The Last Chance Olive Ranch Page 4

  Eliza had grown up on the Butler ranch—a cowgirl down to the toes of her cowgirl boots—but left after high school to go to the University of Texas, where she majored in journalism. Still in her early twenties, she had landed a good job at a glitzy New York fashion magazine. Her work took her to Paris, where she met a handsome Spaniard (“Aren’t they all?” Ruby asked parenthetically), fell madly in love, quit her job, and went to live with him in the south of Spain, where he managed an olive grove.

  “Wow,” I said. “For a ranch girl from the Texas back country, Eliza got around.”

  Ruby nodded. “Mom kept in touch with her through letters during those years,” she said. “Unfortunately, the romance was one of those star-crossed affairs. The guy was married and his wife was a devout Catholic. She wouldn’t give him a divorce.”

  “Kind of tough to plan a life together in that situation,” I remarked dryly.

  Ruby chuckled. “For ordinary people, maybe, but not for Eliza. I wish you could have known her, China. She didn’t give a damn what people thought. Mom says she loved the trees as passionately as she loved her Spaniard, and she dedicated herself to learning all she could about olives.” She sighed. “But then he was killed in an orchard accident. Eliza had no choice but to come back to the States. I’m sure she felt that she had lost everything—not just the man she loved but a way of life.”

  That made me catch my breath, made me think about McQuaid and what might be going on in Pecan Springs. Even when love goes right—when you love the right person, do the right things at the right time in the right way—it can all go horribly wrong, without any warning. Just look at what had happened to Paul and Cindy Watkins, both of them killed by an escaped convict bent on revenge. I shuddered. I had nearly lost McQuaid to a bullet once. It could happen again. It could happen today.

  Ruby hadn’t noticed my momentary disconnect and was going on with her story. At the point when Eliza came back to Texas from Spain, she had been gone for nearly ten years. She thought of returning to the ranch, but she and her father—Roy Butler was an irascible man who had cut a wide swath through the political and economic landscape of Kendall County—had never gotten along. She took a job with an ad agency in Houston and tried to get used to living in the city. But not long after her return, her father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Howard—Eliza’s younger brother—was an alcoholic ne’er-do-well who couldn’t be relied on. So Eliza came back to the ranch to see her father through his last illness, not happily but out of a sense of duty.

  Still, it was a good move. While she was nursing her father, Eliza began nurturing the seeds of an idea that was quite radical for its time and its place. She would establish an olive grove on the family ranch, grow the trees, and produce the fruit and the oil that she had loved in Spain. Olives are a Mediterranean fruit, and the calcareous soils and rainfall of Spain and Texas seemed similar enough to make the idea work.

  “People laughed at her,” Ruby said. “Everybody she talked to told her that olives couldn’t be grown in the Hill Country. They’re too susceptible to a hard winter freeze.”

  “That’s right,” I said. I know a little about olive trees because I’ve planted several at our place on Limekiln Road, with mixed success. “Once the trees are established, they tolerate cold pretty well. But you know how crazy Texas winters can be. The thermometer can hit sixty-five degrees in January and a hundred in February, then plunge into the twenties in March. In that kind of situation, olive trees will freeze back to the ground anywhere but far South Texas. And down there, the summers are too hot and humid for decent olive—”

  “Hang on!” Ruby hit the brakes hard. We had come over the top of a hill. Thirty yards ahead, a large herd of twenty or so wild pigs was zigzagging across the road. I grabbed the panic bar above the door and braced my feet as Mama’s tires screeched on the asphalt and she threatened to fishtail. Ruby braked again, fighting for control and just missing the last of the pigs.

  I gulped. “That was a close call. Wonder what they’re doing out here on the road in the middle of the day.” Feral hogs—tusked brutes that can easily weigh up to five hundred pounds—are mostly nocturnal. But day or night, they’re an ugly threat in Texas. Voracious omnivores introduced in the mid-1500s by Spanish conquistadors and now numbering over a million, they will eat chickens, fawns, lambs, kid goats, and the family cat. They’ll also tear up the garden, as they had mine the previous spring. Worst of all, they have no predators. Except humans, that is. And we can’t seem to get the job done.

