by Janet Dailey
“Being sorry won’t bring Jupiter back. He had a vile temper, but he sired fine calves, and a lot of them.”
“Would it make any difference if I thanked you for saving my life?”
He gave her a stony glance, his blue eyes glinting anger in the darkness of the cab. “If you want to thank me,” he said, “you can do it by never coming on my property again.”
She saw that he’d stopped outside the gate to the Prescott Ranch. Any closer and somebody might hear the sound of the truck. She glanced back at him. He sat looking straight ahead as if she wasn’t there.
Without another word, she opened the door of the truck, dropped to the ground, and, willing herself not to look back, took off at a run toward the big, dark house. Behind her, she could hear the engine of the old pickup already fading down the road.
* * *
Three days later the written invitation came, hand-carried by a cowboy on a smart-looking bay that bore the Prescott brand. The cowboy remained in the saddle, waiting while Bull opened the envelope and read the handwritten note inside.
Mr. Tyler:
My family and I would be pleased to have you as a dinner guest tomorrow evening at 6:00. If you’d care to join us, I have a business proposition you’ll be interested in hearing.
RSVP.
Yours truly,
Hamilton Prescott
The cowboy on the horse cleared his throat. “They said to tell you that RSVP means—”
“I know what it means,” Bull said. “Tell your boss I’ll be there.”
As the man rode away, Bull showed the note to Jasper, who read it and chuckled. “Just look at that fancy little note, and that pretty handwritin’, with them little curlicues. Bet your boots ol’ Ham didn’t write that his self.”
Bull had a pretty good idea who’d written the note for Ham Prescott, but he wasn’t about to say so. “Well, whoever wrote it, I can guess what Ham wants. He’ll be pushing me to sell him the Rimrock.”
Jasper’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to show up, you know. That’d send the old bastard a message for sure.”
“Maybe.” Bull spat his chew in the dust. “But it won’t hurt to know what he’s thinking.” And if the talk gets around to it, maybe I can learn more about the way my father died. Bull didn’t voice that last thought. He knew Jasper had discouraged him from trying to blame Williston’s death on the Prescotts. What he didn’t understand was why.
“Any luck finding a replacement for Jupiter?” Jasper asked, changing the subject.
“Not yet.” Bull shook his head. After Jupiter’s death he’d weighed his alternatives—none of them good. This summer, with the troubles on the ranch and the cows in such poor condition, Jupiter had yet to be turned out for breeding. His male calves, the few that remained, were set to be castrated in the fall. If allowed to grow into bulls, they wouldn’t be old enough to breed for another year, or ideally for two years. That would mean, if the ranch had to depend on them, there’d be no calves born on the ranch for at least two years. The fee for the loan of a breeding bull, along with transport and upkeep, was prohibitive. And buying a new registered bull, like Jupiter, was out of the question.
He’d even called a couple of breeders he knew from the rodeo to check on the chance of getting an animal that was unfit for the arena due to age or injury. They’d taken his number and said they’d call him if one became available. So far, he’d heard nothing.
He’d read about artificial insemination and knew it was commonly done, especially by the big breeders. But so far he lacked the equipment and the know-how to set it up here. Susan Rutledge’s little escapade had turned into a calamity. The cows were doing better now, with a number of them showing signs of estrus, but if he didn’t find a solution soon, there would be no new calves next spring.
“I guess we could always buy a bunch of calves on the cheap and raise them here.”
“Maybe. If we had the money, even for cheap.” At times like this, Bull was sorely tempted to throw up his hands, sell out, and walk away with the cash in his pocket. Jasper, he knew, would be dead set against the idea. But with Hamilton Prescott’s invitation in hand, he couldn’t pass up the chance to learn what the man had in mind.
At a time like this, he’d be a fool not to keep all his options on the table.
* * *
Showered, freshly shaved, and dressed in clean jeans and a plaid shirt, Bull drove the pickup over the bumpy road to the Prescott Ranch. He hadn’t been inside the house since his boyhood, when he and Ferg were still friends. Things had changed a lot since then. But whatever he was facing tonight, Bull was determined not to let it rattle him. He was a man, he owned his own land and livestock, and he could hold his own with anybody, even the high-and-mighty Prescotts.
