The Tribute

by Beth Williamson

Brett couldn’t believe his awful luck. After arranging to purchase two hundred head of cattle of the mixed Hereford and Longhorn breeds, Casey Beckett gave him the bad news.

  “I don’t have a bull to go with the cows. Sorry, Brett, but I sold my second bull last fall for some extra money. I can’t sell Blue or I’d have no stud come next spring.” The older rancher’s blue eyes reflected his predicament. He leaned back in the creaky leather chair and regarded Brett across the wooden desk littered with papers and pipe tobacco. He’d arrived at the Circle B to close the deal, and hadn’t counted on Casey not having a bull to sell.

  A friend of Brett’s father, Casey had the second biggest spread in the county. A long, lanky man with jet black hair, he’d spent a great deal of time fighting the elements and ruthless cattlemen trying to claim his land. Casey had hard-won respect and could be counted on for making an honest deal. That was why Brett decided to buy his small herd from him. Brett refused to even consider buying a herd from his father, because he’d take a loss on the sale, no ifs, ands or buts. Brett didn’t want his father to have any influence on the financial well-being of the Square One.

  He wanted to do it on his own, which meant he needed a bull in the worst way. A herd of cows and steer without a bull to repopulate meant it wouldn’t grow and prosper. The calves were the real money for a rancher.

  “Do you know of anyone hereabouts who might have one to sell? Pa’s got two, but old Brutus can’t hardly mount the cows anymore so he needs his young stud, too.” Brett gritted his teeth because he knew what the answer would be.

  Casey folded his hands together on the desk. “Only one I know of with more than one bull is King Dawson.”

  Oh, yeah, the news wasn’t getting any better.

  “That’s gonna be a tough buy. King hasn’t exactly been a close friend, and he came by the ranch to threaten me a couple weeks ago.” Brett ran his hand down his face. “Shit.”

  “Wish I could tell you better news, but the cattle you’re getting from the Circle B is prime stock. Once you get the bull, you should have no trouble growing that herd quick,” Casey offered. Not that it would help matters much.

  “I know and I appreciate your honest dealings.” Brett stood and shook Casey’s hand. “Sooner started, sooner finished, right? I’d best get on over to the kingdom and see if I can convince his majesty to sell me a bull.”

  Casey laughed. “I never knew you were funny, Brett.”

  That’s odd. Neither did Brett, yet Casey was the third person to tell him he was funny. His wit would likely slice a rock in two. Razor sharp and dry as a bone.

  ———

  Brett tried for days to find another rancher to sell him a bull. No one had anything to offer except a suggestion. King Dawson.

  Rumor had it King had at least four bulls, all prime stock too. Casey wasn’t the last person to tell him that either. He’d heard it from six different people he’d contacted. Brett didn’t relish the thought of doing business with King. Sometimes a fella had to swallow his pride and do what needed to be done. Brett had the will to do just that.

  Time to beard the lion.

  Brett asked Kincaid to come with him to King’s ranch. Leaving Mason in charge felt a little odd, but he did it anyway. The boy looked as if his chest couldn’t puff out any higher. Pride did that to a man, no matter what age he was.

  “We’ll be back shortly so just stay busy cleaning the barn until then,” Brett instructed.

  He and Kincaid turned their horses toward King’s property.

  “Yessir. You can count on me.” Mason’s voice echoed behind them as they galloped away into the afternoon heat. The air had been particularly moist that week, enough that you could almost scoop up a cupful and drink it. Sweat trickled down Brett’s hairline and into his shirt. A cool bath would be in order that evening. Preferably with Alex.

  Since their encounters, hell, their sweet, hot sex, he’d done nothing but have erotic dreams about her. Shit, half the time he woke up with a dick hard enough to chop wood. Kincaid and Mason were too polite to mention it, but it was no secret. Brett was horny and there wasn’t anything he could do about it until he could be with Alex again. Hopefully he could make that happen soon.

  He needed to stop thinking about her and concentrate on his biggest problem—acquiring a bull. Brett felt apprehensive about facing King since his entire herd depended on that bull. If King wouldn’t sell him one, then he’d have to travel around to find one, easier said than done. Brett would only buy from someone with good stock, a good reputation, and who would guarantee the bull’s virility.

