Texas Fierce

by Janet Dailey

  “Bájense—en la tierra!” He gave up on Spanish. “Down on the ground, damn you! Now!” As the men prostrated themselves in the gravel, Bull tossed the ropes to Carlos’s sons. “Tie their hands and feet,” he ordered. “Do it!”

  Still pretending to be frightened, the young men obeyed. Only when the two men were securely trussed hand and foot did their demeanor change. Standing over them, Raul spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. Bull caught the gist of what he was saying—that he and his brother were the sons of the old man they’d killed. Now the two cabrones were going to pay.

  Bull’s part was done. He kept his gun trained on the two bound men, but their fate was in the hands of Carlos’s sons. Bull had resolved not to interfere. Even so, he had to stifle a gasp when the young Mexicans took the remaining rope, passed it around and between the bound ankles of the two men, then lashed it securely to the trailer hitch on the back of the Buick.

  Still facedown on the ground, the men were blubbering and pleading now, tears streaking their dusty faces as they begged for their lives. Ignoring them except for a pause to check the ropes, the two young men climbed into the front seat. Raul, the driver, started the big car, switched on the headlights, and gunned the powerful V8 engine. The car roared out of the gravel pit and shot across the rocky, brush-strewn flatland.

  Bull could hear the men screaming as he turned and started back to his pickup. By the time he reached it, the screams had stopped. As he stood by the truck and watched the red taillights grow faint with distance, the truth struck him.

  Carlos’s sons weren’t coming back. They had all they’d come for—their revenge and their father’s beloved car. Joaquin and Raul were headed straight for Mexico.

  Bull couldn’t help wondering if they had money for gas and food, or even if they knew the way. Never mind, he could only wish them well and hope they would reach Rio Seco, covered with honor and driving the most beautiful car in town. He would never know for sure. His business in Rio Seco was done.

  The Buick had reached the road. Bull saw the taillights stop briefly, long enough, most likely, for somebody to untie the rope from the trailer hitch. Then the old Buick moved on and vanished into the night.

  Much as he wanted to be out of that place, Bull knew he couldn’t leave until he’d checked on the two men. Hopefully they were dead. If they weren’t, they damned well ought to be.

  He started the truck and drove back to the spot where he’d seen the Buick stop. In the play of the headlights, he could see a pair of bulky shapes in the runoff ditch next to the road. Taking his pistol, he climbed out of the truck.

  The two murderers were unconscious but still breathing. Cocking the pistol, Bull stood over them, legs straddling the ditch. “For Carlos,” he muttered, and pulled the trigger twice.

  Afterward he took a moment to find the brass casings, then he got back in his truck, turned around, and drove back toward the ranch. Eventually the bodies would be found and reported. But the sheriff would do nothing. Mexicans weren’t in his job description.

  In the past, Bull had wondered how it would feel to kill a man. Now he knew. It was just business—nasty, dirty business. He could do it again if he had to. But he wasn’t looking forward to the next time.

  The ranch was getting close. Jasper would be waiting to hear the whole story of what had happened. But Bull wasn’t ready to tell it. He needed time to settle his nerves. It was barely ten o’clock. On a Saturday night, the Burger Shack stayed open until eleven. He could use the pay phone outside to call Jasper and let him know he was all right.

  He wasn’t hungry, but he could use a cold Bud Light. If Bonnie was working, she’d get him one without asking for ID.

  As he turned onto the highway, the realization struck like a lightbulb going on. Bull shook his head in disbelief. In the turmoil of the day he’d forgotten that this was his birthday. He had just turned twenty-one.

  Reeling between exhaustion and euphoria, he drove into town, parked at the Burger Shack, and gave Jasper a quick call from the pay phone before going inside. Bonnie was working. She gave him a smile and a wink as he walked in and took a booth.

  She brought him the beer and a glass without being asked. He wondered if he should tell her he’d just come of age, then decided against it. Birthdays were a kid thing, and he wasn’t a kid anymore.

