by Janet Dailey
They circled back toward the cabin, following a route that took them along the rim of the caprock. Only as they paused and he looked past the edge did Bull realize that this parcel of land lay directly above his ranch. From where he stood, he could look down into the escarpment, including the petroglyph canyon where his father’s body had been found. Beyond the escarpment and the foothills, shrunk to ant size by distance, was a bird’s-eye view of his house and barn, along with the sheds and corrals. He could even make out Jasper’s truck, parked next to the house.
“When you showed up, I recognized your vehicle,” Krishna said. “As soon as I saw it I knew where you’d come from.” He took a few more steps, then paused. “You’re welcome to join us for lunch. We’re vegetarians, so there’s no meat, but there’s fresh bread, and Venus makes a right tasty lentil soup.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a busy day ahead of me,” Bull said. “I’ll be back to start on the well pump tomorrow. Once we get it working, you can come take a look at the house.”
“Sounds cool,” Krishna said. “I’ve got a typewriter in the house. I’ll draft two copies of our agreement for us to sign.”
“Sounds like good business.” Bull shook the man’s hand and left.
His spirits rose and soared as he turned off the asphalt and drove down the winding graveled road. He’d grown used to hard times and disappointment. But lately it was as if a lucky star was shining over his head. He’d found the woman of his dreams. She loved him, and they were planning a life together. Now a vital piece of land that could provide water and summer pasture for the ranch had fallen out of nowhere into his hands. On that land, he’d found workers who could finish his house—hopefully for a fraction of what he’d feared it might cost.
Luck could be a fickle bitch. Bull knew that as well as any man. But on a day like this, with the sun bright in the sky and two golden eagles soaring above the caprock, how could he not dream about Susan, the fine ranch they would have and the family they would raise together—a dynasty of strong, proud Tyler men and women to carry their line into the future.
There were bound to be hard times ahead. But nothing would kill that dream, Bull vowed. He would work for it, fight for it, cheat, lie, and even kill for it if he had to. Family and the land—nothing else was important. Nothing else could be allowed to matter—ever.
* * *
The day after Ferg’s father got home from the cattlemen’s meeting, he called Ferg into his office. Ferg never looked forward to these private father-and-son sessions. Once in a while, Ham might have something good to say. But more often than not, Ferg could expect the equivalent of a trip to the woodshed.
“Close the door, boy.” Ham sat like a king on a throne in his massive leather chair, his vast walnut desk shielding him like a fortress. Ferg closed the door and took a seat facing his father. One day that big desk and chair would be his, he reminded himself. Until that day, he had little choice except to endure his father’s bullying and toe the line like a good son.
“You look like hell.” Ham frowned at Ferg’s healing bruises. “What did you do, get into a fight?”
Ferg shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Ham let the comment pass. “So how did you handle being in charge while I was gone?” he asked.
“I handled it fine,” Ferg said. “The best part was scaring the shit out of Bull Tyler. He was working on a plan to steal water out of the creek. Believe me, he won’t try that again. Want me to tell you what I did?”
“I already know what you did. One of the men told me about it. He also told me that we lost four head of prime beef in that fool stampede you started. Do you have any idea how much money those steers were worth?”
“It was Bull who shot ’em. Go after him.”
“He was within his rights. They were on his property and posing a danger to him and his men.”
“What about the water he was getting ready to steal?”
“This isn’t the eighteen hundreds. You can’t just go charging onto another man’s property and wreck what he’s building. Bull Tyler could take us to court for this.”
“You didn’t say that when we pulled over his windmill.”
“No, but maybe I should’ve. Bull and I had agreed not to fight over that water. You violated our agreement.”
“You could’ve told me! Don’t I have a right to know what’s going on around here?”
“Maybe if you paid attention, I’d tell you more.” Ham gave him a cold look. “No more shenanigans, hear? Maybe you ought to grow up and take a page out of Bull’s book. While you’re chasing women and pulling schoolboy tricks, he’s running that hardscrabble ranch by himself.”
