by Janet Dailey
“How? By going to Ferg? Hell, girl, he’d destroy you to get that land. Look at what he did today—hiding his cows on the Rimrock so he could frame me for stealing them, and maybe even for shooting your friend, McCade. All that to blackmail me into giving up the creek property. That’s the kind of snake you’d be dealing with. His old man killed your granddad for that land. Ferg’s just as bad, if not worse. He’s capable of anything.”
“Maybe so.” Rose’s voice had gone flat and cold. “But this isn’t about the Prescotts. It’s about me and what’s mine. It’s about what’s right.”
“It’s about what’s sensible, Rose. The only way to protect that land and the access to the creek is to keep it as part of the Rimrock. I’m willing to pay you a fair price for it, or trade you for a parcel of land somewhere else. But that’s as far as I’ll go.”
“No.” Rose jumped out of her chair and stood facing him. “My grandfather meant for me to have that land, and I won’t settle for anything else. If that’s all you have to offer me, we’re done here.”
Fighting tears of frustration, she turned away from him and strode down the steps. She’d given Bull every chance to right the wrong he’d done her, and he’d refused. It was time to make a new plan.
* * *
It was after midnight when Ferg climbed into the cab of his pickup, which he’d parked down the block from Bonnie Treadwell’s house, just like in the old days. He hummed to himself as he settled into the driver’s seat and slipped the key into the ignition. Bonnie might be past her prime and putting on a little weight, but when it came to satisfying a man, the old girl hadn’t lost her touch.
Back in the day, when she was waiting tables at the Burger Shack, she and Ferg had been hot and heavy. She’d broken off their relationship to have her trucker husband’s baby. But now that she was divorced, with her ex sharing custody of the boy, she was hornier than ever. Ferg knew he wasn’t the only man who shared her bed—she had a thing for hot, young cowpokes. But as long as he was at the top of her list, Ferg didn’t mind. There were worse things than getting what he wanted in bed without the demands of having a wife.
Where Main Street turned onto the two-lane highway, he stomped the gas pedal, enjoying the squeal of rubber on asphalt as the truck picked up speed. He’d had a few drinks at Bonnie’s, but what the hell? Traffic was light, and even the cops were asleep at this hour. After rolling down the truck windows, he turned up the radio and blasted Merle Haggard into the night.
Flying bugs splattered a mosaic of wings and guts on the windshield. Ferg made a game of pretending they were people in his life. Splat! There you go, Bull Tyler. Splat! You, too, Jasper Platt. Splat! And you, Garn, you gutless wonder of a son. Sometimes I want to—
The earsplitting blare of a horn blasted Ferg’s ears. A huge semi loomed in his windshield, roaring straight down on him. Seized by panic, Ferg wrenched the steering wheel, hard right—but not far enough or fast enough to pull his pickup out of the oncoming lane. The monster truck was almost on him when the driver swerved hard onto the shoulder of the narrow road. Gravel crunched as the shoulder crumbled under the massive tires. Brakes squealing, the semi shuddered to a stop, resting at an angle, just short of tipping onto its side.
A glance in Ferg’s rearview mirror showed the driver’s door opening. He floored the gas pedal and sped away without another look. He was grateful to be alive. But the last thing he needed was a confrontation with an angry trucker and maybe a DUI arrest if the man called the highway patrol.
Ferg had broken out in a cold sweat. Shivering, he closed the truck windows and switched off the radio. It was still sinking in how close he’d come to dying back there. What in hell’s name was that semi doing on the road at this hour, anyway? Only two things would put a big rig on an isolated highway at this hour—a woman or a bunch of stolen cattle.
The notion of cattle thieving led him to recall the day’s events. His foreman had passed on the news that the so-called stolen cattle were safely back. But nobody had mentioned finding Tanner McCade’s body. Deke Triplehorn had orders to lie low after the shooting. The fact that he hadn’t reported in would suggest that he’d done his job.
But what about McCade? If the TSCRA ranger was dead on Rimrock land, there still had to be some way to pin the crime on Bull. He would think on that. Meanwhile, the romp with Bonnie and his narrow escape on the way home had left him exhausted. Right now, all he wanted was to go to bed. He would take stock of the situation in the morning. Whatever was going on, he would figure out a way to work it to his advantage.
Stifling a yawn, he pulled through the gate and drove up the lane into the yard. The house was dark. Even the porch light was off. It operated on a timer, so the bulb must’ve burned out.
Ferg parked the pickup, switched off the headlights, and climbed out of the truck. Stumbling up the steps, he made his way onto the porch. His eyes caught a slight movement in the dark. The hair rose on the back of his neck as he realized that he wasn’t alone. Somebody was sitting in one of the chairs.
“Hello, Ferg,” said Tanner McCade. “Sit down. Let’s have a talk.”
* * *
Tanner had been lying low but keeping an eye on the boss of the Prescott Ranch. Earlier that night, he’d seen Ferg leave in one of the ranch pickups, freshly shaved and wearing a clean change of clothes. A man like Ferg wouldn’t have bothered cleaning up at night unless there was a woman waiting somewhere. And he wouldn’t have taken one of the work vehicles unless he didn’t want to be recognized.