  He sipped the beer and thought about his future plans. It would be reckless to leave his cows with the Prescott herd much longer. In the next few days he would take Jasper and separate his stock from the others. If Prescott’s men showed up, the broken fence would give him a good excuse for being there. When the fence was fixed and his cattle safely moved, he would face Ham Prescott and tell the old bastard to take his partnership offer to hell.

  Within a few weeks, he should know which cows weren’t pregnant. With luck, they could be sold off for enough money to feed the others through the winter. If he could keep the ranch solvent till next spring’s grass sprouted, hopefully the worst times would be over.

  “Hey, sugar.” Bonnie’s sexy voice broke into his thoughts. “You look like you’ve had a rough day. Want to talk about it?”

  Bull glanced around the restaurant and realized that everyone else had gone. He and Bonnie were alone.

  She slid into the booth next to him, smelling of jasmine and bacon grease. Her finger brushed a stray lock of hair back from his face. It would be tempting to unload his concerns into her sympathetic ear. But he remembered what Jasper had said about playing his cards close to his vest. “Nothin’ much to talk about,” he said. “I’m just tuckered out, that’s all.”

  “I know a cure for that.” She ran a fingertip down his cheek. “Danny’s in Albuquerque, and I get off in fifteen minutes. You can wait around if you want.”

  He hesitated, knowing it wasn’t a good idea. But what the hell, he’d just killed two men, and it was his birthday.

  “I’ll wait,” he said.

  CHAPTER 7

  Summer 1972, two years later . . .

  THE BARKING DOGS WOKE BULL IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. HE flung himself out of bed, yanked on his pants, and reached for the loaded .44 he kept next to his pillow. From the yard outside, drunken whoops and laughter mingled with the roar of a heavy-duty truck engine. Bull cursed. He could guess what was happening, and he knew he’d be too late to stop it.

  Barefoot, he charged out onto the porch to see the wooden windmill tower come crashing down, pulled by a rope tied to the rear of a black pickup. Through the clouds of dust that rose around the wreckage, he could make out a half dozen cowhands in the back. The driver gunned the engine. The truck roared away, amid hoots and catcalls, leaving the rope behind.

  Bull fired a couple of shots at the rear tires. But between the dust and darkness, his aim was no more than a guess. Even if he hit his target, the truck wouldn’t stop. And shooting at the men would only escalate the guerrilla war that the Prescotts had been waging against him for the past two years. It might even put his own hired hands in danger.

  No question, the bastards were acting on Ham Prescott’s orders. If pressed, Ham would deny any knowledge of the vandalism or dismiss it as a boyish prank. But Bull knew the score—and he knew that Ham would do anything to drive him out and get his hands on the Rimrock.

  The windmill would need fixing at once. The well beneath it was the only reliable source of water on the ranch. In this hot, dry summer, even a day without water would be hard on both animals and men. Two days could be fatal for the smaller spring calves.

  The commotion had awakened the two young cowboys who lived in the bunkhouse. They stumbled out the door, yawning and cussing. Bull hollered at them to get dressed and come help. They were good kids, but they were just out of high school, and they had a lot to learn. Bull did his best to teach them, though his patience sometimes had a short fuse.

  What he wouldn’t give for Jasper’s calm wisdom at a time like this. But Jasper had gone home to the hill country two weeks ago, with plans to marry Sally, his pretty, patient
sweetheart. Bull had wished him well and given him the old pickup, with new tires and an overhaul, in lieu of the back pay he was owed. These days Bull was driving a newer-model red Ford Ranger he’d bought from a man in town.

  The dogs—big, shaggy mutts—trotted up onto the porch, panting and wagging their tails. Bull had bought them for five dollars each from a farmer whose bitch had had a litter of pups. They were too friendly to make serious watchdogs, but they barked when strangers came around, and they were learning to be good cattle herders.

  Bull spat over the porch rail, cursed, and went back inside to put on his boots and make some coffee for the boys. At least there was plenty of moonlight. If the pump rod had only come loose and wasn’t broken, and everything else was either intact or fixable, they could have the windmill up and working in time for morning chores. But if it needed parts, he might have to drive into Lubbock to get them. Just one more damned emergency in a season that was already draining his resources.

