Texas Fierce

by Janet Dailey

  “Who did the autopsy?”

  “The doctor who serves as county coroner looked him over. But given the condition of the body—” He shook his head. “Doctor Gaines isn’t a trained pathologist, but he saw enough.”

  “Never mind. I get the idea. I hope you’ll understand if I look into this myself. I owe my father that much.” Bull stood and left.

  * * *

  After picking up a few groceries, Bull climbed into the truck and headed back to the ranch. Even with the windows down, the cab of the truck was an oven. Sweat glued his clothes to his body and trickled down his face. As he relived his visit to town, his hands gripped the steering wheel until the knuckles ached.

  Through the haze of anger, frustration, and blame, one reality stood as solid as the rocky pinnacles above the ranch. He had no friends in Blanco Springs, no allies, no credibility, and no family honor. Except for Jasper, who couldn’t be expected to stay and work for nothing, he stood alone against the avalanche of misfortune that had fallen on the Rimrock.

  Selling to the Prescotts would be the easy way out. But one look at Ferg’s smug face had been enough to convince him he couldn’t just roll over and give up. The land was his legacy—to keep and pass on to his children and grandchildren. If he wasn’t man enough to fight for it, he wasn’t man enough to live.

  He’d been proud of the name his fellow bull riders had given him. But staying on a bucking bull for eight seconds was child’s play when compared to what he was facing now.

  To save what was his, he would need the gut strength to do whatever it took. The rules of common decency would be out the window. He would have to be tough, hard, and ruthless.

  Bull.

  It was time he started living up to his name.

  CHAPTER 3

  JASPER WAS WAITING WHEN BULL PULLED INTO THE YARD. “HOW DID IT go in town?” he asked.

  “Could’ve been better.” Bull climbed down from the truck and spit his chew in the dust. “I got the hay. But with the cattle too weak to move to better pasture, it won’t last long. And the sheriff was no help. According to him, hunting for a missing illegal isn’t in his job description.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. The man hates Mexicans like a sheepherder hates coyotes.”

  “Was Carlos illegal? I never asked, and he never said.”

  “I reckon he was,” Jasper said. “We talked a little. He’s got family in Mexico—little town over the border. Rio Seco, it’s called. Unless the old man was damned lucky, I don’t suppose he’ll ever set eyes on the place again.”

  “So you didn’t find anything that might be a clue.” Bull gathered grocery bags to take in the house.

  Jasper shook his head. One hand rested on the heavy pistol strapped to his hip. “Not a trace. No blood. No tracks. No tire marks from the car or anything else. Between the dust and the wind, there ain’t much left to find.”

  “Is the house all right? Whoever came by could’ve ransacked the place.”

  “Not much left to ransack.” Jasper took the last grocery sack. “The house is fine.”

  “I should’ve asked if the icebox was working before I bought milk and butter,” Bull said.

  “The icebox makes more noise than a bulldozer, but it stays cold, most of the time. We got lights and well water. And the old TV works fine if you don’t mind fiddlin’ with the antenna.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Bull followed Jasper into the house and helped him put the groceries away. The place didn’t look like much, with its shabby wall, exposed plumbing and wiring, rough plank floors, and worn-out, secondhand furniture. But then, it never had. Maybe someday he could fix it up, make it something to be proud of. Right now that was a long way down the list.

  “We’d better unload the hay and see to the stock,” Bull said. “Then I’ll have a look around and figure out what we can fix without having to buy anything. Something tells me the lumber and hardware store won’t give us any more credit than the hay and feed place did.”

  Jasper looked hopeful. “You’re talkin’ like you mean to stay. Have you made up your mind?”

  Had he? Driving home, he’d felt so sure of himself. But now, surrounded by memories of the place where he’d grown up, he could almost hear his father’s voice.

  Can’t you do one damned thing right? You’re worthless, boy! You’ll never amount to a hill of beans!

  What if his father had been right? What if he was taking on more than he could handle?

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” he said. “But I might as well get a few things done while I’m thinking it over.”

