Sweet Water by Anna Jeffrey

town. When you’re ready, I’ll call him and tell him you’re coming.”
    “I haven’t been to West Texas in years,” Chick said, his eyes taking on a distant look.
    Terry couldn’t guess what he might be thinking. He knew Chick had grown up in the small town of Andrews, thirty miles from his own hometown of Odessa.
    “What about the ranch?” Chick asked.
    “It appears to be what I’m looking for. It’s big and has history. Goes back to the days of the cattle drives north. It’s been owned by one family since the twenties.”
    “Well, that’s not a bad thing. And you’re sure he’ll sell.”
    Terry grinned. “If the deal’s right, anyone will sell.”
    “Okay.” The engineer puffed his cheeks and blew out a long breath, continuing to study the plat. “Big job.”
    “When you come out, I’ll rent a plane and a pilot and we’ll fly the whole area. I want your input. I’ve got some old aerial maps, but I’d like to get an eyeball on the landscape.”
    Chick laughed. “Uh-oh. I don’t have to jump out, do I?”
    Terry laughed, too. “I might, but you don’t have to.”
    “Mind a little input right now?”
    “Not from you.”
    “You’re going out on a real skimpy limb on this one, Terry. Especially if you’re going in debt to buy that ranch. You could lose your ass. West Texas is known for three things these days. Wide open spaces, a lot less oil than there used to be and unemployment. Not retirement.”
    Terry laughed. “It’s only money, Chick. Hell, I didn’t have any when I started. If the sub-division doesn’t work out, I can always be a cowboy.”
    “But it doesn’t make sense, Terry. We’ve already got houses to build in Rancho Casero. Soon they’ll be selling faster than I can stand ‘em up. The whole sub-division will be sold out in a year or two, max. You’ll make so damn much money you could retire.”
    “I’m too young to retire.”
    “Maybe so, but this thing in West Texas is more of a long shot than a crippled racehorse. My God, man, if you could get your hands on the mineral rights, you’d be better off drilling for oil.”
    “My business is real estate. Wildcatting’s too big a gamble.”
    Chick laughed. “It’s all gambling, pal. Whether it’s oil wells or houses and lots.”
    Terry laughed, too. “Maybe that’s what makes it fun.”
     
 
    Chapter 8
    Barely awake, Terry basked in his queen-size bed, floating through nebulous memories of his youth--spelunking in Balmorhea’s water caves, climbing the steep rock walls of El Capitan, kayaking the Pecos River at flood stage. God, he loved West Texas. He loved the shifting sand and the ever-present wind touching his face. Even the sulphur gas smell that frequently pervaded the air was more pleasant than the North Central Texas swamp odor to which he had never grown accustomed.
    He had returned to Agua Dulce late last night, picked up the key to this mobile home from his RV park manager and opened every window before falling into bed, worn out after the five-hundred mile drive from Fort Worth.
    The little mobile home wasn’t bad. Probably eleven-hundred square feet. Solid-feeling floor. Big enough kitchen. Two bedrooms, the master with a queen-size bed. Like a calculator, figures rippled through his head. The mobile home had probably cost a quarter what he would spend putting up a stick-built house of the same square footage.
    Insistent knocking on the front door brought him full awake. He could think of no one who should be banging on his door, especially so early in the morning. He pushed himself out of bed, pulled on jeans and padded to the door. Through the peep-hole, he saw...a woman standing on his deck.
    Oh, yeah. The good-looking chick from the café. And she was dressed up like Dale Evans—fancy shirt, fringe and all. His memory flashed on the first time he had seen her when she had been wearing loose slacks and a T-shirt.
    He combed his fingers through his hair, ran his tongue over his teeth and