  First chance he got, he would drive into town and buy enough concrete mix to anchor the legs of the tower into the ground, something his father had never done. Bull could only wish he’d thought of doing it sooner. For that matter, it would make sense to replace the old wooden tower with a sturdy metal one. The cost would be more than he could spare, but it would be better than pouring more money into something that was close to falling apart.

  In this country, especially in the third year of a searing drought, everything was about water. And the Rimrock never seemed to have enough. By breeding the heifer offspring of the Prescott bull with his own yearling bulls, he had doubled the size of his herd in the past two years. But without adequate water, the land wouldn’t support any more animals. His dream of a prosperous ranch, running upward of a thousand head, was just that—a dream.

  He’d done his best with what he had. In the petroglyph canyon where his father had died, he’d dug out a tank at the bottom of the trickling spring and lined it to make a pool. But there wasn’t enough water for more than a few cattle at a time, and it was too far from good pasture to be of much use.

  The only way to afford a second well on the property would be to borrow the money from the bank to pay a drilling contractor. Bull didn’t trust banks any more than his father had—and in these dry times, there was no guarantee that a new well would strike ground water. Somehow, there had to be another way to get what he needed.

  The Prescotts had no such problem. They had three deep wells on their ranch, as well as a fair-sized stream, fed by a gushing spring in the depths of the escarpment.

  But right now, Bull had more urgent concerns than his neighbors. If he didn’t get the windmill up and running, there’d be no water tomorrow.

  By the time the coffee was ready, the boys had wandered up to join Bull on the porch. Still yawning and swearing, they drank the coffee and ate the stale doughnuts left over from last week’s run to town. Then they went to work.

  By the next morning the tower was up, the blades turning sluggishly and the pump barely working. Given the makeshift repairs, mostly made with baling wire and duct tape, Bull knew that time was running out to replace it.

  At the hardware store, he ordered a complete set of parts to be delivered to the ranch by truck in two days. Putting it together with the help of the young cowboys would be a lot of work, and the transition from the old windmill to the new one would have to be done fast. But the savings would amount to hundreds of dollars over having it installed.

  He signed the order, grateful that in the past two years he’d managed to pay off Williston’s debts and establish decent credit. When the next bill came due, he’d probably have to sell off a couple of steers to pay it, but that couldn’t be helped.

  With that errand done, he picked up a few groceries and was about to head back to the ranch when he realized it was almost noon. He’d missed breakfast, and so had the boys. A couple of extra-large pizzas, which they’d doubtless wolf down in one sitting, would be a good idea.

  He drove to the Burger Shack. Bonnie’s old Studebaker was parked out back, which meant she was working. That would be all right. He and Bonnie had enjoyed a few romps, but when he’d discovered he was sharing her with Ferg, he’d backed off. True to her nature, she was still friendly and probably open to a rematch, but Bull had gone down that road for the last time. He’d never met her husband, but he didn’t envy the man.

  Ferg’s red Thunderbird convertible was parked in the handicapped space. Bull resisted the temptation to gouge the shiny red paint with his key. He had no doubt Ferg was involved in wrecking his windmill, but keying his car, or slashing his tires, would be too much like a teenage prank. As Jasper might have said, revenge was best served cold. When the time was right, he would find a way. For now, he would at least have the satisfaction of looking Ferg in the eye, as if nothing had happened, and seeing him squirm.

  Whistling under his breath, he walked through the door and up to the counter. Bonnie gave him her usual smile and wink, but as she took his order, her eyes flickered toward the corner booth. Without turning around, Bull knew that Ferg was there. He ordered a fountain Coke for himself, paid for everything, and took his soda from Bonnie. At last, taking his time, he turned around . . . and almost dropped his drink.

  Ferg was leaning back in the booth, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Seated next to him, his arm around her shoulders, was the most stunning young woman Bull had ever seen.

  His eyes took her in—a mane of silky blond hair that framed her face in soft waves; cushiony pink lips; silvery eyes, their expression mysterious and unreadable.

  As the shock wore off, Bull realized he was staring at Susan Rutledge.