  “I reckon that’ll have to do for now,” Jasper said. “Your old room’s ready with clean sheets on the bed. You can put your gear in there. Your dad’s old forty-four is in his desk. With all that’s been goin’ on ’round here, you’ll want to keep it handy.”

  “Thanks, Jasper. I’ll get my duffel after we’ve unloaded the hay and fed the stock. Fix yourself some lunch if you’re hungry. I had a burger in town. Did I tell you I ran into Ferg?”

  “How’d that go?”

  “About the way you’d expect. He’s the same spoiled shithead he always was.”

  “Not that hard to figure out, is he?” Jasper scratched his mustache. “You said you wanted to see where we found your dad. I can take you anytime, but we’ll have to hike from the truck. Those horses ain’t in any shape for ridin’ yet.”

  “It can wait till morning, when it’s cooler. Meanwhile, we need to get more feed to the stock and bury that dead calf. Then, if there’s enough daylight left, I’ll see what I can do about fixing those vanes on the windmill and oiling the pump. That should get us more water pressure, and—” He broke off, puzzled by the grin on Jasper’s face. “What the hell have you got to be so happy about?” he growled.

  Jasper shrugged. “Nuthin’ much. Just thinkin’ how good it is to have you home, Bull Tyler.”

  * * *

  A waning half-moon rose above the escarpment, casting the gullies and canyons into a black shadow. Coyote calls echoed across the foothills, one joining another in a nighttime chorus of yips and howls. An owl swooped on silent wings to seize a ground squirrel in its talons and flap off to its nest.

  In Blanco Springs, the houses were dark. The lamps along Main Street cast empty circles of light on the sidewalk. Even the Blue Coyote was closed, its parking lot empty, its neon sign sputtering on and off, unseen and unheard.

  Three blocks away, in a small house on a quiet side street, Ferg Prescott rolled over in the bed where he’d just had wild sex with Bonnie. “Gotta go,” he muttered, pleasantly sated.

  “Why so soon?” she whispered against his ear. “Danny won’t be home till tomorrow.”

  “You know why. You’ve got nosy neighbors, people driving by. If we get caught, it’s all over.”

  “Don’t go yet,” she pleaded. “A woman needs a little snuggling after a good time. It was good, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s always good. The best.” Ferg sighed. Sure, it was good. It was sex, wasn’t it?

  She nestled against him, her flesh warm and yielding, like risen bread dough. Ferg liked her well enough, and she knew how to give him what he wanted. But at thirty, she was overripe and past her prime—especially for a man who liked his women young, firm, and tight where it counted.

  “I saw what you were doing today,” he said. “And I didn’t like it, not one damn bit.”

  “What didn’t you like, honey? I’m not a mind reader.”

  “The way you were rubbing up to that cowboy in the café—you know, showing off your boobs, giving him free fries.”

  “Heck, I was only having fun. It didn’t mean anything. You know me, it’s just my way. Besides, you had a girl with you.”

  “Her? She’s a baby. Just a kid. And she’s my cousin.”

  “Not your real cousin. I heard what you said about her.”

  “So you heard, did you?” Ferg rolled over and leaned on his elbows, scowling down at her. �
�Well, if you want to make me happy, you can put those ears of yours to good use. I need to know more about what Bull Tyler is up to. Anything you hear about his plans and how his ranch is doing, you let me know. And if you can find out more by getting cozy with him, I’ll understand. Got it?”

  She gave him a lazy smile. “What’s in it for me, sugar?”

  “What do you think?”

  Her knowing laughter was interrupted by the roar of a huge diesel pulling up in front of the house.

  “Oh, my stars!” Bonnie sat bolt upright. “It’s Danny! He’s home early! Out the back window! I’ll toss you your clothes!”

  Cursing, Ferg scrambled over the sill and dropped to the ground. The backyard was pitch dark, the unmowed grass flattened next to the house. No surprise. He wasn’t the first man to crawl out of Bonnie’s back window, and he wouldn’t be the last. All the same, he felt like a character in a slapstick comedy—and he didn’t like it. Respect was something he craved almost as much as he craved sex.

