by Janet Dailey
“No!” She was on her feet, the porch light reflecting fire in her eyes. “That parcel of land is my legacy. My grandpa meant for me to make a home there, and that’s what I intend to do. Keeping it from me is nothing short of thievery, Bull Tyler!”
Tossing the empty bottle off the porch, Bull rose to his feet. His height and bulk dwarfed her petite size, but she didn’t back off. “I think your ten minutes are up, Rose,” he said.
Her stubborn chin jutted higher. “Fine. We can talk again later. Meanwhile, I’m expecting you to come up with a fair and honest plan to return my property.”
In your dreams, lady. Bull kept the thought to himself as he strode to the front door. Fairness and honesty didn’t enter into his decision to hold the land. That acreage on the creek, with its year-round water supply from below the caprock, was vital to the survival of his ranch. To turn it over to a defenseless woman, who couldn’t hope to hold it against the Prescotts, would be like slitting his own throat.
As he opened the door, a question struck him. Even before he turned back to ask, Bull knew the answer. “You didn’t waste any time selling that old Buick,” he said. “Who bought it from you?”
“Ferg Prescott made me a fair offer, and I accepted it,” she said. “He paid me in cash.”
Bull turned away, stepped into the house, and slammed the door behind him.
Bernice had left dinner warming in the oven, on a pie plate wrapped in aluminum foil. Bull shoveled down the food, his appetite gone. Ferg and Rose—Lord, didn’t the fool woman know she was dealing with the devil?
It didn’t take a genius to guess what Ferg had in mind. Befriend Rose, win her trust, help her get her land back, then move in and take control, maybe even have her killed. Ferg was capable of anything.
Would Rose listen if he tried to warn her? Not likely, Bull groused to himself. And certainly not tonight. For now, all he could do was keep an eye on the situation and hope Rose would see the danger. It wouldn’t hurt to put in a word to Jasper. Maybe Rose would listen to him.
Shoving his worries aside, he dragged himself down the hall to the master bedroom. The door to the boys’ room stood ajar, the dim light casting a beam across the floor. Pausing, he inched it open far enough to look into the room.
His sons lay asleep in their twin beds, their eyes closed, their hair falling like rumpled silk against the pillows. Will was sprawled beneath his quilt, his arms and legs outflung as if he were flying in his dreams. Beau had drifted off reading a book, which lay open on the floor where he’d dropped it.
Tired as he was, Bull lingered a moment, his heart contracting. Now that Susan was gone, these two boys were all he lived for. The land, the cattle, the backbreaking work that kept it all going, was for them—a legacy to enrich their lives and pass on to future generations. To protect that legacy, he would fight for every inch of ground, against all comers.
Even Rose.
Closing the door, he crossed the hall to get ready for bed.
* * *
The rooster in the chicken yard woke Rose at dawn. Barefoot and dressed in her ragged flannel nightshirt, she pattered out onto the front porch of the duplex. In the east, the unrisen sun streaked the clouds with a blush of fiery pink. An early meadowlark called from the lower pasture.
The morning air was cold enough to make her shiver. She inhaled its freshness, easing herself into the day after a night of hellish dreams that had seemed all too real.
The nightmares were nothing new. Sometimes she dreamed about Mexico and Lucho’s ugly face grinning down at her. Other times it was Ham Prescott and the awful impact of the blast striking his body, or her grandfather staggering into the cabin, barely alive. Last night’s dreams had been a kaleidoscope of memories. She’d woken with a jerk, shaking in the darkness, grateful to be awake and happy that it was almost morning.
Jasper’s truck was already gone. She knew, without looking beyond the house, that Bull’s truck would be gone, too. The roundup started at first light. And after last night’s clash, it wasn’t surprising that Bull would want to make an early getaway.
She would give him a day or two to think about the land before she cornered him again. There was always the hope that he’d come around and do the right thing. But knowing Bull, she was going to need a backup plan.
Would Ferg Prescott be part of that plan? He had offered to help her with anything she needed. She didn’t trust Ferg, but if his offer included access to legal help, she couldn’t afford to walk away—not if Bull left her with no other option.
