume?”

“Very. Are you a state inspector?”

“Nope.” The man stepped farther away from Nitro.

“I don’t sell direct to the public.” She named a few farmers’ markets. “You can find us there. I open for U-pick at the end of harvest.”

The man said nothing.

“I see a Humvee parked up on the main highway. Most visitors drive through our gate and down the lane. I’ll ask again... Who are you?”

Molly had learned from her years in the Peace Corps to judge friend and foe quickly. She absorbed the stranger’s toothy smile, noting it didn’t reach his cold blue eyes.

He dug a business card out of his shirt pocket and extended it—jerking back his hand when Nitro bared his teeth.

“Settle, Nitro.”

Molly picked up the fallen card and was surprised that it had nothing on it about farm implements, fertilizers or any possible outlet for her wares.

“Branchville Oil? Not what I expected. That’s a group my dad wanted nothing to do with.”

“I’m a new subcontractor. I understand they tried to buy mineral rights from Mr. McNair. Branchville is on the hunt for new oil fields in South Texas. If you still hold those rights—” he motioned one hand in a circle “—I’m prepared to offer you a fair sum to let the company sink a dozen or so small test holes. It’s lucrative income for doing nothing on your part. If I find oil, we’ll bargain for significantly more money.”

Molly tried to pass back his card, but his hands were now in his pockets.

“I’ve no interest in letting anyone search for fossil fuel on my land. The answer is no.”

The man’s jaw tensed.

“Your name is...?” Molly persisted. “There’s none on this business card.”

“Think the offer over. When you’re ready to deal, call the number at the bottom. A few pumping oil wells will earn you a lot more than slaving over crops that depend on many more variables.”

“Such as?”

“Drought. Floods. Tornadoes.”

She stared at the man for a moment before he turned and walked away.

Molly watched him weave through her field of pole beans and up the bank to the black Humvee, where he got in and quickly drove off.

Only then did Nitro settle.

Henry materialized at Molly’s elbow. “What did he want? Did he say why he didn’t come in through the main gate?”

Giving a half laugh, she showed Henry the card. “He’s a man with no name who wants to dig test wells in the middle of my crops.”

The old man took the card in a gnarled brown hand. His eyes remained on the road. “Your papa thought you should fence along the highway. Maybe it’s time.”

“Maybe.” Molly strode out of the empty field to her SUV. “Right now I have produce to deliver.”

* * *

ADAM HOLLISTER FINISHED setting up a row of clean pilsner glasses and gave the glazed oak counter a last wipe before he opened the bar. It was midweek. He didn’t expect much traffic other than the few regulars who stopped by after work.

He straightened stools on his way to put out the Open sign. Heading back, he plugged some coins into the jukebox and again stood behind the bar as Miranda Lambert belted out her latest he-done-me-wrong song.

Catching a glimpse of his image in the leaded mirror on the wall behind the liquor bottles, Adam barely recognized the man he saw. He’d let his hair, once clipped short, curl to his shoulders. He’d taken to wearing a headband to hold it out of his eyes. He should probably shave more often, he thought, stroking his prickly cheek.

He might be a bit gaunt, but this lazy job working the Country-Western bar for his old college friend in the dusty outskirts of Catarina, Texas, hadn’t diminished his six-three stature or turned the muscles that he’d honed over his years as a wildcatter flabby. His imposing size was probably why Frank had begged him to manage the bar he’d inherited from his father in the rough border town.

One look and few, if any, messed with Adam Hollister.

The door opened. Two regulars walked in and took seats at the far end of the bar. One held up two fingers and Adam pulled two dark ales from the tap. No words passed between them as he delivered their drinks.

Three old-timers Adam knew by sight wandered in next and ordered. They opted for a booth near the jukebox. They fed the machine and Willie Nelson crooned a series of his old hits.

Predictable, Adam thought, wiping at a nonexistent spill. Weeknights were dead. He hoped Frank finished renovating his dad’s old house soon, so Adam could quit this place.

The door swung open again. As was his habit, Adam looked up. He did a double-take and was more than a little shocked to recognize Dave Benson.

His former business partner strolled up to the bar and took a stool in front of him.

The last time Adam had seen Dave had been at Jenny and Lindy’s funerals.

A pain that never quite went away stabbed him anew. He’d tried running away from that memory, that pain, that guilt, for more than two years.

“You look like something the cat dragged in,” Dave said.

“Thanks. What brings you slumming? You still drink light beer?”

Benson made a rude gesture before admitting he hadn’t changed his preference. “I’ve been looking for you, good buddy. Jim Stafford’s secretary finally broke down and told me where to find you. Kevin Cole wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

Adam popped the top on a bottle and watched as Dave took a long swallow. This was the man Adam had entrusted with his thriving multimillion dollar company, Hollister-Benson Wildcatters.

Dave wore a white shirt and tie—so out of place here.

“Why are you hunting for me? Didn’t Cole, Cole and Stafford cross all the T’s to make the company transfer legal?”

“They did. Although it sticks in Kevin’s craw that you gave me the company.” Dave tore a loose piece of label from the bottle and wadded it into a tiny ball he dropped in the ashtray. “Business has been slow. Then two months ago I got a call from a guy we did a job for in Kuwait. He’s a new partner in Branchville Oil, based out of Corpus. It seems the government is offering big-buck contracts to anyone who can open up rich new in-ground veins. If you’ve watched any global news lately, you know the foreign oil markets are stagnant. Domestic is the way to make a killing.”