  His boots and clothes landed next to him. While Bonnie welcomed her husband in the front room, Ferg dressed in the dark, climbed the fence, and cut through the block to where he’d left the ranch pickup.

  Still swearing, he started up the truck, turned onto Main Street, and headed out of town. Until yesterday he’d been feeling pretty good about himself. As sole heir to the Prescott Ranch, he had family prestige and all the money he wanted to spend. He had expensive clothes and boots, a flashy car, and lots of pretty girls to ride in it—even if most of them were jailbait. He’d felt like the uncrowned king of Blanco Springs—until Virgil Tyler showed up.

  Bull Tyler. The name burned like acid in his veins. Ferg had hated him for years. Now that he was back, Ferg hated him even more.

  Unlike Ferg, Bull had no family, no money, no good clothes or expensive car. But he had something that Ferg, as the son of privilege, would never have. Call it an edge—that air of determination, hunger, and raw courage that had driven him away from Blanco Springs to take up one of the most dangerous sports in the world. Comparing himself to his former childhood friend, Ferg conceded, would be like comparing a big, pampered hound to a wild wolf.

  Now the wolf had returned to claim the land Ferg’s father had wanted for years. Ferg knew about the condition of the Rimrock. He’d watched the place slide into ruin as Williston Tyler’s health and fortunes declined. Williston could have sold the land anytime, but he’d refused to the very end of his life.

  Now the Rimrock had passed to Williston’s son. Any reasonable man would sell out for a fair price and be gone. But Bull was not a reasonable man. If he made up his mind to stay, it would be as if his feet were planted in stone.

  But the Prescotts could be intractable, too. One way or another, they were determined to get the Rimrock. If Bull Tyler chose to stand against them, one thing was certain.

  He would have a war on his hands.

  * * *

  Sunrise found Bull high on the platform of the windmill, replacing the broken and missing vanes, while Jasper fed and watered the stock. He’d hoped to do the job last night, but by the time they’d buried the dead calf, the light was fading. There’d been no time to start.

  The windmill tower, which his father had built of scrap wood decades ago, was in dire need of replacement. Anchored to the ground with stakes, it quivered with every move Bull made. It was a wonder it hadn’t blown over in a heavy wind. But for now, it would have to do. Money was too scarce for a new metal one.

  Getting more water out of the ground was at the top of the list he’d made. Fixing the windmill was more urgent, even, than seeing the place where his father had died.

  As the morning light stole across the yard, he could hear the hungry bawling of the cows and calves in the pasture. Meadowlarks called from the grasslands. A golden eagle rose from a cedar clump and circled into the dawn sky. Mornings like this were the best thing he remembered about being home, the coolness of dawn, the sounds of nature, the sense of peace that was all the more precious because he knew it wouldn’t last.

  From his perch on the high platform, Bull could see the land from horizon to horizon. The yellowed pastures were clogged with thickets of mesquite that would need to be chained down and cleared away. Prairie dog colonies, with burrows that could break the leg of a cow or horse, dotted the open spaces. Pasture fences sagged between rotted and broken posts. But the most urgent problem in this hot, rainless summer was water. Without it, the ranch would never support enough cattle to make a profit.

  Digging more wells would be the ideal solution. But hiring the equipment to do the job would be expensive. Hell, everything was expensive. Restoring the ranch to working condition would take ten times what he had in the bank.

  He wasn’t ready to give up—not by a long shot. But at times like this, all that he’d taken on seemed impossible.

  Bull worked as he pondered, tightening the loose vanes and replacing the missing ones with pieces he’d found in the shed. There would still be a few gaps, but the windmill should turn faster than before. After that, all he could do was clean and lubricate the pump, replace the gaskets if he could find any spares, and hope for the best.

  By the time he got the pump running efficiently, the morning sun was already getting hot. Strapping on his father’s old .44 Special single-action Colt and taking a canteen of water, he joined Jasper in the pickup. Dust plumed behind them as they drove across the scrubby flatland to the low hills at the base of the escarpment.

  “We’ll have to hike from here,” Jasper said, pulling the truck to a stop. “The canyon where they found your dad is about a mile up. It’s not too far, but it’ll be steep going.”