“Damn you to hell!” Ferg was on his feet. “Why are you defending him? I’m your son! I was trying to protect our water! I thought you’d be proud of me!”
“I’ll be proud of you when you start acting like a man.” Ham shrugged, glancing up at the sound of a light rap on the door. “Yes? Come in.”
The aging cook stood in the doorway. “Bull Tyler’s here to see you, Boss. He’s waitin’ in the parlor.”
Ham’s frown deepened. “Send him in. And you—” He gave Ferg a dismissive glare. “Go outside and do something useful for a change.”
* * *
“The boss says you can go on back.” The aging cook, still wearing his stained apron, gave Bull the message and hobbled off toward the kitchen.
As Bull rose, Ferg came storming out of the hallway. Pausing, he cast Bull a look of pure hatred. Bull braced for a showdown, but Ferg wheeled abruptly, crossed the living room, and stalked out the front door. Bull resisted the urge to follow him outside and beat him until he whimpered for mercy. Not now, he told himself. His business was with Ham today. He would deal with Ferg later, at a time and place of his own choosing.
The door to Ham’s office stood partway open. Bull rapped lightly, walked in without waiting for a reply, and closed the door behind him.
Ham didn’t get up. “If you’re here about the damage to your water tank, I’ve already talked with Ferg. He wasn’t acting on my orders. That stampede was his idea, not mine.”
“I figured as much.” Bull remained standing. “That’s why you aren’t under arrest for murder. But placing blame won’t pay for the damage to my property. I want compensation for the pipe and the liner, plus what I had to pay my workers to install them.”
“What about my four steers, the ones you shot?”
“Ferg ran them onto my property. He’s damned lucky they didn’t kill anybody. Maybe you should ask him to pay me.”
“Why should anybody pay you? You took a chance, putting in that pipe and tank. You knew you were courting trouble.”
“I had a right to do that on my own property and to take my share of the water. I checked the law books to make sure.” Actually, Bull had done no more than make an educated guess, based on what Jasper had told him, but he figured Ham wouldn’t know any better.
“What if I say I won’t pay you?”
“We talked about that. You know what I can do.”
“You and that damned secret witness of yours. All for shooting a worthless old hermit who wouldn’t sell me his land.” Ham muttered an oath, opened a drawer, and took out his checkbook. “How much?”
“Five hundred should do it.”
Ham filled out the check and tore it off but made no move to hand it over. “You know this is blackmail, don’t you?” he said.
Bull gave him a slow, deliberate grin. “Not this time. It’s just restitution.”
“For all I know, you could be bluffing,” Ham said, holding out the check. “Maybe that witness of yours doesn’t even exist.”
“Don’t bet your life on that, Ham.” Bull took the check, folded it, and slipped it into his shirt pocket. He’d be using the money to repair the windmill on the caprock property, but Ham didn’t need to know that. “Just keep your boy under control and we’ll get along fine.”
He left Ham’s office without saying g
ood-bye. When he walked out the front door, he found Ferg leaning against the porch rail, his arms folded across his chest. The sight of him, and the thought of what he’d done to Susan, ignited a white-hot rush of fury. But Bull clenched his teeth and held himself in check. He’d resolved not to bring up Susan’s name or say anything about their relationship. He mustn’t even admit to knowing about the rape. For now, that would only make things more difficult for both of them.
“So what did you tell him?” Ferg demanded.
“Nothing he didn’t already know.”
“You didn’t tell him about Cooper?”
The name stopped Bull in his tracks. “I haven’t talked about Cooper in ten years,” he said.
“Tell me the truth, damn you! Did you tell my father what happened to Cooper?” Ferg’s voice shook, his question stirring a memory Bull had done his best to bury. His mind formed the words he’d sworn not to speak.
Bull fingered the small, ridged scar on his left thumb. “We took a blood oath never to tell,” he said. “I take my oaths seriously.”
“So you didn’t tell him? That’s a surprise. I always figured that sooner or later you’d spill that story, you son of a bitch.”
“Damn it, Ferg, it didn’t even cross my mind. I came to get payment for the damage your cattle stampede did to my property. Your father wrote me a check.”
