by Janet Dailey
She nibbled a trail down his throat, tasting the salt on his skin. Her heart was racing. She knew she could stop anytime and he would understand. But she didn’t want to. All she wanted was Bull, loving her.
Reaching down, her hand closed around his big, hard shaft. He gave a low moan as she stroked him. She loved the baby softness of his skin there, but the sharp catch of his breath told her she was pushing him to his limit.
She could feel the pulsing of her own need, the slickness of moisture between her thighs. She’d expected to be fearful, or at least hesitant, but all she could think of was how much she wanted to be his.
Straddling his hips, she found the center of her slickness and lowered herself down the length of his jutting sex. As he filled her, it was as if she could feel his heat all the way upward through her body. Heaven.
Instinctively, she began to move. He responded with a groan. His hands came into play, clasping her hips as he drove into her, thrusting deeper and deeper. Shimmering bursts ignited inside her as she came, clenching around him in a climax that left her gasping.
“Don’t stop,” he urged, thrusting again. She matched her motion to his. This time she rode a rocket into the stars, reeling as his release mounted. He came with her, exploding with a groan, followed by a long outward breath and a low chuckle of satisfaction.
Susan sagged over him. Tears of relief and gratitude welled as she leaned forward and brushed a kiss across his smiling lips.
Ferg’s rape had left her broken. Bull’s loving had made her whole again.
* * *
As dawn crept through the curtains, Bull woke to find Susan curled against him, still asleep. He lay still, savoring her sweet warmth and the memory of last night—how they’d made love, showered together, made love again, and then lay talking and snuggling until they drifted into slumber.
Now their night was ending. They would wake up, get ready for the day, and go their separate ways. Susan would go home and prepare to start college. Bull would go back to the Rimrock and build it into a place where his lady would be proud to live. They would keep their relationship a secret for now. But they’d keep in touch and manage to see each other when they could. In a year, or however long it took them to be ready, they would marry and start their lives together.
It was a sensible plan, Bull told himself. Maybe too damned sensible. But whatever it took, he wanted to do right by his woman.
Thinking of the long day ahead, he leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “Wake up, sunshine,” he said. “Time to get moving.”
“Mmm?” She made a little muzzy sound. “Get moving where?”
“You back to Savannah to become a college girl. Me to pick up a few bucks’ worth of rodeo money and head for Texas, to turn the Rimrock into a showplace for you.”
“Not yet,” she murmured, her arms sliding around his neck. “It’s early. We’ve got a little time, haven’t we?”
He kissed her and felt the warm pulse of early morning desire. Yes, they had a little time. Just enough.
* * *
It was nearly dawn of the next day when Bull drove the pickup into the ranch yard and pulled up to the house. After more than twenty hours behind the wheel, he was red-eyed, sore, and overdosed on caffeine and chocolate doughnuts. By now the interlude with Susan seemed like the memory of a dream. Bleak reality was the dilapidated ranch house, the drought, the livestock, the lack of money, and dealing with the Prescotts.
Jasper was on the porch drinking coffee, the dogs at his feet. He lowered his cup and came down the steps as Bull hauled himself out of the truck. “So how was Atlanta?”
“Not great. I’ll tell you later.” He knew better than to mention Susan. “Got any more of that coffee?”
“There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen, and Rose is rustlin’ up some ham and eggs. But you look like you could use a few hours of sleep.”
Bull shrugged. “Forget sleep. You can catch me up on things over breakfast. Is Ham back home yet?”
“Not that I’ve heard. And Ferg hasn’t come around, either. Maybe he figures he’s already done enough damage.”
Jasper didn’t know the half of it, Bull thought. Sooner or later he would settle with Ferg—and he wouldn’t go easy on the bastard. “What’s the water tank looking like?” he asked, though he pretty much knew what to expect.