  When Bull climbed out of the truck, he could see the faint tire tracks and trampled scrub where the sheriff’s men must’ve parked and the barely visible trail they would have made through the foothills. A chilly premonition crept over him. “Is the place on Rimrock property?” he asked, already knowing the answer to his question.

  Jasper nodded. “It butts right onto the line. The far side of it is Prescott land.”

  “Let’s go.” Bull slung the canteen strap over his shoulder and headed up the trail. He knew with sickening certainty where they were going. It was to a place he’d buried in his memory—a place he’d never wanted to see again.

  His index finger traced the thin scar that crossed the pad of his left thumb. Ferg Prescott had a similar scar, dating back to the summer afternoon when, years ago, the two boys had taken a blood oath never to speak of the ungodly thing they’d done or the lie they would tell to keep it secret. After that day, they’d never been friends again.

  The two men walked in silence. The shadows deepened as they passed into the escarpment, a labyrinth of lofty sandstone cliffs, towering hoodoos, and meandering steep-sided canyons. Here, sheltered from wind, the tracks of the sheriff’s team were easy to follow. But Bull didn’t need them to find his way. He knew where to go.

  The sound of trickling water drew him to an opening in the canyon at the foot of a high ledge. It was a spot of stunning beauty, the canyon floor carpeted in coral-colored sand, the sheer wall of the cliff decorated with Native American petroglyphs of horses—scores of horses, in all sizes. A spring seeped down one side of the cliff, nourishing clusters of green before it vanished into the rocks. Beyond the spring, a steeply winding trail led to the clifftop where the land sloped off toward the Prescott Ranch.

  Blocking the dark memories from his mind, Bull gazed at the broken boulders that formed a layer at the foot of the cliff. Nobody could have survived a fall onto those sharp rocks. “You found him here?”

  “Right here. Carlos and I were searching on horseback. We saw the buzzards and followed them to this place.” Jasper shook his head. “All we could do was lay a blanket over him to keep off the birds and flies while we went for the sheriff.”

  Bull forced the image to the back of his mind. “Did the sheriff find anything besides the body?” he asked. “Was my dad wearing a gun?
”

  “No gun, no watch, and his pockets were empty.”

  “So, he could’ve been killed and robbed.”

  “If he was robbed, it would’ve been up topside. There weren’t any tracks down here where we found him.”

  “Any tracks at the top?”

  “Nothin’ but rock up there. Come on. You might as well have a look. Maybe it’ll help settle things in your mind.”

  Jasper started up the steep, narrow trail. Bull followed him, knowing he had to see the place. Old memories crowded in. He steeled himself against them. If he could stay on a bucking bull for eight seconds, with his cracked ribs wrapped in duct tape, he could stand anything.

  The trail stopped at a level clearing below the clifftop. The loose scree that had fallen from above almost concealed a low cave that served as an entrance to a winter rattlesnake den. The snakes would be scattered now, but the smell of the den lingered, foul and pungent in the air. Forcing his gaze straight ahead, Bull continued climbing behind Jasper, over the rocks and up the back of the cliff.

  The clifftop, not much bigger than a large dining table, was solid sandstone. Scoured by wind and weather, it was as flat as a griddle. Footsteps would leave no trace here; and if there’d been anything else to find, the sheriff’s team of deputies would have already picked it up.

  “Nothing.” Bull mouthed a curse.

  “I told you. But you had to see it for yourself.”

  “Are they sure he was even up here? He could’ve been murdered and dumped at the bottom.”

  Jasper shook his head. “Like I say, when Carlos and I found him, there was no tracks anywhere. There’s no way to tell if he was pushed or if he was just up there wanderin’ around alone and stumbled over the edge.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something he’d do.”

  Jasper took his time answering. “Maybe not to you. But your dad changed a lot after you left. When things got bad, he liked to go off and find a spot where he could just sit and think. Sometimes he’d take a bottle with him, sometimes not.”

  By now the sun was nearing the peak of the sky. Jasper raised his hat and wiped his forehead with his bandanna. “Put this mess behind you, Bull. What’s done is done. You’ve got other things to worry about.”