Texas Fierce

by Janet Dailey

  Still dazed, he cocked the pistol and raised the shutter far enough to see out. The two men who’d brought up the rear were backing off, dragging their comrade’s body by the legs. The massive force of the shotgun blast had destroyed the man’s torso. The rocks along the creek bank were spattered with his blood.

  Gripping the pistol, Bull waited. Would the two remaining men take a chance and try to rush him, or had they seen enough? One of them carried a Colt .45 and wore a belt full of cartridges. The other held a high-powered hunting rifle. If they came for the shack, he would be hopelessly outgunned. His only advantage was the fact that they didn’t know what they were facing. With luck they’d believe that the old man was alive and had an arsenal of shells for the massive gun.

  He held his breath, clenching the pistol so tightly that his hand began to cramp. His shoulder throbbed from the pain of the recoil.

  From back in the trees on the far side of the creek, the men stood watching and talking, maybe arguing. Then, decision made, they kicked some dirt and leaves over the dead man’s body, mounted up, and rode off, trailing the empty horse.

  They’d be back—most likely after Ham had torn a strip off their hides. That gave Bull maybe half an hour to find the deed and clear out. He’d be on foot, but he knew how to keep out of sight. With luck, Jasper might even get word from Rose and show up in the truck.

  If he could find the deed and clear out fast, Prescott’s thugs would never know anyone else, including the girl, had been in the shack. To make sure, he pulled the body off the bunk, onto the floor so that, if they came back, they’d think McAdoo had fallen after firing the shotgun and died alone.

  Now where was the damned deed?

  He’d torn the place apart, with no sign of the paper or the wooden box that held it. There was no place else to look.

  Unless the deed wasn’t in the house.

  Gun in hand, he opened the front door, glanced around, then stepped cautiously outside. On the far end of the shack was an overhang with a tie post and a feeder that appeared to have sheltered a horse. But the droppings were old and dry, the hay gone. Bull checked for the box, kicking at the loose earth, finding nothing.

  The coop was little more than chicken wire strung between posts and covered on top with loose boards. Inside were three friendly, speckled hens and a small rooster. They looked well cared for, likely by Rose. There were three nest boxes. Bull ducked inside the coop and checked each one. He found straw and a couple of eggs but nothing else.

  That left the outhouse, the last place anybody would think to look. Was he wasting time? Opening the door wide to let in air and light, he stepped inside—and found the box. Wrapped in an old newspaper it was tucked into a dark corner, guarded by spider webs. Unwrapped, the box proved to be the kind that might have held note cards or a set of colored pencils. A rubber band held it closed. Bull’s pulse raced as he opened it and unfolded the paper inside. It was the deed to the property, signed for transfer as the old man had said. He’d even had it notarized. No doubt he’d meant for the land to go to Rose. But Rose didn’t need it. Bull did. This creased, yellowed piece of paper could be the key to survival for the Rimrock. He had killed a man for it, and he would use it as he saw fit. If it was authentic, all he’d have to do was add his name and have the deed recorded in the county office.

  Closing the box, he secured it with the rubber band and slid it inside his shirt. He had no way to catch the chickens he’d promised to rescue, and no way to carry them. Maybe he could come back later in the truck, get the damn fool birds, and, if time and safety allowed, bury the old man. But right now he just needed to get the hell out of here.

  He set off at a sprint. The impact of each pounding step on the rough ground sent a jolt of pain to his bruised shoulder, but he couldn’t slow down. He had to get out of sight before Ham’s hired goons came back.

  By the time he reached a stand of thick mesquite, his sides were heaving. He paused to catch his breath, then continued at a quick stride. After another quarter mile, he saw the pickup coming over the horizon from the direction of the Rimrock. He groaned with relief. It was Jasper.

  Minutes later the old truck pulled up beside him. Jasper was alone.

  “It’s about time you showed up,” Bull joked feebly as he settled into the passenger seat. “Where’s Rose?”

  “I turned her loose in the kitchen to fix what she could find to eat. The little mite was half starved. Did you find anything that would help us?”