“Like a grave for the steers you shot. Even the pipe’s tore up and broke. We took our stock in to water ’em at the creek like usual. Nobody gave us any trouble then. But there’s nothin’ left of that tank but a godawful mess. Damn Ferg Prescott—but never mind, come on in and eat. We got somethin’ to show you. Somethin’ Rose found.”
Bull trailed Jasper into the kitchen. Rose was tending the electric stove. She gave Bull a quick, impersonal greeting, then went back to scrambling the eggs with a fork, adding a sprinkle of grated cheddar. She hadn’t forgiven him, Bull surmised. But at least the girl hadn’t run away.
“Sit down, I’ll get you some coffee.” Jasper filled a mug and set it at Bull’s place. Bull took a sip. It was hot and strong enough to jar his senses fully awake.
“So what is it you’ve got to show me?” he asked.
“Hang on, I’ll get it.” Jasper strode down the hall to the office and came back holding a dusty Muriel Cigars box, bound with a rubber band. “Rose found this under your dad’s old bed when she was settin’ a mousetrap. Here.” He set the box on the table. “Take a look inside.”
Bull peeled off the rubber band and lifted the lid. Inside was a clumsily folded, dirt-smudged sheet of business stock paper. Unfolding it, he stared. His pulse slammed. “Is this what I think it is?”
“If you think it’s the deed to some property, I’d say we have the same idea. You know, your dad played a lot of poker. And he was pretty good at winnin’. That’s how he got old Jupiter, our prize bull that you had to shoot because of some damn fool girl.”
“Don’t remind me,” Bull said. “So what do you know about this piece of paper?”
“Not much. We only just found it a couple days ago. But seein’ the name on it—Sam Perkins, who signed it over to your dad—got me thinkin’ about something that happened a few years ago. I remember Williston came home from a game about three in the morning. The next day, Sam was out here, poundin’ on the door, claimin’ that Williston had got him drunk and cheated him out of the deed he’d put on the table. He wanted the deed back.
“Williston said he’d done no such thing, that he didn’t have the deed, and that Sam had probably been too drunk to remember what had happened to it. Sam went stormin’ off and we never heard anything else. He died just a few months after your dad did.”
Bull shook his head. “So my dad cheated at poker and stole the deed! Lord, I didn’t know the old scoundrel had it in him!”
“I’m guessing that’s what happened,” Jasper said. “Williston couldn’t record the deed and claim the property because then Sam would know what he’d done. So he just hid it—maybe even forgot about it toward the end, when he was so sick.”
Bull studied the deed. It looked authentic. And the property could be valuable. Why else would his father have cheated a friend to get it?
“All I see here is the legal description,” he said. “It’s nothing but letters and numbers. Do you have any idea where this property is?”
“Not a clue. You’ll have to take it to the county recorder’s office.”
“I’ll do that today, as soon as they open.”
“First you’d better get some breakfast in your belly and some decent sleep, or you’re liable to roll your truck in the bar ditch.” Jasper slid a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Bull. “That deed’s waited this long. It can wait a little longer.”
* * *
At ten o’clock, shaved, showered, and barely rested, Bull was waiting when the recorder’s office opened. The clerk on duty, a young man, was new and didn’t seem to know him—all to the good.
“I want to register this deed to the Rimrock
Ranch,” he said. “But first, can you show me where the property is?”
“You don’t know?” The young man stared at Bull from behind his horn-rimmed spectacles.
“This deed was with my late father’s papers,” Bull said. “It’s all the information I have.”
“Oh.” The young man turned to the large map that was mounted on the wall. “Here’s the parcel matching the legal description. It’s here—west of the Rimrock Ranch, on the caprock above the escarpment. You’re looking at about a hundred sixty acres. See?”
“You’re sure?” Bull’s pulse rocketed. The parcel wasn’t huge, but caprock land was precious for one reason—the water-bearing rock under the flat plain. Sink a well and there’d be plenty of water for cattle, hay, or anything else.
“How would I get up there to see it?” he asked.
