by Janet Dailey
Ham’s lips moved. “The little bitch . . . shot me . . .” he muttered.
“I can’t say I blame her.” Bull knew it was his last chance to ask the question that still tormented him. “My father. Tell me the truth, Ham. Who killed him?”
“Don’t know . . . but you’re barkin’ up the wrong damn tree, Bull. It wasn’t . . . us. Swear t’ God . . .” He closed his eyes, grimacing in pain.
Rose had left the linens on the step and gone back inside. Bull fetched them and used a couple of folded towels to pillow Ham’s head. With the rest, he made an effort, at least, to stanch the blood flow. He could’ve had Rose phone for an ambulance, but the hospital was an hour away in Lubbock—two hours round trip. Ham would never make it that far. And any call for help would also bring the police. What would they do when they found out Ham Prescott had been shot by a fourteen-year-old girl?
Sooner or later somebody would need to call the Prescott Ranch. Right now, all Bull could do was stay with Ham until somebody else showed up. After that, his first concern would be getting Rose out of harm’s way.
* * *
Ferg had fired at random into the cattle herd, wounding a few animals and scaring the rest until they were bawling fit to raise the dead. When he’d heard the Tyler men coming, he’d vanished into the shadows and cut around through the scrub to the road that connected the two ranches. His original intent had been to wait there for his father. But why risk being caught in the truck with Ham and the girl? If he was smart, he’d go back to the ranch, crawl into bed with Edith, and play the innocent. If there was any trouble, his wife would vouch for his having been there the whole time.
He’d turned and started back when he heard the shotgun blast.
Ferg’s first impulse was to keep going. But Ham hadn’t carried a shotgun or taken one in the truck. Someone from the Rimrock would have fired the shot—most likely at Ham. If his father was hurt, in trouble, or even dead, it wouldn’t do for him to bail out and leave. At least he needed to find out what was going on.
Keeping to the shadows, he circled back to where he could peer through the high brush. In the moonlight, he could see the black pickup parked at the edge of the yard. Closer to the house, Bull Tyler was bent over the sprawled figure of a man. On the man’s feet, Ferg recognized the hand-tooled Mexican boots Ham had worn that night.
So the old man had gotten himself shot. Whether he was dead or only wounded, Ferg’s actions now could make all the difference. After circling back, he came running down the road, out of breath.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded.
Bull rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Ferg, your dad was doing the wrong thing in the wrong place, and he got shot.”
“Is he alive?”
“Barely.”
Ferg stared down at his father. Ham’s eyes were closed, his breathing labored. Blood seeped from under the towels Bull had laid on his chest. “Lord, I don’t know what got into him. He was acting crazy at the house. I didn’t realize he’d headed over here until it was too late to stop him, so I just took off running. Who shot him?”
“Whoever it was, they were acting within their rights. Your father was walking up to the house with his gun drawn.”
“What gun?” Ferg glanced around. “I don’t see a gun.”
“He must’ve dropped it. We’ll find it later. Right now you need to get him home—or better yet, to a hospital if there’s time. I can help you load him in the truck.”
“The truck’s got a reclining seat. I’ll put it down.” Ferg was calm and cooperative, the only way to be at a time like this. He could—and would—deal with Bull later.
When the seat was down, they eased Ham onto a bedsheet, picked it up from both ends, like a hammock, and hoisted him into the cab of the truck. The pain had to be excruciating. Ham groaned and swore as they moved him. But he was a tough old man and even he knew it had to be done.
“You’ll want to call a doctor,” Bull said. “At least he can give your father some morphine for the pain.”
“I’ll do that when I get him home.” Ferg closed the passenger door and climbed into the driver’s side. “This isn’t over, Bull. Believe me, somebody’s going to pay.”
He switched on the headlights, started the truck, turned it around in a slow circle, and headed back along the road to the Prescott Ranch. Out of Bull’s sight, Ferg pulled off the road and stopped the truck under a cottonwood tree. He had to have this conversation before it was too late.
