A Man of the Land (Masterson Family Series Book 2)

by Devine,Carol

  His head lowered and his body curled, wiggling. He moved forward, dragging the chain, belly low, begging with his eyes. He wriggled harder, sending a clear message of hopefulness.

  Scarcely believing, Sarah backed up a step. He came to the end of his chain and tried to roll over but there wasn't enough room. He lay on his side and eyed her, cropped tail thumping.

  She extended her hand. He pawed the air and tipped up his heavy jaw, exposing his throat. She bent down, barely within reach. His cold, wet nose met her fingers. Frightened, she jerked her hand back.

  He wheezed, straining forward against the chain closing around his throat. With a shaky thumb, she grazed the top of his head and stroked it once, twice. His tail thumped harder.

  Sarah crept closer so he wouldn't have to strain against the leather closing around his throat and petted his furrowed brow with her whole hand, then scratched his ears in the way he used to love. He still loved it. Shuddering in ecstasy, he whimpered.

  "Butcher?" she asked. "Do you really remember?"

  He yelped, the sound both happy and mournful. Swallowing back the lump in her throat, Sarah reached for his collar. He leapt to his feet, trembling with anticipation.

  "If you come with me, I can't promise a steady supply of food. But I can promise you won't be chained again, ever. And you'll always have fresh water."

  She unhooked the heavy link chain from his collar. He streaked by her out the door. Sarah chucked the shotgun beneath his bedding and followed.

  Cal hadn't moved. The wind rushed through the trees. Just underneath, she heard a more insidious noise. In the lantern light, she saw Butcher licking the blood from Cal's slack face.

  Squaring her shoulders, she picked up the pillowcase and plunged across the field. Butcher could come or go as he pleased. What mattered was her journey. It had begun. She would find her own place in the world.

  A belonging place.

  Chapter One

  Zach Masterson didn't like the sight that greeted him when he stepped outside the trailer. Last night when he'd arrived at the Bar M in the wee hours of the morning, it had been too dark to see much more than the outlines of the various ranch buildings. Now, in the full light of day, Zach spent a moment studying exactly what he'd missed.

  Junk littered the yard. Most of it was farm machinery, pieces of tractors, combines, even the rusting hood from an old Chevy pickup. Whole sections of the corral next to the main barn were missing and the barbed wire fence along the lane leading to the road sagged like the back of an old mule. The tack shed looked ready to collapse while the little two stall barn where his mother used to keep a milk cow already had. The roof on the main barn was pretty much gone, caved in places or shingles ripped away by wind. Obviously, there hadn't been money spent on capital improvements to the ranch in years.

  He veered left and come to a stop beneath one of the giant cottonwoods that ringed the yard. The main house still stood, rising in all its two-story Victorian glory. It was easily in the best shape of all the ranch buildings, despite the boarded up windows and peeling paint.

  Zach wished he had bulldozed it ten years ago when his father died and he'd had the chance.

  He pivoted on his heel and headed toward the main barn, stirring puffs of dust with every step he took. His mind skipped ahead to what he had to accomplish over the course of the next few weeks. Before arriving at the Bar M, he'd been certain he could make short work of selling the place. The Masterson Ranch was famous for its picturesque setting and spring-fed pastures, a rarity amid the semi-arid foothills of Colorado's Front Range. Once the hay fields were harvested and the cattle rounded up and sold, getting rid of everything else figured to be a cinch. But no one in their right mind would want to buy the place as is, not as a working ranch, which was the only way the rest of his blasted family was willing to sell.

  He paused next to the old corn silo pocked with rust and calculated how much it would cost to fix things up, both in time and money. He'd told his South American partner, Manuelo, he'd only be away from their guide business, Amazon Explorations, for a week or two, a month at most. If he ended up staying here longer than that, he'd lose money, not to mention his sanity.

  Already he missed Rio Negro and the cover of broad green leaves, of shade so deep it felt like night, of the constant humming of jungle life. Here, his dark hair and tanned skin captured the heat of the late September sun and the blinding light bothered his light-colored blue eyes. Everything was open in Colorado, land, mountains and sky in equal measure with trees being an afterthought. This time of year, the rolling landscape of the ranch tended to be so dry it took on a silvery hue.