The lights were on in the kitchen. The aromas of fresh coffee and bacon drifted on the morning breeze. Rose had planned to clean her new truck today, but it wouldn’t hurt to pitch in and offer Bernice some help, as well. It was time she started earning her keep.
She took time to make the bed, shower, and put on clean jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. The ribbon she’d used to tie back her hair was missing. Regret stabbed her as she remembered how María had given her the ribbon to wear on her sixteenth birthday. That aside, having her hair loose was a nuisance while she was working. She would have to make do without it today, or maybe find a rubber band or a length of twine in the house.
By the time she left the duplex the sun was coming up. Behind the house, she stopped to watch the chickens, scratching and pecking for grain in their fenced yard. There were about fifteen of them, their colors—blacks, reds, and rusty browns—reminding her of the birds she’d loved and nurtured as a girl, living on her land with her grandfather. She’d had other chickens in Mexico, and goats, too. She loved goats, with their wise faces and mischievous ways. Maybe when she got her land fenced, she could have chickens and goats again.
She entered the kitchen through the back door. Bull’s two sons were sitting at the table, wolfing down bacon, eggs, and pancakes swimming in maple syrup.
“Pour yourself a cup and help yourself, honey.” Bernice gave her a smile. “You’re just in time.”
“Thanks. I’m starved.” Rose filled a mug with coffee, took an empty chair, and heaped her plate. The kitchen brought back memories of the old days, when she’d made breakfast for Jasper and Bull and any hired hands that showed up. The fixtures and appliances were new, but the cozy warmth and the smells of good food were the same.
Bull’s sons studied her with curious eyes. She’d met them the night she arrived here, but only for a moment before they’d gone off to finish their homework. “Aren’t you boys going to school today?” she asked, making conversation.
“It’s Saturday. We don’t have school on Saturday. Everybody knows that.” Will’s expression was so much like his father’s that Rose had to smile.
“So what do you do on Saturdays?”
“Our dad has chores and stuff for us to do,” Beau said. “If we get done, we can ride our horses.”
“You have your own horses?”
“Uh-huh,” Beau said. “They’re ponies, not big horses. Mine’s Brownie. Will’s is Chief. We take care of them and everything.”
“So where do you go riding?” Rose hadn’t spent much time around children, but she found herself warming to Bull’s bright, handsome sons.
“Mostly just around the ranch,” Will said. “But if Jasper or one of the cowboys goes with us, we can ride into the escarpment. There are some neat canyons there. Some even have Indian drawings on the walls.”
“But we can’t go there today.” Beau nibbled on a strip of bacon. “All the men are on the roundup, and our dad doesn’t let us go without a grown-up.”
“Dad says that next year, when I’m ten, I can help with the roundup,” Will said. “But this year I have to stay home with the baby.”
“I’m not a baby!” Beau’s hand clenched his fork in an angry grip. “I can do anything you can do!”
“That’s enough, boys,” Bernice warned. “Unless you want to spend the day in time-out, you can learn to get along.”
Rose speared a second pancake and doused it with syrup. “I want to do my share w
hile I’m here,” she said to Bernice. “How can I help you today?”
Bernice was cleaning the cast-iron pancake griddle with a paper towel. She paused. “I can handle the housework fine. But with a mountain of bread and cake to bake for the roundup celebration tonight, chasing after these boys will be more than I can do. If you could keep an eye on them and maybe help them with their chores—”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Will grumbled.
“I wouldn’t be babysitting, just helping out,” Rose said. “You can show me what to do.”
“Can you ride a horse?” Will asked.
“Sure.” Rose had helped the Ortegas herd sheep on horseback, spending long days in the saddle.
“If you can ride a horse, we can go to the canyon,” Beau piped up.
Rose glanced at Bernice. “Would that be all right?”
“If you don’t go too far. It’s easy to get lost out there.”
“We won’t get lost,” Will said. “We’ll go to the canyon with the horse pictures. I know the way.”
