Beautiful Dreamer with Bonus Material Read Online Free Page B

sip of the fresh, tart drink and sighed. “He said he was a man who found water. He said to ask you and then decide.”
    Though Hope wasn’t looking, she sensed Mason’s sudden and complete attention. Faded green eyes fastened on her with an intensity that somehow reminded her of Rio.
    “He liked something about you,” Mason said flatly. Then, seeing her tighten, he added, “Nope, not like that. Oh, you’re plenty of woman and he’s sure enough a hell of a man, but that won’t saddle no broncs for Rio. If he said he’d look for water, it’s because you did something he liked.”
    “He was at Turner’s well. All I did was wrestle with that mulish generator.”
    Mason looked at Hope. The coltish girl of his memories had grown into a woman as beautiful as her mother had been. But unlike her mother, Hope didn’t care about her own beauty. Nor did she hate the ranch. She was part of it, as deeply rooted in the land as the plants that tapped hidden water far below the desert floor.
    Like her older sister, Hope had tousled dark hair and a generous smile that set men to dreaming. But Hope didn’t see it, nor the men she drew. All she saw was the land, and she was willing to work for what she saw. Her sister hadn’t been. Julie had been as pretty as a butterfly—and as useless when there was work to be done. As for Hope’s mother, she simply hated the land too much to work it well.
    “Rio liked your grit,” Mason said, nodding to himself. “That’s the only thing he respects. Grit.”
    “Well, I’ve plenty of that,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding as she wiped her dusty face with the back of her equally dusty arm. “Can he do it?”
    Mason’s eyes narrowed and looked inward. “Honey, if there’s water anywhere on the ranch, Rio will find it.”
    “How?”
    The old man shrugged. “I heard it said he’s a water witcher, a dowser, grandson of a Zuni shaman. I heard he was a soldier and a mapmaker. I heard he was raised in a Houston skyscraper and on an Indian reservation beyond the Perdidas. I heard he was educated east of the Rockies and knows the West better than any man alive.”
    “How much of that do you believe?” Hope asked curiously.
    Mason lifted his battered, sweat-stained Stetson and settled it more firmly on his head. “All of it. And I’ll tell you this,” he added, pinning her with a shrewd green glance. “Rio’s smart and quiet and faster than any rattler God ever made. He’s part Indian and all man. He don’t push worth a damn, and he’s pure hell in a fight. I once saw him take apart three yahoos in less time than I could pour a cup of coffee.”
    “You make him sound—brutal.”
    Mason was eyeing Hope’s lemonade when he sorted out what she hadn’t quite said.
    “Like Turner?” he asked bluntly.
    She let out a breath. “Yes.”
    “Not a chance. Turner’s bone-deep mean. He likes hurting people.”
    With difficulty Hope concealed a shudder. She knew that part of Turner’s personality all too well.
    “Rio’s easygoing when easy gets it done, and no meaner than he has to be the rest of the time.” Mason rubbed his aching knuckles and looked at her. “Honey, two of those three men Rio whipped had knives. There was a lot of loose talk about how they was going to skin out the breed that thought he was good enough to drink with white folks. Whatever those men got, they had coming, and then some.”
    She turned her head quickly, catching the hard look on Mason’s face. “You really like Rio, don’t you?”
    “If God had seen fit to give Hazel and me kids,” Mason said evenly, “I’d have died proud to sire a son like Rio.”
    For a minute Hope couldn’t find any words to say. She had never heard Mason talk about anyone as he did Rio, not even the near-mythical figures out of his family’s past.
    “Where did you meet Rio?” she asked finally.
    Mason hesitated. He lifted his hat again, settled it with a jerk, and said, “It’s Hazel’s story, really,