  Wincing from the strain on his shoulder, Bull pulled the box out of his shirt and showed Jasper the deed. “Do you think this is any good?”

  “Looks authentic to me. We’ll know more after I check in at the recorder’s office.” Jasper drove in silence for a moment before Bull realized what was happening. Jasper was driving back toward the shack.

  “Hey—” He gave Jasper a nudge. “You can turn around and go back now. We’ve got everything we need.”

  “Not quite.” Jasper kept driving. “I made a promise to a worried little gal that I’d get her chickens.”

  “And get yourself killed while you’re at it? Prescott’s goons could be back there by now.”

  “Or not.” Jasper kept driving, the truck bumping over the rough ground. Moments later they sighted the shack. Everything looked quiet. But Bull had Jasper stop the truck at a safe distance, behind the willows, while he circled the shack to make sure the coast was clear. There was no sign of the gunmen but his danger senses were tingling as he walked back to the truck. He didn’t have a good feeling about this.

  “Pull up to the fence,” he told Jasper. “We need to do this fast.”

  “I’ve got a crate in the back.”

  “Fine,” Bull said. “You catch the damned chickens. I’ll keep watch.”

  They drove up to the shack. Jasper got the wooden crate, which had held parts for the new windmill, and stepped into the coop. Catching the chickens took him longer than Bull had hoped. The four birds were spooked. They pecked, flapped, and squawked, filling the air with loose feathers. It took Jasper several minutes to get them all in the crate and load it in the pickup bed. By then, Bull could hear riders approaching. They were getting close, too close. He needed a diversion to keep them from seeing the truck.

  “Give me the spare gas can and get going,” he told Jasper. “When you’re at a safe distance, stop and wait for me. If I’m not there in ten minutes, go.”

  “Be careful.” Jasper handed Bull the gas can, sprang into the cab, and gave the truck full throttle. The old pickup roared away, chickens bouncing and squawking in the open back.

  With the riders getting close, Bull stepped inside the shack and doused the floor and surfaces with gasoline. Even the body of poor old Cletus McAdoo was soaked. It wouldn’t be the proper burial the man deserved, but it might be better than he’d get from Prescott’s men.

  The shotgun was propped against the wall. A weapon like that one could come in handy if things got nasty with the neighbors. Bull grabbed it. He could hear the gunmen’s voices from the other side of the creek. Time to get out and run like hell.

  Taking the box of matches he’d found on top of the potbellied stove, he raced out of the shack and through the gate. There was just enough gasoline in the can to pour a trail, just enough time to light a flame that raced back to the house.

  With a startling whoosh, the shack exploded in a ball of fire.

  * * *

  Later that morning, with the chicken crate safe in a shed and Rose sleeping off her long night in the spare bedroom, Bull sent Jasper to town with the deed. Two hours later Jasper was back, his face wearing a grin.

  “So, is that deed worth anything?” Bull asked.

  Jasper’s grin broadened. “You’re damn right, it is. The old man had legal title to the land—bought it cheap back in the fifties at some kind of bank repo sale. After he lost his wife and retired from teaching, he moved here. I’m guessing something might’ve gone wrong with his retirement savings, and this place wa
s all he had.”

  “Wait, he was a teacher?”

  “Yup, an honest-to-God Ph.D. in history. The clerk, that old lady at the county office, remembered him and knew his story. She even remembered that he rode in on a horse last year to get that deed witnessed and notarized. She said the old boy was lookin’ pretty bad by then.”

  “And Rose? She must have quite a story to tell.”

  “I reckon so. But you’ll have to ask her.” Jasper’s gaze narrowed. “That land is rightfully hers, you know.”

  “I know. But she’s just a kid. We can make things right in time. Meanwhile, we’ve got legal access to water for our cattle.”

  Bull knew better than to voice his next thought.

  And we’ve got a live witness who can nail Ham Prescott’s murdering hide to the side of the barn!