  Ruby’s hands were clenched on the steering wheel. “We were lucky,” she said, letting out her breath sharply. She shifted into a lower gear as the last of the pigs disappeared into the brush on the other side of the road. “Did you hear about the pickup that hit several hogs over on Route 130? It flipped. The driver was killed.”

  “Danger is everywhere, I guess.” Here on the road, and back in Pecan Springs. The world is a scary place. I put my hand on Ruby’s arm and felt her trembling. “You’re a good driver, Ruby. If you’d been going faster, or not paying attention, we could have plowed right into them.”

  I settled back into the seat. Then, because I was curious, I reminded her that we’d been talking about Eliza, who had gotten passionate about olive trees when she was introduced to them by her Spanish lover. “You were saying that people told her she couldn’t grow olives in the Hill Country,” I prompted.

  “Yes.” Ruby took a deep breath and pushed the accelerator down again. “It was like a red flag to a bull. When Eliza heard that it couldn’t be done, she decided that she would be the one to do it. Mom and I began coming out to the ranch about the time she planted those first trees. Like everybody else, Mom thought Eliza was totally nuts. But even though I was pretty young—twelve or so—I was impressed with the woman’s spirit. She was simply indomitable, China. When her father died and left her half of the ranch, she rolled up her sleeves and went to work. She worked like a demon, without stop. She drove herself and everybody else, from dawn to dark. But it wasn’t about making money.”

  “Oh, really?” I asked skeptically. That would be unusual, to say the least. For most people, it’s all about making money.

  “Yes, really. Which was a good thing, I suppose, since the olive orchards have never made a lot of money. For Eliza, it was only about the land. And the olives. And her lover.” Ruby sighed. “It was almost as if she thought that by planting the trees and raising them successfully, she could bring him back to life.”

  “Maybe that’s just what she had in mind,” I said. “Olives have been used to symbolize lots of things. Victory in war, peace after everybody puts their weapons down. Power and authority. Prosperity, wealth. Hope, and the possibility of new life. And yes, resurrection, especially in Greece. That’s where that nasty Persian king, Xerxes, burned the city of Athens to the ground—including the olive grove at the Acropolis that was sacred to the goddess Athena. But when things cooled off and the Athenians went back home, they found that Athena’s sacred olive tree, totally scorched, had already sprouted a green branch. Yes, resurrection. So maybe you’re right. Maybe Eliza was trying to bring her lover back to life, in her mind, anyway.”

  Ruby nodded. “That’s what Sofia said. And she knew Eliza better than anybody—even better than my mother.”

  “Sofia? Who’s she?”

  “Sofia Gonzales. She was born on the ranch. Her mother, Rena, was the cook-housekeeper. Her father was . . .” She stopped. “Rena was married to Emilio Gonzales, the ranch foreman. Anyway, Sofia and Eliza grew up together. But when Eliza left the ranch, Sofia stayed to work for Eliza’s father as a cook and housekeeper. After he died, she stayed on to help Eliza. She’s elderly now, but she still manages to do a full day’s work in the kitchen or wherever she’s needed. She has a cabin on the ranch, right next to the cabin where we’ll be staying. She’s very attached to Maddie, of course.”

  “So now we get to M
addie,” I said. “Where exactly does she come into the picture? She’s been running the ranch for a while now, hasn’t she? Did she buy it from Eliza?”

  “Oh, no,” Ruby said. “She inherited it.”

  “Inherited!” I whistled. “No kidding? Eliza gave it to her?”

  “That’s right. Sofia brought Maddie to the ranch about the time that Eliza’s father died. Maddie was just a toddler then, two, maybe three years old. She was orphaned when her parents—friends or relatives of Sofia’s, I never understood which—were killed in an automobile accident in South Texas. She’s not related to either Eliza or Sofia by blood, but she’s always been like a daughter to both of them. They both loved her very much. When Eliza died, she left everything to Maddie—not just the ranch, but the Butler oil land out in West Texas. Pecos County, I think.”

  “Oil land?”