He parked the car out front, walked up the path to the front porch, and knocked on the door. He heard a rush of light, quick footsteps. The knob turned. The door swung open. He found himself face-to-face with Miss Susan Rutledge.
She was wearing a periwinkle blue sundress with thin straps and a nipped-in waist that made the most of her slender figure. The color brought out silvery glints in her gray eyes and heightened the pink in her cheeks. Her long blond hair was brushed to a sheen and caught back from her face with a blue ribbon, giving her the look of Alice in Wonderland. Innocent—except for those satiny, sensual lips that stirred forbidden questions in his mind. He had to remind himself that she was young enough to get a man arrested.
“Hello, Susan.” He didn’t smile.
Her lower lip quivered slightly. “How’s your leg? I was worried that you might not have had a tetanus shot.”
“It’s fine, and I had the shot last year.” Bull was still angry enough to turn the little brat over his knee, but since he was a guest here, it behooved him to be civil.
She stepped back, away from the door, giving him room to come in. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” Her voice was breathy, with a little nervous catch. “I’m under orders to keep you entertained until Dad and Uncle Hamilton come down.”
“What about Ferg? Won’t he be here?” He followed her into the parlor that adjoined the dining room. The long table was set with matching china and silver. The smell of roast beef drifted from the kitchen.
“Ferg just came in. He’s washing up, I think.” Her silvery eyes studied Bull’s face. “You and Ferg don’t like each other much, do you?”
He managed a wry chuckle. “What gave you that idea?”
“I’ve got eyes and ears. That day in the Burger Shack, I could tell something was going on.”
“Ferg and I go back a long way. As the old saying goes, it’s water under the bridge.” Bull studied the array of framed family photographs on the wall. His eyes came to rest on a professional portrait, taken perhaps a dozen years ago, of a younger Ham Prescott with his family. Bull recognized Ham’s wife, who’d recently passed away. Next to her was a robust, confident Ferg who, even then, had looked like—and had been—a schoolyard bully. Seated on his father’s knee was a younger boy with a shock of white-blond hair and vacant blue eyes that looked too large for his delicate face.
Bull tore his gaze away from the picture. But Susan had noticed him looking at it.
“The boy in that photo is Ferg’s little brother, Cooper,” she said. “He was kidnapped and never found. Can you imagine that?”
Bull didn’t answer.
“I was told that some Mexicans took him. He was out playing cowboys with Ferg and his friend when—” She broke off, staring in dismay at Bull’s rigid expression. “Oh, no! Was that friend you? It was, wasn’t it?”
“We don’t talk about that anymore, Susan.” Bull’s reply was curt. In the awkward silence that followed, he turned back toward the dining room. “That’s the fanciest table setting I’ve ever seen,” he said.
“Thank you.” Her smile lit her face. “I did it all myself—even though Uncle Hamilton said it wasn’t worth the bother for having a Tyler to dinner.”
Susan had spoken in
nocently, but Bull could imagine Ham Prescott’s contemptuous voice saying exactly that. This was no social occasion. Ham would nail him to the wall if he could.
“Is that how you eat in Savannah?” he asked Susan.
“Only at dinnertime.”
He shook his head. “Real cloth napkins and all those extra forks and spoons—is it some kind of test to see if I can get through the meal without making myself look like a west Texas bumpkin?”
“Silly!” She giggled. “It’s easy to figure out. You start with the ones on the outside and work your way toward the middle. If you’re not sure what to do, just watch me.” The little minx knew how to charm, but Bull wasn’t ready to forgive her. He couldn’t help wondering whether she’d told anybody about her foray into the neighbors’ pasture and the death of his registered bull. Probably not. The truth would have gotten her into a lot of trouble.
“Glad you could make it, Virgil.” Hamilton Prescott walked in from the hallway. A big-bellied, ruddy-faced man, he was dressed in a plaid Western shirt with a buffalo-horn bolo. The big silver buckle that fastened his belt gleamed in the light from the deer-antler chandelier that hung above the table.