“He wrote you a check? Just like that? Man, he must think you hung the moon. He even told me I should take a page from your book. What did you do to make him say that, kiss his ass?”
“I’m leaving now, Ferg.” Bull headed off the porch, keeping an iron grip on his temper. Pausing on the bottom step, he turned back. “But one last warning. Don’t you ever come onto Rimrock land again. If you do, I’ll make you sorry.”
He’d started for his truck when Ferg called out to him. Bull glanced back over his shoulder.
Ferg’s face wore a grin. “Just wanted you to know I was on the phone with Susan last night. That woman is so hot for me she can hardly stand it. Ever have phone sex? It’s not as good as the real thing, but it ain’t bad. Man, I could hear her comin’ like a steam engine, right over the phone . . .”
“Good-bye, Ferg.” Sick with disgust, Bull walked to his truck and opened the door. Knowing what he knew, Ferg’s taunts came across as pathetic. Since they weren’t true, the sensible thing would be to ignore them. Still . . .
Bull turned around, strode up the porch steps, and gave Ferg a hard left to the solar plexus and a solid right to the middle of his face. The crunch of his fist against Ferg’s flesh felt wonderfully satisfying.
With Ferg fumbling to stanch the flow of blood from his nose, Bull drove away, a taut smile on his face. Ferg had deserved that and more. As for the rest of their exchange, he would never reveal what had happened that day in the escarpment, when a boyhood game of cowboys and outlaws had turned tragic. He hadn’t committed the crime, but he’d witnessed it and helped cover it up. Legally, he was almost as guilty as Ferg. But if the idea that he might talk could serve to keep Ferg in line, he wasn’t above using it as an implied threat.
Right now he had more positive things on his mind. For the present, he would leave the creek property as he’d found it and water the cattle from the bank. The money Ham had paid him would be better spent on the caprock, repairing the windmill and setting up a system to irrigate the grass. With that much done, he could start moving cattle to the caprock pasture and turn Krishna and Steve loose on remodeling the house for Susan.
He was going to need a trailer with a short wheelbase that could negotiate the hairpin turns going up. With luck he could find a used one. He would need to start checking the newspaper ads. The mental list of things to be done stretched before him with no end in sight. But Bull had never felt happier. He had his ranch; he had his woman; and on this bright, sunlit day, nothing seemed impossible.
* * *
Two and a half weeks after the confrontation over the cattle stampede, Ferg was once again called into his father’s office.
“Sit down, boy,” Ham said. “There’s something we need to talk about.”
Ferg sank back into the chair, wondering what the trouble was now. He’d done his best to keep his nose clean, but that was no guarantee of anything.
“This morning I got a call from Reverend Timmons,” Ham said, and Ferg’s heart sank. “Edith is pregnant again. She says you’re the father. Congratulations. At least there’s one thing you seem to manage well enough.”
Ferg stifled a groan. “Isn’t it a little too soon for that?”
“You’re the one who ought to know.” Ham wasn’t smiling. “When she missed her period and started upchucking her breakfast, her mother got suspicious and took her to their doctor. It’s early yet, but he said all the signs were there.”
Ferg sighed. “So how much money does the good reverend want for this one?”
“Don’t look at me to bail you out again,” Ham said. “The last time you knocked that girl up, you were too young to get married. This time, Reverend Timmons is insisting that you make an honest woman of her. Marry her, bring her home, and claim young Garn as your son. For once, I have to say I agree with him.”
“What?” Ferg stared at his father.
“You heard me,” Ham said. “You’re a man now. It’s time you stopped fooling around, grew up, and took some responsibility for your actions. The reverend is expecting you to show up, on Sunday after the service, dressed in your best, for a good old-fashioned shotgun wedding. I told him you’d be there.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you’ll be out of that pretty red car, out of the house, and out of my will. Understand?”
A bead of nervous sweat trickled down Ferg’s cheek. “But . . . what about Susan?”
“She’s gone, you fool. You had your chance with the girl. She was even willing to marry you, at least for a while. But then you had to go and show her what a horse’s ass you could be, sneaking out to sleep with that waitress. I don’t blame her for breaking up with you.”