  “At one time, it brought in a lot of money. But the oil has been pretty well depleted, I understand. It’s under long-term lease. The leases are paying next to nothing and the land itself isn’t worth much.” Ruby glanced at me. “Anyway, there are some problems about Maddie’s inheritance. I’m not sure where the lawsuit stands just now. We’ll have to ask her to fill us in on the details.”

  There was an imperative honk, a whooshing roar, and a trio of long-haired, black-clad motorcyclists whipped around us. A woman riding on the back of the third Harley waved enthusiastically at Mama as they thundered past. The Hill Country is home to a great many different tribes. It looked like the female bike passenger thought our psychedelic Mama might belong to hers. Come to think of it, maybe she had, in her previous term of service with Gerald the hippie. Maybe Mama was a cousin to the Harley, once or twice removed.

  “Lawsuit?” I returned Ruby’s glance. “What kind of lawsuit? What are we talking about here?”

  Ruby was evasive. “I don’t know very much about it, China. All I know is that when all is said and done, Maddie may lose the ranch.”

  More questions. “Lose the ranch? Lose it how? Is it mortgaged? Is the bank threatening to take it away from her?”

  “It’s possible that Boyd—Eliza’s nephew—is going to get it. That’s what the lawsuit is about. As I say,” she added hurriedly, “I don’t know the details. But that’s how I understand it.”

  Ah. So now I could guess why Ruby had been so insistent about getting me out to the ranch. She thought I might be able to tell Maddie how—legally—she could save her inheritance. Well, she was going to be disappointed. I’m a lawyer, yes. And yes, I keep my bar membership current, just in case (God forbid) everything goes south and I have to go back into practice. But my specialty is criminal law, not estate law. I wouldn’t be much help in a dispute over land and wills.

  “This guy Boyd,” I said. “Tell me about him.” Eliza, Sofia, Maddie, Boyd. I was beginning to think I needed a scorecard.

  “Eliza’s father divided the family ranch—the Last Chance—between Eliza and her brother, Howard.”

  “Right. The alcoholic who wasn’t much help when it came to nursing.”

  One more motorcyclist roared around us, pushing hard to catch up to his tribe. He didn’t wave.

  “Yes,” Ruby replied. “Each of them—Eliza and Howard—got two thousand acres, with the Guadalupe River flowing down the middle. Eliza had no children. Howard had just one, Boyd. When Howard died, Boyd inherited his father’s half of the ranch—along with half of the Butler West Texas oil property. What there was of it,” she added ruefully. “Howard drank a lot of it away. By the time Boyd inherited, there wasn’t much left. That’s why—”

  I held up my hand. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Eliza was Boyd’s aunt, so he expected—quite reasonably, I suppose—that her half of the property would one day belong to him. Instead, she left it to your friend. To Maddie, who isn’t a blood relative. Which pissed Boyd off.”

  “That’s right,” Ruby said. “But there’s another part of the story. Years back, when Howard saw the orchards his sister was planting, he thought he’d give olives a try. He wasn’t nearly as diligent as she was, though, and never very successful. Boyd continued the effort, with a little more success. He’s even selling some olive oil—not very good oil, as it turns out. But he was also keeping his eye on his aunt’s orchards, thinking he was going to inherit.”

  “Because he assumed that the ranch would stay in the family.”

  Ruby nodded. “Exactly. And he had a good reason, Sofia says. He had a copy of a will that Eliza had made some twenty years ago. Maddie was just a kid then, and Eliza had no way of knowing that she would love the orchards and want to make them her life.”

  I could see it coming. “But when Maddie grew up and Eliza realized that this young woman was committed to the olive business, she made a new will. She left her nephew out. And she didn’t tell him.”

  “There was another reason for leaving him out,” Ruby said. “The olive oil he was selling. It was bad.”

  “Bad? What was wrong with it?”

  “It was . . . what’s the word? Adulterated? He was putting other stuff in it. Other kinds of oil, I mean.”

  “Ah.” I’d read about that practice. A little bit of extra virgin olive oil is blended with a lot of low-grade olive oil or with canola or sunflower seed oil, then labeled and sold as pure olive oil, or even extra virgin. There are laws against this sort of thing, but it’s hard to catch the violators. “So Eliza was afraid that if Boyd inherited, he might continue his evil ways and give her good olives a bad name.”