  CHAPTER 10

  CLIFF RUTLEDGE’S HEART ATTACK HAD ROCKED SUSAN’S WORLD. Although the episode hadn’t been as serious as she’d feared, it had brought home the reality of his illness and the fact that he could die at any time.

  The hospital in Lubbock had kept him for four days, giving him nitroglycerin tablets and blood thinners and monitoring his condition. Susan had stayed with him day and night, sleeping on an uncomfortable fold-out chair bed and cleaning up in the bath attached to his private room. As she sat by his bed, watching him sleep, she’d remembered, over and over, how she’d told him about her broken engagement and what had followed.

  Had her father’s heart attack been her fault?

  Her uncle Ham had come by twice, once with Ferg. The two of them had been polite but distant to Susan, almost as if they blamed her, too. It was as if they were quietly piling on the guilt, waiting for her to break and change her mind.

  On leaving the hospital for the ranch—a return trip to Georgia being out of the question—Cliff was ordered to rest and ease slowly into his usual routine. As his daughter and the only woman in the house, it was a given that Susan would be his nurse. He was a demanding patient, but at least caring for him helped ease her conscience.

  Her mother had called and made excuses for not flying out right away—the heat, her busy schedule, the scarcity of airline tickets, and so on. Only after learning about Susan’s broken engagement did she put the household on notice that she’d scheduled the flight and would be there in a few days.

  Susan was dreading her visit. Where Vivian Rutledge went, drama followed.

  On her father’s fourth day home, Susan was tidying the neglected parlor. She was wiping dusty boot prints off the coffee table when the front doorbell rang. She suppressed a groan of dismay. Her mother wasn’t due until after four o’clock. It wasn’t even noon yet. Had she flown in early?

  With the dust cloth still in one hand, Susan hurried to the door and opened it.

  Bull Tyler stood on the threshold.

  The cloth fell to the floor. A muffled whimper escaped her lips. He looked tall and strong and clean, his eyes even bluer than she remembered. The urge to fling herself into his protecting arms was like a cry inside her.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  “I’ve got business with your uncle.” He took in her tired eyes, her gaunt face bare of makeup, and the hair she’d barely had time to finger-comb into a sloppy ponytail.

  “Are you all right, Susan?” he asked.

  Touching a finger to her lips, she motioned him out onto the porch and closed the door behind them. His gaze flickered to her bare left hand. She saw the question in his eyes.

  “I broke my engagement,” she said, the words coming in a rush. “When I told my father what I’d done, he had a heart attack—a real one. He’s out of the hospital—I’m taking care of him here. And now my mother’s coming today. Sorry, everything’s been crazy.” She glanced past the porch, remembering what Ferg had threatened to do if he saw them together. “We can’t talk now. I’ve got to go in. But you said you came to see Uncle Ham, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I phoned. He’s expecting me.”

  “Come on inside. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  He followed her into the parlor, his stride powerful and confident. The young man who’d once copied her table etiquette at dinner had come a long way.

  Ham’s office was open. When Susan told her uncle that Bull was here to see him, he frowned and nodded. “Send him in.”

  Susan stepped aside for Bull to enter. The door would be shut behind him. She wouldn’t be able to see what was happening between the two enemies.

  But no power on earth could keep her from listening.

  * * *

  Ham sat behind his heavy desk. He didn’t bother to stand when Bull walked into his office—most certainly a deliberate slight. The head of the Prescott family was aging, Bull thought as he closed the door. Skin hung in pouches below his eyes. Jowls sagged over his jawline.

  “You said you had business, Tyler,” he growled. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I just have something to show you.” Still standing, Bull drew a narrow manila envelope from a pocket inside his leather vest. Unfolding the paper inside, he thrust it close enough for Ham to see. “This is a legally recorded deed to the former McAdoo property on the creek. The old man sold it to me before he died.”

  Ham’s jaw clenched. His eyes bulged as Bull folded the deed again, slid it into the envelope, and replaced it in his vest.

  “The property belongs to the Rimrock now,” Bull said. “I have the right to water my cattle on that side of the creek, and you have no right to interfere.”