“All right. You can go after lunch. But only if you get your chores done.”
“Yay!” Beau clapped his hands.
Will gave him a stern look. “We have to get our chores done first. Jasper gave me the list last night. It’s in the bedroom. I’ll get it after we eat.”
After breakfast, Rose waited in the great room with Beau while Will fetched the list. The portrait of Susan, in blue silk and pearls, hung behind them on the wall. Rose turned to look at it, remembering the day Susan had pitched in to help her and Bull bathe the muddy dogs, and how she’d laughed as smelly mud spattered her from head to toe. In the portrait, probably painted when she’d graduated from high school, she looked like a princess. But there’d been more to Susan Rutledge Tyler than beauty. No wonder Bull was desolate without her.
“That’s my mom,” Beau said. “I look at this picture every day. It helps me remember her.”
“I remember her, too,” Rose said. “She was beautiful.”
He looked surprised. “Were you her friend?”
“Not really. I didn’t know her very long. But I liked her.”
“My dad met her when he went back to Georgia to buy a horse,” Beau said. “He saw her and they fell in love. Her folks said she couldn’t marry him because he wasn’t rich, but they got married anyway.”
Rose gave him a smile. That wasn’t the story she remembered, but if this version had become the family legend, who was she to challenge it?
“Let’s get going.” Will headed for the front door with the list in his hand. The boys were expected to work hard on their day off. The list included raking the chicken yard and gathering the eggs, picking up any trash that the dogs or hired hands had left on the ground, shoveling up the dog droppings, filling the water troughs in the stalls and paddocks, and sweeping out the open space in the barn. Even with Rose pitching in, it was a lot for two boys to do. The dogs tagged after them around the yard, happy to have their young masters outside for company on a warm spring day, with the bright sky overhead and the smell of pit barbecue wafting from behind the bunkhouse. Today would be the final day of the spring roundup, and everyone on the ranch looked forward to the celebration that would follow.
“You missed that cigarette wrapper, Beau.” Will pointed to a scrap of white by the bunkhouse door. “Go back and pick it up.”
Beau did as he was told, but his face was a thundercloud. Young as he was, the boy had a mind of his own. Rose couldn’t help wondering what would happen on that inevitable day when he finally stood up to his brother. For now, the best she could do was distract both boys.
“Hey, we’re almost done!” she declared. “Come on, I’ll race you to the water tap.”
Spurred by her challenge, they took off running. Beau, a small streak of lightning, was all smiles when he won. “He always gets ahead of me,” Will complained. “I’m the oldest. It isn’t fair.”
“I’m just faster than you. That’s all, you old slowpoke,” Beau said.
Rose, who’d finished last, made a show of being breathless. “Well, you’re both faster than I am!” she said, panting. “Let’s get our work done.”
* * *
Tanner had been with the roundup crew on the far range most of the morning, cutting out last year’s calves for vaccinations, branding, and castrating. It was hard, dirty work, though no worse than what he’d done on the family ranch in Wyoming. But the real job he’d come to do, keeping his ears open for any talk of rustling, was even more frustrating. He’d learned nothing. Meanwhile, Ferg was getting free labor courtesy of the TSCRA.
It came as a relief when the graying, sun-weathered foreman hailed him and beckoned him out of the melee of hides, horns, sweat, and dirt.
“Just got word that the boss wants you back at the house, McCade. Pronto,” he said. “Leave your horse. The boy who came to fetch you will drive you back in the truck.”
What now? Tanner dismounted, handed off his horse to another cowboy, and headed for the pickup that had just pulled in. What was going on? Was this some new, important development, or was Ferg just pulling his strings again?
Ferg was pacing the front porch as the pickup pulled up to let Tanner off. “It’s about time you showed up,” he grumbled.
“What’s going on?” Tanner didn’t figure he owed the man an apology. Ferg seemed to forget that Tanner was only pretending to work for him.
“What’s going on is a chance to catch those cattle-thieving bastards red-handed. There’s a dozen cows missing from the west pasture that borders on Bull Tyler’s place. One of my hands reported seeing fresh tracks leading right toward the Rimrock. Follow them, and you’ll likely have your rustlers. There’s a horse saddled and waiting outside the stable. Get going!”