“There’s a gravel road here.” The clerk traced a line on the map. “It’s a roundabout way, but it’s the only way there is. I can mail you the deed when it’s been recorded.”
“Thanks, but I’ll wait here for it,” Bull said. “In case there’s a question, I want evidence in hand that the land belongs to the Rimrock.”
The clerk sighed. “Fine. Take a seat. It’ll be about twenty minutes.”
Bull waited in a folding metal chair, his thoughts racing. Now he could understand why Williston Tyler had cheated his friend to get the deed. If the land was everything he hoped for, it could mean the difference between success and failure for the Rimrock.
But what if all this was too good to be true?
If finding the deed was such a godsend, why did he have the feeling his troubles were just beginning?
CHAPTER 15
WITH THE RECORDED DEED IN HIS VEST, BULL FOLLOWED THE NARROW, graveled road he’d seen on the wall map and copied on a sheet of paper. It led him up a broad canyon, to where it ascended the escarpment in a series of switchbacks with sharp hairpin turns. He had no memory of such a road being there when he was younger. It must have been built during the years he was away from the ranch.
As he drove, his head swarmed with plans. If the land was good for grazing—and he had high hopes it would be—he could move the cattle up there until fall, when much of the herd would be sold off. The remaining animals could be brought down to winter pasture close to the heart of the ranch.
For now, at least, stock and horses would need to be trailered back and forth—a challenge on the narrow, winding road, but it could be done, especially with the right kind of trailer. There was plenty of underground water on the caprock, but if there were no wells on the property, he’d need to get some drilled. He could be looking at a lot of expense—at least as much as he’d made on the rodeo circuit this summer. But this land could save the Rimrock. The money he’d planned for the house, if needed here, would have to be spent.
The road led up over the edge of the caprock and joined with a paved two-lane highway. Bull glanced at his map, made a left turn and headed south. Here, for as far as the eye could see, the land was as flat as a tabletop, the fields and farms green, irrigated with well water from the aquifer below.
According to the directions, the turnoff to the property was seven miles down the road. Since the parcel of land was bounded on the east by the edge of the caprock, it shouldn’t be hard to miss.
It wasn’t hard at all. In fact, Bull knew the land the minute he saw it. In a sea of cultivated green fields, it was yellow, dry, and weedy. A length of rusty barbed wire served as a gate. Clearly, the place hadn’t been worked since Sam Perkins had lost it to Williston in that fateful poker game.
Bull got out of his truck to unfasten the wire from the post that held it. Only then did he see—in the distance—a log cabin with smoke rising from the chimney. A small windmill turned on its wooden tower.
Somebody was living on his property.
His .44 was in its holster, under the driver’s seat. He hoped to hell he wouldn’t need it, but just in case he took it out and laid it within easy reach. Cautiously now, he drove toward the cabin.
As he came closer, he could see a couple of old cars, a small camping trailer, and somebody in the yard chopping wood. A woman in a long skirt had seen the truck. She pointed and must’ve called out because two more people, a man and a woman, came running outside. No weapons in sight, and nobody was trying to flee or hide. So far so good, but Bull knew enough to be wary.
He stopped the truck fifty feet from the cabin. The man who’d been chopping wood was coming out to meet him—lanky, and bearded, his long, stringy brown hair bound by a band across his forehead. He wore flowing green pants, a Mexican serape vest, and strings of beads around his neck. As he approached the truck he raised his right hand in a two-fingered peace sign.
Hippies, Bull concluded. Most of the ones he’d met seemed harmless enough, but Bull knew he couldn’t be too careful. If things went bad, he’d be outnumbered here.
Slipping the gun into the back of his belt, he stepped down from the truck and waited for the bearded man to speak.
“Peace, brother. What can we do for you?”
“I’m the new owner of this property,” Bull said. “I’ve got the paperwork, if you need proof. How long have you folks been living here?”