He turned in the seat. The truck was in shadow, but a thin shaft of moonlight, shining through the branches of the cottonwood, fell on his father’s contorted face.
“Why the hell are we . . . stopping?” Ham’s voice was a breathy whisper, each word forced from a well of pain.
“Maybe because we need to talk,” Ferg said. “And maybe because you always said you wanted to die with your boots on.”
Ham’s eyes widened. “Hell . . . I’m not gonna die . . . Get me to a doc . . . patch me up good as new.”
“We’ll see,” Ferg said. “First tell me who shot you. Was it Bull?”
Ham’s head barely moved from side to side. “Not Bull . . . The girl. That little bitch . . . Came out with that gun, bigger’n she was . . .” His left hand moved past the gears to clutch at Ferg’s sleeve, the fingers gripping like talons. “You get her, boy . . . Make her pay.”
“I will. And Bull, too. That bastard’s going to wish he’d never been born.”
“That’s my boy . . .” Ham’s voice was getting weaker. “Now start this damn truck and get me home.”
Ferg shook his head. “You’re not going to make it home alive. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t save you now. And that’s fine by me. I’ve had enough of taking your shit, old man. Nothing I did was ever good enough for you. But that’s over. I’m the boss now. You’re done for, and the ranch is mine.”
Ham stared at his son in sudden, awful comprehension. But Ferg wasn’t finished with him.
“I’ve got a confession to send you off,” he said. “It’s about Cooper. He never was much of a little brother, being slow in the head and all. Well, he wasn’t kidnapped by Mexicans, like we told you. He was hanged. Me and Bull, we were playing cowboys. Cooper was the bad guy. I put a rope around his little neck and hanged him till he died. Then we took him and threw him down that rattlesnake hole on the Tyler property. He’s still there. Think about that on your way to hell.”
Ham’s lips moved in a silent curse. Then the breath rattled in his throat and his eyelids closed for the last time.
CHAPTER 17
AS FERG’S TRUCK VANISHED DOWN THE DARK ROAD, BULL STRODE into the house. “Get your things together!” he ordered Rose. “Hurry! We’ve got to get you out of here!”
Rose obeyed him without question. But Bull could tell she was still grappling with reality. A simple movement of her finger had sent a deadly charge ripping into a man’s body, most likely ending his life. It was a lot for a young girl to comprehend.
Jasper burst in through the kitchen door. “I heard the shotgun. What the hell happened?”
“Ham came after Rose and got himself blasted, probably to kingdom come,” Bull said. “Ferg took him away. I’ve got to get Rose somewhere safe.”
“Rose shot Ham?” Jasper looked stunned.
“Since you’ll no doubt be asked, the less I tell you the better. I should be back tomorrow night or the next morning. If you don’t know where I’m going, you won’t have to lie.”
“Fine.” Jasper knew enough to keep his mouth shut.
“What about the cattle?”
“Luckily it was a small caliber weapon—I’m guessing a P32. Half a dozen wounded. A couple of steers will have to be put down. The rest can be patched up with tape and sulfa powder.”
“Any idea who did the shooting?”
“Had to be one of the Prescott gang. Whoever it was, the son of a bitch was gone by the time we got there.”
“Damn.” Bull shook his head. “We
ll, do what you have to. If Krishna and Steve show up, give them a couple days off and send them home. I know I can count on you to look after the place while I’m gone.”
“My chickens!” Rose burst into the kitchen, fully dressed, with her few belongings stuffed into a pillowcase. “I can’t leave without my chickens!”
“We can’t take your damned chickens!” Bull’s nerves were frayed to the snapping point.
“I’ll take care of your chickens, Rose.” Jasper had found a cardboard box and was filling it with snacks and sodas from the kitchen. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep them happy.”
“But when will I be coming back?” She looked stricken.
“Not till it’s safe for you,” Bull said. “That could be a long time.”
“But—”
“You shot a powerful man, Rose. Whether he lives or dies, you’ll be in a lot of trouble—and a lot of danger. Now come on. Let’s go.”
