by Janet Dailey
“Tesoro isn’t mine to sell,” Will said. “I promised him to Erin, and we’re keeping him. So you can tell Bob’s rich friend that the answer is no.”
The can came down on the bar with a thud, splattering beer on the mahogany surface. “Are you crazy?” Beau demanded. “That foal is ranch property, and we can sell him if we have to. Erin can always choose another foal to raise and fuss over. But that palomino is the key to saving our land.”
Will shook his head. “I can’t believe this. You sound like Dad.”
Beau’s eyes flashed a startled look, but he swiftly recovered. “Well, you know what Dad would say if he was here.”
“I do, and for once I don’t agree with him. I won’t betray Erin and see her hurt. You’re about to have a child of your own. When you do, you’ll understand.”
“I can’t believe this!” Beau stalked out of the den, crossed the hall into the office, and slammed the door behind him.
Tori had been so quiet that Will almost had forgotten she was there. Now she rose from the couch and walked toward him. Without a word she reached out and pulled him to her in a hug that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For Erin and for me.”
Will waited until she’d stepped back. “I need you to do something for me. As you know, if I go to prison, Beau will have power of attorney to sell ranch property. I need a separate document drawn up declaring Erin sole owner of her foal.”
“I’ll have it for you to sign tomorrow. But do you really think that’s necessary?”
“I hope it won’t be.” Will didn’t like going against his brother, but this needed to be done. “Beau means well. But his idea of what’s right doesn’t always match mine.”
Tori nodded. “How much do you think we should tell Erin about this?”
“No more than we have to. The idea that Beau would’ve sold Tesoro to pay off the bank would just upset her. She’s already got enough grief on her young shoulders. I just wish to God I could spare her this mess.”
Will turned away, but she seized his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong as she yanked him back around to face her. “Listen to me, Will Tyler!” Her eyes blazed, passionate and falcon fierce. Her voice rasped with emotion. “We’re going to beat this, do you hear? You’re innocent of any wrongdoing. I’m going to prove it to the world, if I have to take on the whole damned justice system. So help me, I won’t let you lose your freedom! I’ll fight this to the last breath in my body!”
Her honest gaze burned into him, its heat pure enough to sear all pretense from his soul. He’d prided himself on having the strength to stand alone. But he’d never needed anybody the way he needed this woman.
Resistance crumbling, Will jerked her against him. His kiss was hard, hungry, and demanding. He felt the barest flicker of resistance before she caught fire in his arms. Her mouth went molten, tongue dancing tip to tip with his. Her arms clasped his neck. Her frenzied fingers tangled in his hair. Pressing tight against her, his arousal ached for release. Will cursed silently. Under different conditions he would’ve taken her on the sofa, on the floor, on the bar, anyplace he could get her under him. All he wanted was to push inside her and thrust until the tension and anxiety burst in one sweet explosion.
But there were people all around them. Beau was in the office. Erin was in her room. Bernice was probably in the kitchen. Any one of them could walk in without a warning.
Reluctantly he released her. They were both breathing hard. Tori’s blouse was rumpled, her lips wet and swollen. Will’s erection was still straining his jeans.
“Damn it, Tori,” he muttered.
She shoved him away from her—shoved him hard. “Go,” she said. “Just go.”
Forcing himself to turn away, Will strode out of the den and headed for the front door.
* * *
Knees shaking, Tori tucked in her blouse, smoothed her hair, and slicked on some tinted lip balm. Will’s kiss, and her own fevered response, had left her weak. What a time to rediscover that, under the tension, the bad memories, and the coldly controlled anger that kept them civil for Erin’s sake, their old chemistry still sizzled.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. Serving as Will’s lawyer called for calm detachment and total focus on his case. It wasn’t going to work if the two of them couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
Tori knew better than to think this sudden compulsion to rip each other’s clothes off was leading anywhere. Chalk it up to stress and hormones, nothing more. Will had been impossible when they were married, expecting her to kowtow to his father and be as dedicated to the ranch as he was. And a career woman with a mind of her own was probably the last thing Will had wanted in a wife. They were definitely not going to do that number again.