  Her mouth widened in a smile that left her beautiful eyes unchanged. “Why it’s Bull Tyler!” she exclaimed. “Come sit down with us. How have you been?”

  “About the same,” Bull answered. “Ranching takes up most of my time.”

  Ferg’s arm tightened possessively around her. He glared at Bull, as if daring him to say anything about last night.

  Susan gave Ferg a playful glance. She was wearing a black tank top that bared her creamy throat and shoulders and showed off her womanly figure. The two of them were drinking chocolate shakes. She cradled her tall glass between her manicured hands. Bull was remembering those hands from before, the nails bitten to the quick, when he noticed something else—something that made him feel as if his heart had dropped into the pit of his stomach.

  On the third finger of her left hand, Susan was wearing a ring with an impressive-looking diamond.

  “How do you like it?” Noticing his interest, she held out her hand, tilting it to let the diamond catch the light. “It belonged to Ferg’s mother. We just got engaged yesterday.”

  “Congratulations.” Bull had to force the word. “I guess, since you’re just stepcousins, that makes it all right.”

  “Hell, this is Texas. It’d be all right even if we weren’t,” Ferg muttered, then laughed at his own joke.

  “When’s the big day?” Bull’s Coke tasted like acid in his mouth. “Not anytime soon,” Susan said. “I want to go to college for at least a year. After that, we’ll see.”

  “I just wanted to get my brand on this filly before I turn ’er loose to run with the herd,” Ferg said.

  Bull stifled a groan. He couldn’t help wondering what Bonnie thought about Ferg’s engagement. But then, knowing Bonnie, it probably wouldn’t make much difference.

  “Bull, honey, your pizzas are done,” Bonnie called from behind the counter.

  Bull slid out of the booth, glad to be away from the two lovebirds—although they didn’t seem all that lovey. Ferg was acting like he’d just bought a prize heifer. And Bull hadn’t missed Susan’s strained smile or the resigned look in her gray eyes. He congratulated the pair again, picked up the two pizza boxes, and headed out the door. As he carried them to the truck, Susan’s words, spoken two summers ago, echoed in his memory.

  I’ll be back, Bull Tyler! And the next time
I kiss you, I want that awful tobacco taste gone so I can do it right!

  Bull had thrown away his chewing tobacco last year, after reading that it could lead to mouth cancer. This wasn’t the first time he’d remembered Susan’s promise. The words had triggered more than a few nighttime fantasies over the past two years.

  By damn, he still wanted that kiss. One way or another, he was going to get it.

  He left the pizza boxes on the passenger seat, closed the truck, and walked back to the red Thunderbird. After checking to make sure nobody could see him, he crouched behind the car, unscrewed the valve stems from the two rear tires, and used the tip of a screwdriver to let the air out. When they were both flat to the rim, he replaced the caps and pocketed the screwdriver. For good measure, he found a loose nail in the parking lot and jammed the point into one of the tires. That done, he strolled back into the Burger Shack.

  Ferg glanced up at him. “Forget something, Bull?”

  “Nope. Just bringing you some bad news,” Bull said. “Your car’s got two flat rear tires.”

  “What the hell—” Ferg’s face reddened. “Who’d do a thing like that?”

  “I saw some kids running down the block,” Bull lied. “You know how it is with a fancy car like that. It gets a lot of attention. Some folks might even get jealous.”

  “Oh, no!” Susan gave her fiancé a stricken look. “I promised my dad I’d be home by one! I’ll never make it if I have to wait for your tires to get fixed.” Her gaze swiveled to Bull. “Could I trouble you for a ride home, Bull? If it’s an imposition—”

  Bull’s pulse skipped. He faked an indifferent shrug. “It’s fine, as long as you don’t mind holding two warm pizza boxes on your lap. If that’s all right, come on.”

  Holding the door for her, he glanced back at Ferg. “Sorry about the tires. If I see those kids again, I’ll put the fear of God in them for you.”

  “Do that.” Ferg’s hateful expression hinted that he might have guessed the truth, but there was little he could do now except watch Bull walk out the door with his girl.