  Ham found his voice. “Don’t think you can get away with this, Tyler. Run your cattle on that land and I’ll shoot every last one of ’em.”

  “Like you shot Cletus McAdoo? I stopped by the place and found him dying. He told me you did it.”

  Ham’s jaw quivered. “If he’s dead, you can’t prove a damned thing.”

  “That’s what you think. McAdoo wasn’t alone when he was shot. There was somebody else in the cabin, a witness who can testify in court that you pulled the trigger.”

  “Bullcrap! What witness? Who is it?”

  “I’m keeping that to myself for now. I’m sure you can understand why.”

  Ham’s face had paled to a sickly shade of gray. “You’re lying,” he said.

  “Am I? You showed up on horseback. When the old man wouldn’t let you take over his property, you shot him with a rifle. He made it back inside the shack, and when you sent your men in to finish him, he managed to put up enough of a fight to run them off. Does that sound about right?”

  Bull waited while Ham struggled with his answer. He’d thought long and hard before coming to confront his powerful neighbor. He’d decided against reporting the murder to the sheriff. Ham would be more useful as a free man. And given the circumstances, he’d be easier to manage than Ferg, who would take over as the new boss if his father went to prison.

  Ham’s shoulders sagged. “What do you want?”

  “Only what’s fair. Just your guarantee that my stock and my men will be left alone to use the water on my side of the creek. And that your people will stay off the Rimrock and quit harassing us. As long as you keep the peace, I’ll keep my mouth shut. Deal?”

  “That’s blackmail!” Ham growled.

  “You’re damn right it is.”

  “If you go to the sheriff, you’ll be on trial for extortion and obstruction of justice.”

  “And you’ll be on trial for murder. Your choice.”

  Ham swore, rose to his feet, and extended his hand to seal the bargain. Their handshake wasn’t a friendly one. Bull knew what Ham was thinking. He’d been beaten. He was owned body and soul by this upstart son of a family he hated, and he was mad enough to spit bullets.

  As for Bull, he might’ve won this round. But he knew better than to trust the wily, dangerous old man. From now on he’d be watching his back. He was still learning the game, and he was up against a master.

  “One more thing.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. �
��I’m still looking into my father’s death. If I find out there’s anything you’re holding back—”

  “There’s not a damned thing,” Ham said. “I swear it on a stack of Bibles. If I hear any talk, I’ll let you know. But your father’s been gone more than two years now. It was an accident. Let it go.”

  “I’ll let it go when I know the whole truth.” Bull opened the door and stepped out into the hall, almost running into Susan, who’d sprung to one side. Guilt was written all over her pretty face.

  Bull closed the door behind him so Ham wouldn’t see her. “Eavesdropping, were you?” He raised an eyebrow. “How much did you hear?”

  “More than I wanted to. But nothing that I’d care to repeat.”

  “Good girl. Your uncle wouldn’t like it. Neither would I.” He headed for the front door. She kept pace with him.

  “Bull.” Her voice was low but insistent. “You can’t go off and leave me without explaining what’s behind all this.”

  “I can, and I will. The less you know, the better.” He opened the door and, without breaking stride, walked out onto the porch. “Stay out of this mess, Susan. It’s none of your concern.”

  She followed him outside, closing the door behind them. “It’s my concern if it involves people I care about. And I care about you!”

  He swung back to face her. “Blast it, Susan, can’t you see that I’m trying to protect you? What you heard—it’s dangerous.”

  Tears welled in her eyes as she looked up at him, so determined and yet so fragile. It was all Bull could do to keep from catching her close and kissing her until they both burned with need. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Promise me you won’t mention what you heard, not a word to anybody. We’ll talk later.”

  “When?”

  “We’ll figure it out.” His fingertip traced an imaginary line down her cheek. “Promise.”

  “I promise, but—” Before she could say any more, a high-powered car, its tires spitting gravel, roared up to the foot of the porch. There was no need for Bull to turn and look. Susan’s stricken expression was enough to tell him it was Ferg.