Jasper followed them out the front door to Bull’s truck. The shotgun was lying on the porch where Rose had left it. Bull picked it up, wrapped it in a blanket, and laid it in under the camper cover, which was already on the truck bed. Rose’s things and the box of snacks went in beside it.
Bull climbed into the truck next to Rose. Jasper stood by the open door to see them off. “Be safe,” he said.
“You never saw us and you don’t know where we went. I’ll deal with things when I get back.” Bull closed the door and started the truck. The engine roared as he headed up the lane toward the southbound highway.
* * *
By the time Bull picked up Highway 277 out of San Angelo, the sun was a blazing ball in the cloudless sky. Rose had slept fitfully through the darker, cooler hours, curled on the seat in a blanket. Now she was awake and restless, gazing out the open side window. Loose tendrils of hair fluttered over her face.
She was probably hungry for a real breakfast. But Bull was hesitant to leave the truck outside a restaurant, where it could be spotted by some cruising lawman who might have been given the license number. Maybe in one of the smaller towns they could find a drive-thru. He could use some coffee himself.
“Are you ready to tell me where we’re going?” Her tone was laced with annoyance. Bull couldn’t entirely blame her. She’d been yanked out of her familiar world, even forced to leave her beloved chickens. She was sweaty and hungry and tired, and probably needed a bathroom. And, Bull suspected, she was just beginning to grasp the enormity of what she’d done.
“Did you hear me?” she demanded.
“I did. We’re going to Mexico. I have some friends in a little town there—a nice family. I’m hoping they’ll let you stay with them.”
“Mexico! No way! I don’t even speak Spanish!”
“You’ll be fine. The father speaks good English. And you’ll pick up the language in no time.” He gave her a stern look. “You’ll be safe there, Rose—from the law and also from Ferg Prescott.”
“What if I don’t like it? What if I decide to leave?”
“Then I can’t stop you—or protect you.”
She was silent for a long moment, staring out the window. “I really need to pee,” she said.
“Fine. There’s a truck stop just ahead. I’ll fill the gas tank and get us something to eat. What would you like to drink?”
“Chocolate milk. A whole carton.”
The truck stop had an inside restroom. Bull half expected the girl to do a disappearing act, but she emerged a few minutes later, her face washed and her hair smoothed. She accepted the chocolate milk and the half cheese sandwich Bull offered her, then climbed back into the truck.
“What if those people don’t want me?” she asked as they drove back onto the highway.
Bull gave her a reassuring glance. Earlier he’d thought she was being a brat. Now he realized she was just scared. The poor kid had been through hell in the past few hours. And if she hadn’t shot Ham, she could be going through a lot worse. Rose deserved more credit for courage than he’d given her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll deal with that if it happens.”
Twilight was creeping over the Texas plain when they drove over the bridge at Del Rio and passed through the Mexican border station into Ciudad Acuña. By the time they reached Rio Seco, the stars were out. The little plaza was lit by strings of small light bulbs, stretched between the trees. Couples and families strolled the cobblestone pathways. Music was blaring from the open cantina. Parked out front, in all its polished glory, was Carlos’s beloved old Buick. The sight gladdened Bull’s heart. Joaquin and Raul must have made it safely home.
Bull parked behind the Buick. “Stay put while I find my friends,” he told Rose. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine here.”
Ramón Ortega was seated at his usual table, playing cards with his friends. Catching sight of Bull, he rose with a welcoming smile. “My friend! It’s been two years! What brings you to Rio Seco?”
Bull motioned him out of the cantina to where they could talk. After an exchange of pleasantries, Bull gave Ramón a brief account of Rose’s situation. “She shot an evil man, an important man,” he concluded. “If she stays in the U.S., she could be arrested by the police or even killed by the man’s son. She’s a good girl, a good worker, but she’s been through a bad time. Can you take her in and keep her safe? I’ll be glad to pay for her keep.”