  Zach heard male voices and changed direction. He could stand anything if it had a foreseeable end. He would make sure it took no more than a month to get the ranch in shape and ready to sell. Jackson, the ranch foreman, was a goner for letting things get this bad. With the cooperation of the rest of the Bar M ranch hands, he would get out of here by the end of October. Tops.

  Zach reached the fence and acknowledged the four men gathered there with a brisk nod. His motives would be suspect if he appeared too friendly. Three of the men had never set eyes on him before and Ty Coburn, the old-timer of the bunch, hadn't seen Zach show his stuff since he'd left the ranch for good after high school, thirteen years ago.

  Coburn looked him over, a yellow, tobacco-stained grin on his lean and leathery face, shadowed by his cowboy hat. These days, more silver than gold threaded the droopy mustache. "Pretty fancy duds you got on there, boss."

  Zach didn't bother to glance down at his black t-shirt and camouflage fatigues, scrounged years ago from an army surplus store. The only concession he'd made to the cattle country uniform were his cowboy boots, bought during the long trip from South America. The Vibram soles of his jungle boots were too thick to fit into a stirrup.

  "Do I pass inspection?" he asked.

  "You're missing something."

  "What might that be?"

  Ty flicked the brim of his Stetson." Can't be a self-respecting cattleman without a hat."

  "I'll never be a cattleman, self-respecting or otherwise." Just because he needed their cooperation didn't mean he should give them a false impression about why he was here.

  "How about a cowboy, short and simple?"

  Zach squinted into the sun, appearing to consider the question. He knew the word cowboy, overused by the urban population, had become a derogatory term to these men. Deadpan, he said. "Not since I was knee-high to a grasshopper and my daddy gave me lessons in mutton bustin'."

  Ty shook his head. "You haven't changed much by the sound of it. Still poking fun at what you always been best at."

  "Eating grasshoppers?"

  Along with Ty's rueful grin, the other three men cracked smiles. Zach used the moment to study all four faces, shaded by the ever present hats. These were tough and range-hardened men and at this particular moment in time, despite any appreciation they might show for his wit, he hadn't earned the respect of any of them. Respect went out the window if a man felt like his job was at stake.

  "Jackson tell any of you why I came back to the Bar M?"

  The men stopped smiling and the feeling of camaraderie abruptly ended.

  "Nope. Been lots of rumors, though," Ty replied evenly.

  "My family has decided to sell the ranch," Zach said bluntly, unwilling to waste their time on hemming and hawing. "Any questions?"

  He expected their sullen silence and let it build while he pulled out a pair of roping gloves from his back pocket, all the while eyeing each man directly. No point in pulling punches, not when he was talking about their future. "This ranch hasn't been home to anyone in the Masterson family for a long time. That's why we're selling."

  "What about Bram?" Ty asked. "Not long ago he told me as the oldest in the family, he'd made sure the Bar M never got sold."

  "Bram's married now, with a child on the way. He and his wife have their own place and other things to worry about than the running of
the Bar M. No one else in the family wants to hold onto it. Bram was overruled."

  "Four to one?" Ty asked, making reference to the all five Masterson siblings.

  Zach nodded. "I've been lobbying for this the longest, so I got elected to oversee the sale."

  "What about us? How soon will you be laying us off?"

  The question came from one of the middle-aged ranch hands. From Ty's description during the ride in from the airport, Zach recalled his name as Jason Miller. Beneath the straw brim, his peppered hair was trimmed and his jaw closely shaven. Even before Zach checked out the ring finger on the man's left hand, he guessed what Miller's problem was. Job security was number one when a man had a family to support.

  "You'll be paid through the time of sale, plus two weeks severance after the new owners take over. Whether they keep you on or not, I can't make promises."

  He studied the rugged faces, looking for telltale signs of resentment. Better to air such feelings out now rather than let them fester. He'd led various expeditions for years and learned that truth with his employees was best, especially if you wanted your crew to work hard without complaint.