Tanner found the horse, a handsome dun, with a canteen of water and a pair of binoculars slung from the saddle horn. His pistol was already holstered at his hip. Not that he planned to use it in single-handed combat against a gang of rustlers. This wasn’t Hollywood. He would try to get a look at the men if they were still there, maybe hang around, out of sight, until a truck—the only practical way for thieves to transport a dozen animals—showed up. He’d get the description and license number, call Clive, and have the truck picked up with the goods on the road. With luck, the trucker would make a deal and nail his contacts on the Rimrock—if that’s where they could be found.
It sounded simple enough, but the thought of what could go wrong—from a no-show to a deadly gunfight—was always there in the back of any lawman’s mind.
So who was behind the stolen cattle?
Tanner knew better than to jump to conclusions. He knew that nothing would make Ferg happier than putting Bull Tyler away for stealing his cattle. But why would Tyler risk prison for a few cows—especially when he’d reported missing cattle, too? More than likely, someone else was responsible.
As he rode west toward the Rimrock Ranch, he kept his eyes on the trail of split-hooved cattle tracks, mingled with the curved prints of shod horses. There’d been at least two riders driving the small herd, maybe more. One of the horses had a loose shoe that was missing a couple of nails and would probably soon come off. At least that one would be easy to track.
The country here was open, the flat ground rising to the foothills of the escarpment, dotted with clumps of sage, cedar, and mesquite. Spring-hatched flies swarmed on droppings that looked to be hours old. It made sense that the rustlers would have moved the cattle sometime in the night. By now the valuable animals could already be gone, loaded in a truck under cover of darkness. He’d be lucky to find anything more than tracks.
At the boundary between the two ranches, Tanner passed a posted sign, probably one of many, facing west. He shook his head as he read the stenciled lettering:
PRESCOTT RANCH. PRIVATE PROPERTY.
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.
The old West was alive and well in this country, Tanner mused as his gaze swept the landscape beyo
nd the sign. Here the scrub was thicker. Clumps of mesquite, which hadn’t been chained out, grew almost as high as a man’s head. At least it would give him some cover if he needed to get in close. But that wasn’t likely. By now, he suspected, the thieves and the stolen stock would be long gone.
Barely had the thought crossed Tanner’s mind when a faint sound, carried by the breeze, reached his ears. He swore in surprise. It was the unmistakable bawling of cattle.
More cautiously, he rode closer. He could hear the animals clearly now. They sounded distressed, as if they might be trapped or thirsty. Why would they still be here? Had the truck been delayed? Had there even been a truck?
Keeping to the heavy brush, he slowed the horse to a walk. A covey of quail burst out of the undergrowth and scattered in a flurry of sounds and feathers. Tanner paused, waiting for them to settle before he went on. Ahead, he could see the rugged red-and-white cliffs of the escarpment and the opening of a shadowed cleft that might be a narrow canyon—a handy place to hide stolen livestock.
Some instinct caused him to glance up. Still distant, he caught a movement in the rocks along the rim of the escarpment. Sunlight glinted on metal—could it be the barrel of a gun?
He shaded his eyes, trying to see more of what he’d glimpsed. It made sense that the thieves would place a guard on the stolen cattle. If he could see an actual person, for later identification it could help him break the case.
He reached for the binoculars and brought them to his eyes. But the horse, which kept shifting and dancing even after he halted the animal, made it difficult to focus the lenses. Tanner decided he might have better luck from the ground.
He had replaced the binoculars and was about to dismount when a rifle shot rang out. The roar of sound exploded in his head as he pitched into blackness, struck the ground, and lay still on dry, red earth.
CHAPTER SIX
BY THE TIME THE LAST WATERING TROUGH WAS FILLED AND THE BARN was swept, Bernice was calling Rose and the boys to wash up for lunch. They hosed off at the outside tap and sat down to tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, and chocolate cake for dessert.