People didn’t change—that was the bitter lesson Tori’s failed marriage had taught her. Even so, today, when Will had refused to sell Erin’s foal, she’d glimpsed the man she’d fallen in love with—the man she’d lost when he’d tried to turn himself into Bull Tyler.
And she could almost—under different conditions—have fallen in love with him all over again.
* * *
For most of the past week, Sky had planned to go back to the cave in the canyon. But work with the colts, running them through their training to keep them sharp, had kept him too busy to take time off. Still, he hadn’t stopped thinking about what he’d found there. The memory of that small skeleton, barely glimpsed in the dark pit, had haunted him day and night. It was as if those lonely bones were calling to him, demanding . . . what? Recognition? Justice?
Today he’d made an effort to finish early. It was midafternoon when he saddled Quicksilver, the gray gelding that had become his favorite, and headed for the foothills. He’d thought about asking Lauren along, but that would have taken extra time, and she was busy with work in town.
Not that she’d have been eager to come. She’d fallen silent, visibly affected, after he’d told her about the bones. No sense exposing her, or Erin, to that dark place again.
He reached the petroglyph canyon with plenty of daylight to spare. Leaving the horse to graze by the spring, he climbed the steep, narrow trail to the clearing and the cave.
Everything was as he’d last seen it, the cave open, with rocks heaped on both sides of the entrance. Sky checked around for rattlesnakes, but, as expected, he didn’t find any. By now, the frigid nights would have driven them underground to hibernate till spring. Most snake dens had multiple entrances and passageways. Even with the rocks blocking the cave, they’d have had no trouble coming and going.
Sky had worn gloves, armed himself with a pistol, and brought along the high-powered spotlight he kept in his truck. He didn’t plan to kill any snakes unless they threatened him. This was their territory, after all, and he was the intruder. But he planned to be extremely careful.
The back of the cave lay deep in shadow. He switched on the spotlight and inspected the floor, walls, and ceiling. Nothing. Sky’s Comanche grandfather had taught him a snake song. He sang it under his breath as he crouched on the edge of the hole—not for the snakes, which, as he’d since learned, couldn’t hear, but to steady his own nerves.
The light shining down into the hole revealed nothing near the top, but Sky could see movement a dozen feet down, where a huge Texas diamondback slithered along a ledge. Was it close enough to strike him? He’d have to take that chance if he wanted to see the bones, which were a good twenty-five feet lower and could only be viewed by leaning in at an angle.
The snake wasn’t coiled and didn’t appear to be bothered by the light. Deciding to go ahead, Sky stretched out on his belly to anchor his weight and pushed his head and shoulders out over the opening. Gripping the spotlight with one gloved hand, he slanted the light toward the bottom of the hole.
At last he could see the bones. He’d been right about their size. They were small, definitely the bones of a child, maybe eight or nine years old. But that wasn’t all. As
Sky peered downward, he caught a glimpse of color. It looked like a fragment of red-plaid cloth—maybe a neckerchief or what was left of a collar, circling the neck bones. Moving the light lower, he saw something else that made him gasp. Lying across the small pelvic bone was what looked like a leather belt with a brass buckle. This was no old-time Indian, as Jasper had claimed. These bones were the remains of a young boy, dressed in the clothes of a modern-day white child.
The huge rattler raised its head and hissed. Startled, Sky jerked backward, dropping the spotlight. It fell, crashing against the sides of the pit to lie dark and broken somewhere below.
With a muttered curse, he scrambled to his feet. He was through looking. But he knew what he’d seen. Earlier, when he and Lauren had questioned Jasper about the bones, the old man had appeared nervous, as if he might be hiding something. When he got home, Sky was going to find him and demand the truth.
Those bones were on Lauren’s land. She had a right to know their story.