  A tall order, but Brett had learned how to be a savvy businessman from the best, his father. No way he’d let anyone take advantage of him in any kind of shady deal. That went double for King.

  As they rode into the yard, a black dog ran out and barked at the horses. His roan side-stepped the yapping mutt, then tried to kick it.

  “Mighty smart horse you got there, Malloy,” Kincaid said with a smile in his voice.

  “Git on, dog. Git!” The dog kept right on barking regardless of the horse’s sharp hooves or Brett’s commands. Stupid, stubborn mutt.

  King always had a backup plan. Life could kick you in the balls at any time, so King was always prepared. The situation with Brett Malloy and his ranch was just such a reason for a backup plan. He didn’t want Malloy anywhere near his ranch, therefore he needed to get rid of him. King had planned on buying Martin’s ranch, but since he’d died, it hadn’t been a priority. Since Malloy claimed it, the situation had changed drastically.

  The fact he hung around Alexandra, well that was the final nail in his coffin. King sat at his polished mahogany desk in his study at the Dawson ranch, gazing at the weaselly looking idiot in front of him.

  “So, tell me again what happened between you and your father, Parker?”

  With lanky hair flopped over his brow, at least two days’ worth of stubble covered his face, and a nose that probably could have used a handkerchief, Parker Samson had all the signs of being a drunk. It had been a lucky break the investigator King hired had even found the man.

  The rock he was under had been buried deep, but he’d been found nonetheless. Now King had an ace in his pocket that would get rid of Malloy.

  “You understand your father gave his ranch to someone else? A ranch that rightfully belongs to you?”

  “Now why did he go do that?”

  “My guess is he thought you were dead. It had been at least twenty years since you’d spoken to your father.”

  Parker shrugged and wiped his nose with one grimy hand. “He don’t want me around anymore.”

  “Is that the truth?” King already knew it wasn’t but the little weasel nodded. Old Martin had confessed a lot after a bottle of cheap whiskey, and King had been there to hear it. Not only was Parker a drunk and a weasel, but also a liar—the perfect weapon. “Excellent. Well, I thought maybe we’d take a ride out and visit the ranch. I have two new friends I want Malloy to meet.”

  Standing in the corner of the room, comfortable in the shadows, stood another one of King’s backup plans. The gleam of the man’s pistols was the only indication anyone even stood there. He stepped forward into the lamplight.

  “Ready to take a ride, Ford?”

  The gunslinger’s expression didn’t change, but he walked toward the door, a determined jingle in his step. King wasn’t a superstitious man, but he could swear the spurs sounded like funeral bells tolling. If Brett Malloy was smart, they wouldn’t be ringing for him.

  The dog barking outside made King smile. Perhaps they wouldn’t need to take a ride after all.

  King Dawson’s house could be considered a mansion by anyone’s standard. A huge, sprawling two-story structure with columns in the front, at least twenty glass windows, a porch and a veranda. It had fifteen rooms, including an enormous kitchen for which he’d hired a chef all the way from Paris to cook for him.

  Rumor had it he didn’t like the Parisian food, and he’
d threatened the chef if he didn’t start making steak and potatoes. One could dress up a pig, but it was still a pig.

  As Brett and Kincaid approached the house, Brett could feel the eyes of King’s men watching them. He couldn’t see anyone, but the creeping fingers up his back and the hackles standing at attention told him they were there. The damn dog just kept barking.

  As they dismounted, Kincaid whistled low under his breath. “A palace for the king?”

  “Yeah, and we’re in his kingdom so let’s step lightly.”

  “Understood.”

  As they walked up the stone steps to the house, the door flew open. King stood there with a huge self-satisfied grin on his face.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my friendly neighbor and his trained dog. How did you put it, Malloy? Get the hell off my land.”

  Brett contemplated what he should do next when a man walked from the shadows beside the house. A tall, reed-thin fellow with silvery blond hair and nearly colorless eyes. He wore a black flat-brimmed hat, brown shirt and pants. What really caught Brett’s attention were the guns, slung low on the man’s narrow hips. They weren’t the standard Colt peacemakers. He figured they were custom-made, big enough they looked more like cannons.