The man scratched his belly through the opening in his vest. “Going on three years. We thought the place was abandoned, so we fixed up the little shack that was here and moved in with our wives. My brother and I hire out to work in the towns around here—we’re carpenters and general handymen.” His speech, educated and articulate, belied his scruffy appearance. “We’ve never had trouble here. We don’t want any now.”
Looking past the man, Bull took in the cabin. The brothers had built an entire wing and a wide porch onto what must’ve been a small line shack. Most of the new structure was logs, carefully cut and laid. The windows were glass. The front door, which stood partway open, looked as if it had been salvaged from some expensive job. It was solid oak, with a stained glass insert. Below the porch, vegetables grew in well-tended rows. The dwelling looked solid and comfortable, even charming.
“Nice place,” Bull observed.
“Thanks. We do a lot of scrounging. Most of the materials here were given to us or bought on the cheap as salvage. The name’s Krishna, by the way. My brother’s Steve.” He held out his hand.
“Bull Tyler.” Bull accepted the handshake and felt the light scrape of calluses on Krishna’s palm. A good sign, although he’d bet his best horse that the fellow wasn’t using his real name. Then again, neither was Bull.
At the cabin, he met the rest of the family—pale Steve who appeared as shy as his brother was confident, and their pretty young women, red-haired Venus and brunette Gypsy, who was visibly pregnant. They all smelled faintly of marijuana, but Bull decided that was none of his business.
“Now that you’ve seen how much work we’ve put in here, I’m hoping you’ll let us stay and help take care of the place,” he said. “Does that sound all right?”
“That depends.” Bull gazed across the expanse of yellow grass, thinking how best to play this to his advantage. “For one thing, I plan to run cattle on this land with my men coming by to check on them. You’d lose the peace and quiet you have now.”
Krishna nodded. “We could live with that. We’d even help keep an eye on the cattle for you. We could fence them out of the house and garden. You wouldn’t have to do a thing.”
Bull glanced at the windmill. “I see you’ve got a well.”
“A small one, just for the house. We borrowed the tools and drilled it ourselves. There’s a bigger well on the far side of the property, but it isn’t working. It probably just needs parts. We could help you fix it and maybe set up an irrigation system. My brother’s a good plumber.”
A well already dug and someone to help fix it. Bull was encouraged so far, but he knew better than to show it. Silent, with his face fixed in a scowl, he waited. He was aware of Steve and the two women listening in the background, probably wondering ho
w soon they’d have to pack up and clear out.
“If you’re thinking about rent money, we don’t have any to spare,” Krishna said. “But we can work for you—we’re good at carpentry and plumbing, even masonry. We can give you the names of people we’ve worked for. You can ask them about us. We could write up a contract that would be fair to both you and us . . .” His voice trailed off as he realized that Bull hadn’t even twitched. “What do you think?” he asked, a quiver of uncertainty in his voice.
“I just might have a little work for you,” Bull said, thinking of the house and what a stroke of luck this could prove to be. “What do you say you and I take a walk and talk about it?”
They spent the next hour walking the acreage, checking the soundness of the fences—mostly put up by neighbors—and inspecting the well, which looked reparable. All in all, the place needed a big investment in time and money to be fully productive. But he could start bringing in his stock as soon as the well was working.
Bull also learned a few things about Krishna, a former high school math teacher who’d grown disillusioned with what he called “the system.” He’d joined up with his brother, Steve, who had some learning disabilities but was good with his hands. They’d searched out a place where they could live with their women in peace and quiet. Bull found himself liking the man, although he would hold back his trust until he knew him better.
They agreed that the brothers would each put in ten hours a week on Bull’s house and property for the privilege of staying on the land. For any time over that, they’d be paid a fair wage. Bull would pay for all needed parts and materials, but Krishna would look for cheap salvaged goods to use where they could.
“We’ll start with the well,” Bull said. “But I’d like you to take a look at my house so we can talk about what needs to be done. I’ll give you directions.”
“No need,” Krishna said. “I know exactly where you live. Come on. I’ll show you something.”