Ramón glanced toward the truck, where Rose was looking nervously out the window. “But of course,” he said. “I must ask my wife, but I know she’ll say yes. Carlos’s sons are working on a sheep ranch near Zacatecas. You taught them well, my friend. They are sending good money home, but our little house is lonely without them. And Maria would love a girl. Wait here. I will go home and ask her to make sure.”
He climbed into the Buick and turned down a side street. His house was nearby, Bull recalled, but maybe his lameness was worse—or maybe he just enjoyed driving his late brother’s beautiful car, even for short distances.
He was back in a few minutes. “Maria would love to take the girl,” he said. “You can follow me to the house in your truck.”
At the house, Bull opened the passenger door and helped Rose to the ground. Ramón’s wife rushed out the front door and, speaking in rapid Spanish, enfolded the girl in a motherly abrazo. For an instant Rose looked almost terrified. Then, to Bull’s surprise, her eyes flooded with tears.
“What is she saying?” she asked Ramón.
Ramón smiled. “Maria is saying that you are already her daughter.”
Bull unloaded the truck, giving Ramón the shotgun for safekeeping. The box of snacks, rare in a place like Rio Seco, he presented to Maria. Rose took her things into the spare bedroom that was to be hers.
Maria insisted that Bull stay for supper before driving back. The meal of black beans, rice, and corn tortillas fresh off the comal was simple but delicious.
The Ortega house was built in the traditional Spanish style, with rooms around a central patio. They had just finished eating, and Rose was helping Maria clear the table, when something seemed to catch her attention. She froze, as if listening. Then, setting down the dish she was holding, she rushed out the screen door to the patio. Moments later she was back, her eyes alight.
“Chickens!” she exclaimed. “They’ve got chickens! And a goat!”
That was when Bull began to believe she would be all right here.
* * *
After recharging on black coffee, giving Ramón the eighty-four dollars left in his wallet, and cautioning Rose not to reveal her location by sending letters to him or to Jasper, Bull set out for home. He was bone weary, but the thought of what awaited him back at the ranch kept him too worried to nod off.
If Ham was dead—as he no doubt would be—Ferg would be on the warpath. True, there’d been no love lost between Ferg and his father. Rose had probably done Ferg a favor by killing the old man. But retaliation would give Ferg an excuse to hit the Rimrock with every dirty trick at his disposal.
Then there
was the law. Ham had been conscious and talking when Ferg took him away. He would have told Ferg who’d shot him, and Ferg would no doubt involve Sheriff Mossberg.
It could be argued that Rose had fired in self-defense and run away out of fear. But Bull was the only witness to that, and he knew how the law could be twisted. With Rose nowhere to be found, he could try to clear her in absentia. But given the Prescotts’ access to high-priced lawyers, that might be a losing battle.
He’d done the right thing, taking her to Mexico, Bull told himself. She would be secure and well cared for with the Ortegas, maybe even happy.
But the odds were, she would never be able to set a safe foot in the United States again.
* * *
The blinding rim of the sun rose over the eastern plains, shocking Bull to full alertness. He fumbled for the visor and pulled it down. For the past few hours, he’d been driving with his brain on autopilot, not really asleep but not really awake. Never a good idea, he told himself. But he’d needed to get home, and he was almost there.
He glanced at the gas gauge. The tank was low, but he’d run it almost empty before without a problem. He hadn’t bought gas, or anything else on the way home, because he’d given all his cash to Ramón, and he didn’t want to use his credit card on the chance that it could be traced. His belly was growling, his nerves screaming for a jolt of coffee. But never mind. He was in familiar country, and he knew that he’d be home in twenty minutes.
One hand raked his sweaty hair back from his face. He’d been dreaming about Susan, the taste of her sexy mouth, the way her lovely, naked body felt in his arms. He wanted her like a drowning man wants air. But she was better off in Savannah, where the evil that had drifted like a miasma over the ranch couldn’t touch her.
She was bound to hear about Ham’s death, and she’d probably be expected to come with her parents to the funeral. But even if she did, he couldn’t involve her in this mess—he loved her, and cherished their future, too much for that. He could only hope she’d be understanding enough to keep her distance until everything was sorted out and the danger was over.