  Kincaid stiffened next to him which answered Brett’s question. King had hired himself a gunslinger.

  “Got potatoes in your ears, Malloy. I said git.”

  “I came to do some business, King. Not harass you.”

  King leaned against the doorjamb. “Business? Now what kind of business do you have with me?”

  “I need to buy a bull.” Might as well get that out in the open. “Casey tells me you’ve got four. I’ll give you a fair price for one.”

  King probably couldn’t hear Brett over his own laughter. “You want to buy a bull from me? Little old me?”

  As if little could ever be ascribed to the enormous King Dawson.

  “That would be the purpose of the visit.”

  “Well, your time was wasted. Unless you have about two thousand dollars to give me, the answer is no.” The bastard looked so smug, Brett’s hand curled into a fist.

  Two thousand dollars for a bull? Brett should have known King would be an ass, but asking ten times the price for a bull was beyond even King’s machinations.

  “Has it got a gold dick, King?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I was wondering if the bull had a gold dick, otherwise I can’t see spending that kind of money on an animal.”

  Kincaid lightly touched his arm. Brett’s temper had been dormant for so long. Now it appeared it was going to jump out at every spook in his way.

  “No, he’s not the one around here with a gold dick.” King smirked. “Now like I told you, if you ain’t got two grand, we ain’t doing business.”

  He glanced at the gunslinger poised next to the porch swing. “Ford here can escort you to your property. Can’t you, Ford?”

  The gunslinger nodded.

  “I think I can find my way home.” Brett kept his gaze on the man with the guns. “Thanks anyway.”

  Brett hated being bested, almost as much as he hated going to see King to ask him for something. It was bad enough to rely on his family for certain things, but to have to deal with a pompous ass like King was hard. Really hard.

  “Oh, there’s someone I’d like you to meet, Malloy.” King gestured to the open door and a stooped, dark-haired man emerged dressed in filthy clothes. He looked like a drunk King had uncovered in an alley somewhere.

  “Parker Samson, say hello to Brett Malloy.” King gestured toward Brett. “Malloy, meet Parker Samson, old Martin’s surviving son.”

  Son? This was old Martin’s son?

  Holy shit.

  King had just notched up the tension level about a hundredfold. Brett inclined his head toward the stranger, wondering if he really was Martin’s son, hoping King couldn’t prove it.

  “How do I know that’s Martin’s son? You could’ve picked up anybody off the streets of Cheyenne and called him whatever you want.”

  Brett’s heart pounded at the implications of a living, breathing heir to the Square One. God help him if he lost it.

  “He’s come for a visit.” King ignored Brett’s question. “We’ll probably stop on by the old homestead so he can talk about the old days.” He smiled like a wolf, all fangs and snarl. “Won’t that be nice and cozy?”

  “Not especially.” Brett wondered what the hell King was up to and what would happen next. Obviously he was busy trying to get Brett off his ranch. Why King would do that Brett didn’t know.

  “Too bad.” King put his hands on his hips. “You’re leaving, right? You sure Ford can’t, ah, help you home?”

  The implication was plain enough, but Brett didn’t take the bait. Time to get his ass out of there. Brett tipped his hat at the three men, then backed down the stairs. He decided not to turn around since the gunslinger could easily put a bullet in his back in seconds.

  “I’d say stop on by anytime, but that would be a lie,” King called. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you real soon anyway.”

  Brett and Kincaid mounted their horses. They looked at each other and broke into a gallop, riding as fast and as hard as they could, knowing no matter how fast they rode, they couldn’t outrun a bullet. King must have been in a generous mood because he didn’t have his hired gun shoot them down like dogs.

  The ride back to the Square One allowed Brett time to think about what he needed to do to get himself a bull. Unfortunately a specific plan eluded him and frustrated him even more. Brett liked to have a plan, in fact his sanity depended on him having a plan. The added complication of Parker Samson just made matters worse.