* * *
“Count them if you want.” Stella thrust the envelope into Ralph’s hands. It was stuffed with bills, so heavy that Ralph could feel the heft of their weight. Opening the flap, he ruffled through them with his fingers. Sweet Jesus, they’re hundred-dollar bills!
“Ten thousand dollars!” Stella snatched the envelope away. “All yours if you do the job I have in mind.”
Ralph’s head swam. With $10,000, plus what he’d put aside in the bank, he’d have enough money to buy a better truck and get out of town. He could put it all behind him—whiny Vonda and the baby he’d never wanted in the first place, his crappy job running cows for the Tylers, and the dangerous work he was doing for Stella. Those late-night deliveries paid beyond his wildest dreams, but Ralph was smart enough to know that if he didn’t get out, he’d wind up in jail or dead, like Lute Fletcher.
“I won’t have to kill anybody, will I?” he asked, hoping she’d think he was joking.
She laughed. “Nothing like that. Just a little property damage to the Tyler place.”
Ralph hesitated. The Tylers were honest folks. In the three years he’d worked for them, they’d always treated him fairly. True, the work was hard, but they paid as well as any other ranch in the county; and the bunkhouse food, when he could still get it, was a lot better than Vonda’s microwave cooking.
“Think about it.” Stella patted his shoulder. “What do you owe those people? To them, you’re nothing but a saddle bum they can work to death for slave wages. You can earn more in ten minutes than you’ll earn busting your back for the Tylers in six months.”
He was already thinking. Last week, in town, he’d found an eight-year-old Ford pickup in good condition. The owner was anxious to sell it and could probably be bargained down. Ralph could imagine himself driving that truck out of Blanco with new boots on his feet, money in his pocket, Vonda far behind him, and the whole damned country ahead.
He shrugged, trying not to appear too eager. “Guess I could do it,” he said. “Tell me more.”
Stella gave him a sly smile. “I’ll tell you more when the time comes.”
“And when’ll that be?”
“Not long. Come by in a couple of days, and I’ll give you the details.”
“And the money?”
“A thousand now and the rest when you’re done.” Stella counted out ten bills, then put the envelope in a drawer of her metal army-surplus desk and locked it with the key she wore on a chain around her neck.
Ralph walked out with a smile on his face, $1,000 in his wallet and his head full of plans. He’d give Vonda a hundred just to keep her quiet, but there was no way he’d tell her about the rest. And he’d be smart not to tell Stella he was leaving. She wouldn’t like that. It would be safest just to clean out his bank account, do the job, collect the cash, buy the truck, and get the hell out of Dodge. Run fast and far, where Stella, Vonda, Abner—and maybe the Tylers—would never know to look for him.
Plan in place, he climbed into his rusty old pickup and started home. The country oldies station he liked was playing “Take This Job and Shove It.” Ralph turned the volume all the way up and sang along.
* * *
“So you went back and looked down that hole again.” Jasper shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Sky. All it’ll do is dredge up old sins. Some things are best left alone.”
The two men, dressed in warm jackets, sat on the shared porch of their duplex, sipping Mexican beer and relaxing at the end of a long day. The black-and-white Border collie was curled in his usual spot next to Jasper’s feet. Above the escarpment a fiery sunset was fading to the deep indigo of twilight.
Sky closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the aromas of wood smoke, horses, and the night’s coming frost. “After I saw those bones, I knew I had to get a better look,” he said. “Now I almost wish I hadn’t.”
Jasper reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears. “Like I said, some things are best left alone.”
“It’s too late for that,” Sky said. “I saw what was left of a collar and a belt. It was a young boy down there—a boy who had a name and a story. I need to know what happened to him. So does Lauren. It’s her land now.” He turned to look straight at Jasper. “If you know the story—and something tells me you do—”
“Oh, hell,” Jasper muttered, “I reckon I won’t get any peace till I tell you. But once you hear the truth, you’re liable to wish you’d left well enough alone.”
“I’ll take that chance,” Sky said.