The man who followed him into the room was tall and elegantly slim, with a pencil-fine mustache and a haughty gaze. Ferg had mentioned that Ham and Susan’s father were stepbrothers, so it wasn’t surprising that there was no family resemblance between them. Both men shook Bull’s hand. Ham’s hearty grip was almost painful in its power. Cliff Rutledge’s handshake was a gentleman’s, restrained, even cautious, as if he might be afraid of soiling his palm.
There were five places set at one end of the long table. Ham took his seat at the head, with Rutledge on his right and Ferg, who’d just walked in, on his left. Susan sat next to her father, leaving a place for Bull next to Ferg.
The Prescotts’ cook, a retired cowboy with a limp, had filled the glasses with ice and sweet tea. Now he carried a bowl of vegetable salad to the table. Susan raised her hands to signal what must’ve been a family ritual. Everyone joined hands around the table while she murmured a brief grace. The moment was awkward—Bull holding hands with Ferg on his right and reaching across the table to clasp Susan’s soft, slim fingers in his callus-roughened palm. At least the contact was short, ending in a sigh of relief around the table.
They made polite small talk through the salad and the main course of overcooked roast beef, carrots and potatoes—the weather, the price of beef, and the bird hunting Ham and Rutledge had done on the ranch. Bull followed Susan’s example and managed to get through the meal without any breaches in etiquette. Her eyes twinkled with secret amusement when he reached for the wrong utensil, then glanced at her and corrected himself. Why did the little scamp have to be so young, and so damned sure of her effect on him?
After a dessert of leathery apple pie, the cook cleared away the dishes and brought in a half-filled crystal decanter and some glasses. Susan was excused, although Bull had the feeling she’d like to stay. Ferg, too, wandered off as if he had better things to do. Bull was left alone at the table with the two older men.
He braced himself for whatever was to come next.
Ham poured three fingers of liquor into each glass. “Drink up,” he said. “Fine peach brandy all the way from Georgia. Nothing better.”
Bull took a sip from his glass, feeling the sweet burn all the way down his throat. He’d drunk his share of beer and whiskey, but this was his first taste of brandy. He liked it.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” Ham said. “I stopped by to pay my respects, but your man didn’t have much to say to me.”
“No, he wouldn’t. I’ve been hoping to find out more about the way my father died. I don’t suppose you can give me any satisfaction.”
“I wish I could. All I know is what the sheriff concluded—that it was an accidental fall. I’m guessing Williston was drunk and just wandered off that ledge.” Ham swirled the brandy in his glass and took a swallow. “Sorry, I know that must pain you.”
“It does,” Bull said. “But I know you didn’t invite me here to talk about my father.”
Ham’s smile was cold. “No, I didn’t. I know Williston left the Rimrock in a pretty sorry state—the buildings and fences broken down, the equipment and cattle sold off . . .” He took another sip of his brandy. “You can’t be having an easy time of it.”
“I’m doing all right,” Bull lied.
“So what are your plans for the place?”
Bull shrugged. “Do what I can, when I can. It’s all going to take time. But I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“Hard work isn’t enough if you don’t have money. You know I made your father several offers to buy the Rimrock.”
“And he turned them all down. So will I. The Rimrock isn’t for sale.”
Ham exchanged glances with Rutledge, who’d been listening in silence. “I understand that, Virgil. That’s why Cliff and I are prepared to make you an offer that would resolve everything, for all of us.”
“I’m listening.” Bull willed his expression to remain uninterested. But he could feel the tightening, like a coiled spring in his gut.
Ham leaned closer. “What we’re proposing is a three-way partnership. You contribute the land. Cliff and I contribute the money to transform the Rimrock into a first-rate working ranch—everything new, even the house. You’d manage the ranch for a good salary. At the end of the season we’d split the profits.”
Stunned, Bull stared at the two men. What Ham was proposing sounded almost too good to be true—all the money he needed to rebuild the ranch, and enough to do well on after that. And he’d still be a one-third owner.