“I don’t watch much news.” Adam stepped away to get refills for the two at the end of the bar. “How does any of that affect me?” he asked on his return.

“Branchville had a chemist do soil studies for them last year. He thinks there could be a major field below a ranch not far from here.”

“So?” Adam leaned back against the bar sink and crossed his arms.

“Ranch owner refused to sell the mineral rights or to allow testing. He died and left the property to an equally stubborn woman. I talked to her yesterday. She’s as anti-oil as the old man was.”

“Tough for you. Sounds like you’ve hit a brick wall, Dave.”

“That’s why I thought of you. This could mean millions, and you have a sixth sense when it comes to making sure there’s oil and talking people out of it.”

“Money doesn’t mean squat to me now. I made more than I’ll ever need and I was wrong to let it dictate my life.”

“Well, even if you’re not interested in personal profit, think of doing it for your country. Help wean the good old US of A off foreign oil.”

Adam considered Dave’s words. Perhaps thirty months was too long to wallow in self-pity. Oil definitely used to spark an adrenaline rush for him. “This isn’t the most stimulating job. But if the landowner won’t allow testing, that’s pretty final.”

Dave pulled a folded piece of newspaper out of his pocket. “Maybe there’s another way. This morning the big boss at Branchville gave me this ad. The woman in question first ran it a week ago. Apparently the job hasn’t been filled.”

Taking the paper, Adam read the ad. “You could do this. Why don’t you apply?”

“I spoke with her, so she knows me. She’s not stupid, just stubborn. We hear she’s not well liked in the area. Not by some townsfolk at least. Word is she makes life easy for border crossers. Authorities haven’t caught her hiring or hiding illegals, but she’s a sympathizer. At the local café I found out she supplies crossers with food and water.”

“Why get in the middle of a hostile negotiation, Dave?”

“For a spanking-new oil supply.”

Adam pursed his lips and read the ad again. “Maybe I don’t qualify. Anyway, if she’s a hard-nose like you suggest, if she caught me testing her dirt she’d probably fire me on the spot or toss my body in the Rio Grande.”

Dave took another swig from the bottle. “You’re complaining to a guy who’s seen you charm your way out of many a hot spot, friend. I can tell you’re interested. Of course, I trust you have a barber.”

“Hmm. How would you figure to play this? I’ve no desire to work for Branchville or to renew my ties to Hollister-Benson Wildcatters. If I’m hired by the woman I’d want to remain unencumbered. Say I take a gander? It’s gotta be at my pace and aboveboard. No pressure from you or your people. If she refuses to deal, I walk away regardless.”

Dave circled his sweating beer bottle around and around in circles of condensation, frowning all the while.

“What’s the matter? That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

“It’s just that the government offer runs out the first of July. That’s what—six weeks? Not a lot of time. It also occurs to me Branchville might be uneasy if you don’t have any skin in the game. I mean, your name is synonymous with the best wildcatter in the world. My bosses will want assurances you won’t undercut them and blow in a well on your own.”

Picking up the rag he’d used earlier to polish the bar, Adam wiped up the rings under Dave’s bottle and shoved the empty into the return crate. “I’m not signing any contract except for a W-4 tax form if the farm owner hires me. It’s your call.”

His one-time partner stared at Adam for what seemed like a long time. Finally he muttered, “Give me a napkin. I’ll draw a map to McNair Gardens. That’s what she calls it. Used to be McNair Cattle Ranch.”

“I’ll find it. And write down a phone number where I can get in touch with you if I decide it’s worth drilling there. Your people have nothing but the word of a chemist. They’re known to be wrong. Or maybe you’ve forgotten the sheikh who bet a fortune on such a report and we drilled what turned out to be a duster.”

“I remember you tried to tell him and he wouldn’t listen. There are a number of people at Branchville who think the chemist is right.” Dave scribbled a phone number on a clean bar napkin and slid it across to Adam. “Do you have to give notice here? I’d hate for someone to beat you to that truck-driving job.”

“It’s not a problem. I’ll mosey on over there tomorrow and decide if I want to quit here.”

As if he knew he’d pressed hard enough, Dave slid off the stool and hitched up his pants. “By the way, I don’t recommend snooping around much in advance. The woman owns a killer dog. The Doberman didn’t bite me, but only because she held him in check. Good luck, buddy. I’ll touch base later.”

Adam let Dave go without further response. He stared at the raggedly torn-out ad and the scribbled phone number on the napkin. His drive to become a multimillionaire had lost him Jenny and Lindy, the two most precious things in his life. He’d let chasing after big bucks mean more than his family. The money still sat untapped—where it could stay.

Dave might be betting on the wrong man, though, Adam thought. He’d been out of the oil business for more than two years. Admittedly it had once been his life. Work he’d chosen at seventeen. Next week he’d turn forty-one.

But he couldn’t resist the lure of the hunt. For old times’ sake he’d have a look-see at McNair Gardens.

Looking around the bar, he knew he owed Frank a lot for this job. Frank had seen Adam’s reckless attitude toward life. Good friend that he was, Adam knew Frank would understand his desire to help out a former partner.

After seeing to the old-timers’ refills, he picked up the phone.

“I figured this day would come,” Frank Tully said. “I’m grateful you stuck around and helped out for as long as you did while I renovated the house. Diane said it’s time I get behind the bar, anyway. But, listen, if you go over there and don’t want to get involved, there’s still a job here for you. We’ll work something out. I told you my dad used to bring in live music on weekends. I’d like to do that again. It’s bound to draw crowds, so I’ll need help with control if nothing else.”