  "The family is determined to sell this place in one piece and keep it a working ranch. I mean to get top dollar for it. Right now, that means some major fixing up, which means hard work and long hours for each of you. If you want to quit and draw your wages now, I'll understand and give you a good reference. But if you stay, I'll expect you to see the job through until the ranch is sold." He looked directly at Ty. "You staying, Coburn?"

  "Reckon I will, boss."

  Zach nodded. "As of today, you're the ranch foreman. If Jackson gives you a hard time, tell him not to bother cashing this week's paycheck. It won't be good."

  "Right, boss."

  "You men know what needs doing around here. Make a list and let Coburn know what skills you can bring to the job of cleaning out and fixing things. Whatever's left, I'll take on. Meanwhile, I'm going to check out more of the place."

  Zach scanned the dozen horses in the only corral that was in good repair. He didn't plan to ride long, just hard, seeking something from speed that he hadn't been able to find anywhere else since he'd gotten here.

  He chose a buckskin mare, the best of the lot brought in from the back pasture. These were a mix of the younger and the oldest horses, either part broke or ready to retire. Coburn mentioned the buckskin was particularly high-strung, which only made her more attractive to Zach. He loved to challenge himself. In less than fifteen minutes, he had her roped, brushed, saddled, bridled and tied outside the corral.

  "Still got the touch," Coburn said. "It's like you never left."

  "Too bad horses don't mix with life on the Amazon." Zach winked at Coburn. "Too many jaguars and piranha."

  Coburn went to the head of the buckskin and held the bridle so Zach could mount. He gave her a minute to smell and eye him, then took the reins and grabbed a good hunk of black mane. She quivered and stomped her hooves.

  "You sure about this, boss? She's green and mean."

  "Then stay out of the way. If she has the room, she'll run." Zach swung on.

  The buckskin took off at a dead gallop which suited him just fine. He gave her her head and she headed west where the land stretched in ever-rising hills, each one higher than the one before it. Once, all of them had been part of the Masterson range. Soon, none of them would be.

  At the thought, he jerked the reins and steered the buckskin sideways, cutting upward to the top of the nearest ridge. Despite the steep grade, the mare obeyed without protest, although Zach sensed she was prone to shy if he should suddenly decide to change direction.

  When he topped the ridge, the wind blowing in his face held the smell of burning wood. Pinon, he guessed, judging from the tang. Unexplained fire was always reason for concern. He scanned the small valley on the other side. The land was rocky, cut by the remnants of what had once been a good sized river. Now all that remained was a wide but shallow ribbon of water that snaked its way along the bottom of the valley.

  The creek was a magnet for all types of creatures, including people. Zach had a hunch some hikers had set up house, complete with campfire. His jaw tightened. With public hiking trails available on the western border of his property, trespassing was inexcusable.

  A wisp of rising smoke led his eye to a grove of golden leafed aspen. He spurred the buckskin into a slow ascent, careful of his approach. He steered the horse into the creek to mask the sound of plodding hooves. Poachers were always a possibility. He wanted to be absolutely sure of what he was getting into before he rode in.

  This time of year the creek ran fast and low, fueled by early snow in the mountains to the west and the steep slope of the ridge. Cottonwoods, aspen, willows and scrub oak grew on either side of the water, screening what lay ahead. He rounded a bend and spotted a flash of solid white, unnatural against the shifting view of trees and water. Zack reined in, taking shelter under the shade of a giant willow overhanging the bank.

  Whoever it was, she faced away from him. At least he thought the slight figure belonged to a she. Behind her, sunshine sparkled on the fast-moving water. Dressed in something long, white and flowing, the full extent of her build was hidden by wavy hair that fell past her hips. She was fairly tall, but with her back to him, it was hard to tell her age from this far away.

  She waded into the creek and the current took her skirt, sending the hem swirling around her legs. The undertow must have been strong, for she swayed and held out her arms for balance. Her hair swung like a curtain over one shoulder, revealing a gap between her skirt and her short blouse. Her waist was narrow and well-defined. Delicate hollows marked her spine. Hips flared in subtly provocative curves.