“Think about it, Virgil.” Rutledge spoke for the first time. “It would be a win for all three of us.”
“What about Ferg?” Bull asked.
“Ferg’s the heir to this ranch. But he wouldn’t be involved in the partnership,” Ham said. “Neither would Susan, for that matter. It would just be the three of us. We’d set up a trust with the partners as heirs. So what do you say?”
“If it’s a yes, I can have my lawyers start the paperwork tomorrow,” Rutledge said. “We could have the cash flowing and the work started within a couple of weeks.”
Bull emptied his glass. “It’s a lot to think about. I’ll need some time.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed Ham’s face. “Take all the time you need,” he said. “For now, at least, the offer stands. Come to me if you have any questions.”
“I’ll do that.” Bull pushed away from the table and rose from his chair. “Thanks for dinner. Give me a few days to mull this over. I’ll get back to you.”
The other two men had risen also. Ham Prescott gave Bull another crushing handshake. Cliff Rutledge’s handshake was as coldly reticent as when they’d met earlier that evening. It meant nothing, Bull told himself. It was just part of Rutledge’s manner.
All the same, Bull felt a prickle of unease as he walked out the front door and closed it behind him.
Night had fallen, the risen moon casting the covered porch into deep shadow. Something stirred in the wicker swing. Bull’s reflexes jumped, then relaxed as he realized it was Susan.
She rose, smoothing out her skirt. “How did it go?” she asked in a whisper.
“Fine. They made me an offer. I’m thinking it over.” He started down the steps, headed for his truck. She moved to his side, matching her steps to his.
“Did you tell them about the other night, and having to shoot your bull?”
“Nope. Your secret is safe.” He reached the truck and fished his keys out of his hip pocket. Susan made no move to go back to the porch.
“My dad and I are leaving tomorrow,” she said. “We’re driving back to Georgia.”
“Well, have a good trip. Texas will be a far less interesting place without you.” Bull opened the door of the truck.
She touched his arm. “Look at me!”
He turned toward her. She caught the back
of his neck with one hand, stretched on tiptoes, and kissed him firmly on the mouth. Her lips were petal soft and tasted lightly of apple pie. They molded to his in a way that sent a jolt of arousal through his body.
Before Bull could gather his wits, she released him. The pupils of her silver eyes were dark wells in the moonlight. Her lips were moist from their kiss.
“I’ll be back, Bull Tyler!” she said. “And the next time I kiss you, I want that awful tobacco taste gone so I can do it right!”
Leaving him drop-jawed, she spun away, dashed up the steps, and disappeared into the house.
CHAPTER 6
BULL DROVE THE TRUCK HOME AT A CRAWL, TAKING HIS TIME TO sort out what he’d heard tonight. His lips burned with the memory of Susan’s impulsive kiss. But this wasn’t the time to dwell on that. He needed a clear head to think about Ham Prescott’s business proposal.
He’d been braced against any offer to buy the Rimrock. But the idea of a partnership had come out of nowhere, catching him off-guard. On first impression, it sounded like a good idea—all the money he needed to build up the ranch, a new house, a regular salary, and a share of the profits. And he’d still be part owner, with two wealthy partners to back him.
So why was his gut warning him that something wasn’t right?
Jasper was waiting on the porch when Bull drove up to the house. When he heard about Ham Prescott’s offer, he shook his head. “I can’t help rememberin’ what your dad thought of the Prescotts. You know what he always said.”
“I know. Trust a skunk before a rattlesnake, and a rattlesnake before a Prescott.”
“That wasn’t just idle talk,” Jasper said. “Ham Prescott would swindle his own mother if it got him something he wanted. Whatever he’s offerin’, no matter how good it sounds, there’s got to be a catch. And I’d caution you not to make a move before you figure out what it is.”
“Good advice.” Bull yawned. It had been a long, hard day, and the urge to drift into sleep, with Susan’s kiss still smoldering on his lips, was impossible to resist. “I’ll give it more thought in the morning, when my head is clear.”