“It wasn’t me that broke us up! It was Bull Tyler. He took her away from me!”
Ham’s eyes narrowed. “Is that how you got those bruises on your face? From fighting with Bull?”
Ferg slumped in his chair. “I drove over to the Rimrock ’cause I’d seen that water-stealing operation he was rigging on the creek. We talked about that for a while—he pretty much told me to mind my own business. Then the talk got around to Susan. He made some claims about how he’d had her. That was when I went for him.”
Ham’s grizzled eyebrow slid upward. “I hope Bull got the worst of it.”
“Pretty much,” Ferg said. “I would’ve beat the bastard to a bloody pulp, but this crazy girl, about fourteen, came out on the porch with a pistol. The little wildcat shot in the air and said she’d aim lower next time if we didn’t break it up. So I left. But I blacked Bull’s eye real good. You know. You saw him.”
“Never mind that.” Ham leaned forward, his gaze focused and intense—like a snake watching a mouse. His hand reached across the desk and gripped Ferg’s arm.
“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me about the girl.”
CHAPTER 16
THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, HAM AND FERG, DRESSED IN WHITE SHIRTS and Western-style suits with bolo ties, climbed into Ferg’s freshly washed T-bird and headed for the Blessed Harmony Christian Church on the outskirts of Blanco Springs.
Ham had insisted on driving. Maybe he was afraid his son might floor the gas pedal and shoot off in some other direction. And he would’ve done just that, Ferg groused to himself as he gazed out the side window. Humping Edith in the backseat was one thing. Marrying her, when he’d hoped to do so much better, was something else.
Boiling with silent anger, Ferg cast sidelong glances at his father. Ham could’ve gotten him out of this mess if he’d wanted to. Offered enough money, the reverend would have settled for raising Edith’s second child. But no—Ham wanted grandchildren to continue his dam
ned dynasty. He wanted to settle his son on the ranch and end his wild nights once and for all. And he didn’t give a shit about Ferg’s happiness.
They parked in front of the unpretentious red brick church. The Sunday service had just ended. Families were trooping down the steps and out to the weedy dirt lot on the side, where they’d left their vehicles. A few people, however, paused to stare at the red convertible, then turned around and headed back into the church. If there was going to be a show, they didn’t want to miss it.
Reverend Timmons, tall and storklike, his spectacles balanced on his outsized nose, stood in the doorway of the church where he’d been seeing his flock out. Spotting Ham and Ferg, he smiled, waved, and motioned them inside.
“This is a happy day,” he said as they mounted the front steps. “The start of a new family is always something to celebrate.”
Several members of his flock were within earshot as he said this. Ferg could only imagine what the good reverend was really thinking.
“We’re here,” Ham said. “Let’s get this over with.”
The organist had stayed on her bench. She began playing a hymn as Ferg and Ham entered and walked to the front of the small chapel.
Garn was sitting in a pew with his grandmother, a blond woman as nondescript as Edith. The other seven children in the family sat in the row behind them, arranged in stair steps from oldest to youngest.
Ferg had never paid much attention to Garn. Lord, he couldn’t even remember how old the boy was. Dressed in a suit he’d outgrown, showing bony wrists and ankles, he looked like a younger, blonder version of the reverend. The child cast a nervous glance at Ferg, then looked down at his hands.
Ham took a seat alone on the front row. The people who’d invited themselves to watch the little drama sat in the back.
The reverend motioned for Ferg to stand at the foot of the podium. Then, as the “Wedding March” began, he strode back to the chapel entrance to escort his daughter down the aisle.
Ferg watched his bride walk toward him. Edith had made an effort to look pretty. Her dress was old-fashioned, as if it might have been her mother’s, but she’d dabbed a little makeup on her pale face, and her veil was attached to her blond hair with a garland of fresh flowers. She looked like an innocent maiden, which she wasn’t. Maybe that was all right. But if he had to be married, he could only wish that beautiful, sexy Susan was the woman coming down the aisle toward him.