  Of course his sanity was currently threatened by his obsession with Alex Brighton. Even now, she lurked in the corner of his mind. He swore he could still taste her on his tongue, a sweet, sexy flavor unique to her.

  “That wasn’t too smart, Malloy,” Kincaid said when the Square One came into view.

  “What do you mean?”

  Kincaid snorted. “Baiting that man like you did. He might be a complete piece of shit, but he hired the coldest and most ruthless gun in Wyoming.”

  “You know Ford?”

  “I know Ford. We’ve crossed paths a few times, fortunately we’ve never crossed guns. The man is fast.”

  Brett knew Kincaid’s opinion of the gunslinger was accurate. The man had an air of deadly force around him.

  “So what’s your suggestion? It seems to me King hired Ford because I hired you. For different reasons of course.”

  “I know.” Kincaid looked out at the horizon, his gaze almost regretful. “Sometimes a body makes choices in life they later regret. What’s done is done. I expect my reputation will follow me to my grave, likely dig it for me. Some hotheaded kid who wants to prove he can take down a gunslinger.”

  Brett hoped it wouldn’t happen, but Kincaid’s words had the ring of truth to them. It happened quite a bit to men who made their living using their guns.

  “What I could suggest is that you get in touch with someone in Cheyenne,” Kincaid continued.

  “You mean Trevor?” Saying his name was more difficult than Brett had anticipated.

  “Maybe, but that wasn’t who I thought of. I’ve got a few friends.”

  “Really?”

  Kincaid’s mouth kicked up into a small grin. “I have worked for some reputable people, people with ranches and cattle.”

  Brett hadn’t even considered the possibility, which was a good one. “I really appreciate the help. We can head into town and wire your friends.”

  By the time they made it into town, Brett regretted the impulse. His mind was full of images of Alex and it distracted him. When they dismounted in front of the post office, which also served as the telegraph office, his gaze strayed south. Toward her.

  “Why don’t you go visit the doc? You’re supposed to get your stitches out tomorrow, right?” Kincaid tied his horse to the hitchi
ng post. “One day isn’t going to make much of a difference.”

  Like a siren’s song, she beckoned him. The chance to see, touch, feel her overwhelmed him, nearly made him blind. The loss of control frustrated him and he clenched his fists against it. He needed her to ground him, make him feel alive. He needed to marry her.

  “Brett?”

  “What?” he snapped.

  “You’re standing there like a fence post. You coming with me or going to see her?” Kincaid’s hands bracketed his hips, and in the depths of his eyes, Brett saw a spark of jealousy.

  Kincaid envied Brett’s relationship with Alex, such as it was, more like an uncontrollable mutual lust. Even now, Brett’s buttons felt the pressure of his burgeoning erection.

  “I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”

  With a snort, Kincaid shook his head and walked into the post office, leaving Brett with his thoughts and impulses. He followed the latter and started toward Alex’s house. As he walked, Brett picked up speed until he practically ran up the steps.

  How the hell did he get to the point where he ran to a woman?

  He almost knocked Slim down as he came out the door. In fact, he wrenched his own shoulder trying not to knock the older man to the floor.

  “Whoa there, Brett. Where’s the fire?”

  “Sorry, Slim. I wanted to catch Alex, I mean Doctor Brighton before she finished up for the day.”

  Oh, now that was a lie and a half.

  One silver eyebrow rose. “That so? Well, she’s inside taking care of Betty Freeman’s little girl.”

  Damn.

  Brett tipped his hat to Slim and went inside to the waiting room. He sat heavily on a chair and ran his hands through his hair. Deep breaths helped him snag control back from the brink of insanity. That’s what it felt like anyway. Insanity.

  “Brett?”

  Alex’s voice washed over him and the control he’d tried so hard to grab slipped away again. His head snapped up and he found her standing in the doorway alone.

  “Is anyone here with you?”

  “No. Betty and Mary just left. I—”

  He was on her in seconds. Mouths fused, hot and sweet. Brett cupped her face in his hands and kissed her over and over. The incredible rush of tasting her swept through his body, leaving behind a wake of desire, confusion and desperation.