Jasper shifted in his chair, crumpling the empty beer can between his gnarled hands. “What happened up in that little canyon was before my time here. I didn’t know about it myself till Bull told me a few months before he died. He made me swear not to tell, but since the ones involved are all in their graves, I reckon your knowing won’t hurt none. And since you’re plannin’ to wed a Prescott, it might help you understand why Bull and Ferg hated each other like they did.”
Sky settled back to listen. He’d hoped to have Lauren with him tonight, but she was home nursing a cold. Maybe that was just as well. The old man might talk more freely without her.
“Ferg and Bull weren’t always enemies,” Jasper said. “As boys the same age, on neighboring ranches, they grew up friends. When they weren’t workin’ to help their dads, they were tearin’ around on their bikes and ponies, learnin’ to rope, and playin’ cowboys and Indians in the canyons. I reckon it was about as good a life as two boys can have—till somethin’ happened.”
Jasper sat silent for a moment, watching the dusky shadows creep across the yard. “Ferg had a younger brother—Cooper, that was his name. Cooper was a couple of years younger than Ferg. As Bull put it, he was slow in the head—I guess the way they say it now would be that he was mentally challenged.
“Cooper didn’t have friends his own age, so whenever he could, he tagged after Ferg and Bull—not that the boys liked havin’ him along. Kids that age can be pretty mean. I guess they teased him and played tricks on him. But Cooper just kept taggin’ along like a puppy, probably not smart enough to figure out they didn’t want him.”
Jasper gave Sky a sharp glance. “I’m tryin’ to tell this pretty much how Bull told it to me. One day—the boys would’ve been about eleven—they were playin’ cowboys below the canyon, shootin’ off their cap guns and throwin’ their lassos. Cooper was with ’em, and Ferg got the idea to pretend the youngster was a cattle rustler they’d caught. They used a bandanna to tie his hands behind his back—something Cooper didn’t mind. They’d done that to him before. I guess he was happy just for the attention.
“Then Ferg got a new idea. ‘Hey, let’s hang the thievin’ varmint!’ he said, and he made a loop with his rope.”
Sky felt the horror uncoiling in his gut. He wanted to stop Jasper from telling the rest, but it was too late now. He needed to hear the story, all the way to the awful end he knew was coming.
“Ferg was a big, husky kid. He put the rope around Cooper’s
neck, tossed one end over a cottonwood limb, and hauled his little brother off the ground. Then he tied the other end to the roots of an old stump. Bull said he would’ve tried to stop him, but it was just a game, and he thought, for sure, Ferg would untie the rope in time. I’m guessing Ferg thought the same thing. They weren’t bad kids. They just didn’t know how far was too far.”
Jasper shook his head and cleared the emotion from his throat. “When they realized what was happening, they tried to untie the rope from the stump, but the knot was tangled in the roots, and they didn’t have a knife to cut it. By the time they finally got him down, Cooper was dead. The boys knew they were in big trouble, so they concocted a scheme. First they dragged the body up the canyon to the cave, untied his hands, and dropped him down that hole, right where you found him.”
Sky swallowed the ache in his throat. Those little bones had a name now—Cooper Prescott, who would have been Lauren’s great-uncle.
“Since Bull hadn’t done enough to stop the hanging, and since he’d helped hide the body, he was guilty, too. The boys made a pact—cut their fingers and sealed it in blood—that they’d never tell what had really happened to Cooper. They made up a story for their folks that some Mexicans in an old car had grabbed the boy and kidnapped him. They even made up a license plate number. The authorities combed the state for those Mexicans. Course they never found ’em.”
The old man fell silent again, his hand stroking the dog.
“I’m guessing there’s more to the story,” Sky said.
“The rest is about Bull and Ferg,” Jasper said. “What happened with Cooper put an end to the friendship. For years afterward, Ferg was afraid that Bull would tell on him. He threatened Bull that if the story ever got out, he’d swear that Bull was the one who’d hanged Cooper. After all, who’d believe that Ferg would kill his own brother?”
“Bull never told, did he?”