  “Yes.” Ruby made a rueful face. “He didn’t know about the new will. He was caught by surprise.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” I said. “The guy was her nephew. Eliza should have told him what she was doing, no matter how unpleasant it was. Or she should have instructed her lawyer to tell him.”

  “It’s hard to tell Boyd Butler anything,” Ruby said flatly. “He doesn’t listen. And he always likes to get his way, especially with women. That’s my personal opinion, anyway. It’s not universally shared.” She slid me a glance. “Have I mentioned that he is extremely good-looking? He can be a charmer, too. He can charm the socks off you.” She chuckled ironically. “Well, not you, maybe. You’re pretty charm-proof. But a lot of others.”

  “So?” I raised an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  She hesitated. “I could tell you, but it would be just more of my opinion. And I’ve been known to be wrong.” She laughed a little. “Occasionally.”

  “Wrong?” I grunted. “Where’s your intuition, Ruby? Why don’t you turn on your gift and see what’s really going on?”

  Ruby hesitated for a moment. “Because I have some pretty strong personal feelings that may be getting in the way of seeing what’s happening,” she said. Half under her breath, she added, “Boyd made a pass at me once. I was tempted. But I wasn’t charmed.”

  I got it. Boyd was in the habit of charming women, and Ruby had no burning desire to be added to his list of conquests. Or maybe she did, and didn’t want to admit it. She had some “pretty strong personal feelings,” she’d said. Was Boyd the reason she was so intent on going out to the ranch this weekend?

  “Anyway,” she went on, “it would be better if you formed your own opinion, rather than listening to me.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. But I like to gather other people’s opinions, even if I don’t accept them. “What about Maddie? What does she think?”

  Ruby hesitated for a moment. “Maddie is a sweet, hard-working young woman who is focused on what needs to be done at the ranch, day in and day out. She hasn’t been involved with very many men, and she’s . . . well, inexperienced. Maybe even naïve. I’m not saying she’s a pushover,” she added hastily. “I’m just saying that it’s sometimes hard for her to know when to push back. Especially now, when she’s worried about losing the ranch.” Another hesitation. “And especially where Boyd i
s concerned.”

  It sounded like Ruby thought Maddie might have been charmed by Boyd. Which muddled the matter even more. “And you’ve brought me along on this jaunt because you want me to—”

  I broke off. At the corner up ahead, I could see a big orange-and-blue gas station sign. I wanted to hear how Ruby thought I could help in this mixed-up situation. But we were about to cross Route 281, and according to the map, we had only another twenty or so miles to drive.

  “Before we get into that, let’s take a break,” I said. “I’d like something to drink.”

  “Works for me,” Ruby said. “Mama needs gas, anyway. I’ll fill her up. Get me a bottle of water, will you?”

  I had an ulterior motive for wanting to stop. Route 281 carries a fair amount of traffic between Fort Worth and San Antonio, and there was bound to be cell phone service. The minute Ruby pulled up to the pump, I hopped out and took out my phone to call McQuaid and check up on what was happening. Sheila hadn’t liked it when I said that my husband was being used as bait, but it was true. I didn’t know how they were planning to use him, exactly, but I could guess that McQuaid would allow himself to be dangled out there in plain sight, tempting Mantel to make his move. At the barbecue, or at McQuaid’s office. I shivered. Or even at our house. Which was why he had sent Caitie and me away. He knew Mantel might come to the house looking for him.

  Four rings, no answer. My call went to voice mail and all I got was McQuaid’s gruff, curt, “Sorry. I’m out of pocket right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

  I closed my eyes, loving the sound of his voice, wishing I had just a little of Ruby’s intuition and could make a guess about where he was, what he was doing, whether he was safe. “Hope all is well,” I said into the phone. “Sheila told me that Mantel shot Cindy Watkins, too. Which of course makes me worry more.” I paused, fishing around in my bag for the ranch’s landline number that I’d jotted down. I found it and added it to my message, then put my heart into the last six words. “Be careful, McQuaid. I love you.”