  Woman. Definitely a woman.

  Poised like a dragonfly above the water, she stepped cautiously, intent with purpose. Zach squinted, trying to figure out what she was doing. Fishing? She should be wearing pants and waders. This time of year, the water was freezing.

  He steered the buckskin to the very edge of the concealing shade, closing the distance to twenty feet. If she turned, she would see him but looking at her graceful shape, it was a gamble he was willing to take.

  She reached a knee-high boulder in the middle of the creek and placed a hand on top, using it for support. Against the speckled granite, he saw she clutched a gnarled brown root. She stooped and fished a good sized stone up from the creek bottom, then dunked the root before laying it out on the boulder and pounding it with the stone. White suds began to appear.

  Zach sniffed the sifting breeze. Clean. When mixed with water, mashed yucca root had a fresh scent and made a pretty good soap. He himself had used it in a pinch.

  She bent forward and splashed water upward with her hands, drenching both her hair and clothes. Sunlight angled through the sodden fabric, revealing the outline of long, slender legs. Straightening, she gathered suds from the boulder and dumped them on her head. The froth of white raced down her hair. Flexing her fingers, she worked the lather in and tilted back to bask her face in the sun. Her neat profile angled into a lovely neck, supple and strong. Remnants of foam dripped down her chemise, molding it to her body.

  Zach studied the willowy torso with an appreciative eye. The fluid arms, the elegant points of her shoulders, the athletic extension of a body honed and fit drew him like nothing else could. His first lover had been a ballet dancer and this woman had the same nimble deftness that came with extreme discipline. A rock climber, maybe, come down from Longs Peak?

  She bent low and rinsed her hair, efficient with grace. He wished she'd remove her clothes. They were superfluous given this remote setting. And judging by how wet she was already, it would made her life easier, not to mention his. Just the thought of seeing her naked made him unbearably hard. Sitting astride the horse didn't help. Neither did the buckskin. When he shifted in the saddle, she shied and danced forward, splashing.

  Sarah heard the rapid pattern of skipping hooves coming fast. Dear Go
d, she thought in panic. Cal had finally found her.

  She straightened like a shot. Her hair sailed through the air, spraying droplets in a high, flying arc. The buckskin neighed in fear and reared in the face of this sudden threat. Thrown forward, Zach jerked the reins short, keeping the horse's head up so she wouldn't buck.

  Terrified, Sarah raised her hands to ward off a blow. How like Cal to ambush her in broad daylight, when she'd least expect it.

  Staggering, her bare feet floundered on the rocky creek bed. Her arms pin-wheeled and she lost her balance, landing hard on her backside. The breath went clean out of her. She heard the thrashing grunt of a frightened horse and a man's voice, low and calm.

  "Whoa, girl. Easy."

  Sarah sat up and shook the hair from her eyes. The wild-eyed horse was tan in color, with black markings, just like Nutkin. But larger. Much larger. And the man on top did not look familiar in the least.

  She rose slowly, noting the expert way he settled his mount. He hooked the frightened horse in a neat circle under a tight, uncompromising rein, showing off the bronzed biceps of an experienced wrangler. Horse and rider halted a few feet away.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  Still breathless, Sarah didn't answer. He sat his horse easy, with his hands relaxed and his stomach concave in that deceptive slouch all expert cowboys employed. Yet he was without the wide-brimmed hat she'd come to expect. Black shaggy hair brushed a jaw shadowed by whisker stubble. Black cotton stretched tight across the front of his broad chest. Called a t-shirt because of its distinctive shape, Sarah decided the shirt was a clear V, for while his shoulders were wide, the rest of him tapered to a cougar-like leanness. Instead of blue jeans, which in her experience was the attire of choice for most men in cattle country, he wore trousers splotched with earthen colors: brown, green, tan. Most surprising of all, his pointy-toed cowboy boots looked brand-spanking new.

  Sarah wrung out the hem of her petticoat, eyeing him warily. In spite of his unusual clothing, he had the face of a cowboy, sun-browned, rugged and inordinately appealing.