Not that he was breaking any laws. Ferg was a widower, and as long as the women were willing, his sex life was none of Tanner’s business. But cattle showing up where they didn’t belong and bullets flying out of nowhere were another matter.
Tanner had weighed the wisdom of confronting Ferg. On one hand it might be smart to keep what he’d discovered to himself and try to learn more. On the other hand, his head hurt like hell, he’d come damn close to being killed, and he was sick and tired of being played. This had become personal.
A sliver of a crescent moon rode the peak of the sky. In its faint light, Ferg looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “Hell, McCade, you shouldn’t startle a man like that,” he muttered. “If I’d had a gun on me, you’d have been dead by now.”
“You look surprised to see me, Ferg,” Tanner said, deliberately using Prescott’s first name. “Any reason why?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ferg grumbled, moving toward the door. “Whatever it is, it can wait till morning.”
“Fine. But morning will be when I call in to the district office and tell them how your cattle really came to be on the Rimrock and how I came within a gnat’s eyelash of getting shot through the head today.”
Ferg sank onto a chair. “What is it you want, McCade? Name your price.”
“You think I want money? I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a blackmailer.” Inwardly, Tanner celebrated a small victory. Ferg wouldn’t have offered him a bribe if he didn’t have something to hide. “I’m not here to get you in trouble,” he said. “All I want is the truth. I know that the men who fetched your cattle home were the ones who herded those cows onto the Rimrock in the first place—and that they were acting on your orders. What I don’t know is why.”
Ferg’s silence ended in a nervous laugh. “Why, it was a joke, that’s all. A joke on Bull Tyler. We were friends as boys, and we still play pranks on each other.”
That was a lie if he’d ever heard one. “So if it was a joke, why did you send me on the trail of those cattle?”
“Don’t you get it? That was part of the joke. You were supposed to find the cows and threaten Bull with arrest. Then we’d have a good laugh and it would be over. Trouble was, Bull got wind of it and didn’t think it was funny. He ordered me to get my cows off his land.”
“You don’t see me laughing, either. Was my getting shot part of the joke?”
Ferg’s only response was a blank stare.
“
I mentioned it earlier. The men who went after the cows knew about it, too. I met them coming back.” Tanner raised his hat to show the gauze bandage he’d wrapped around his head. “The bullet grazed me, knocked me out, until . . .” He hesitated. Did he want to bring Rose into this? “I came to and made it back here,” he said, deciding against it. Ferg was already lying through his teeth. Nothing he might say about Rose could be counted as truth.
“Well, I’m damned sorry you were shot,” Ferg said. “I may have tried to prank Bull with those cows, but I sure as hell had nothing to do with shooting you. It was probably Bull, or one of his men. I wouldn’t put it past them to gun down a stranger they caught on Tyler land.”
“Your men told me the same thing. I’ll have to look into that—assuming there’s still work to be done here. I don’t like to think you requested an agent here for a joke.”
“Lord, no! I’m still losing stock for real. I’ve shown you the books. We’ve had at least a dozen prime steers vanish into thin air in the past week.”
“Fine. I’ll report in and tell Clive I need to stay awhile longer. But no more tricks, Ferg. No more lies or going behind my back. Understand?”
“Understood.”
Tanner didn’t offer his hand as he turned to go. He hadn’t had much respect for Ferg to begin with, and he was learning that the man was a bully and a liar.
As he walked back to the bunkhouse, his head still aching, his thoughts drifted to Rose and the memory of those sunflower eyes looking down at him, that small, firm breast brushing his shoulder, and those tough little hands washing the blood from his skin. She’d smelled like cheap soap and sagebrush, a mix that had stirred his senses and, even now, left him mildly aroused.
Strange that Rose, of all people, had found him lying unconscious and wounded—maybe too strange now that he thought about it. What if she’d already known where to look for him?
What if it had been her finger that pulled the trigger?
* * *
Sunday morning, after Bull and Jasper had left to check the stock in the new pastures, Rose made coffee in her duplex, gulped it down, bundled up her scant possessions, and carried them outside to her truck.
Last night she’d given Bull one final chance to make things right with her land. He’d made his position clear. The lines had been drawn. She could no longer take advantage of his hospitality or enjoy the friendship of Jasper, Bernice, and the boys.
This was war.
The previous owner of the pickup had left the camper in good condition. Rose piled in her clothes, blankets, tools, and her grandfather’s shotgun, which she laid gently under the mattress. Then she climbed into the cab and took the back road to the creek and the parcel of land that her grandfather had given his life to protect.
Today was Sunday—no day of rest for ranchers and ranch hands who had animals to feed and care for. Still, as she drove the rutted dirt road across the scrubby open range, she sensed a serenity that had settled over the land and over her spirit. What she was about to do wouldn’t be easy. But it had to be done, and she felt right in doing it.
The roundup had cleared the cattle from this part of their range. They would likely be moved back when the grass had had time to grow and the dry summer made the watering tank a vital necessity. All to the good. With luck, she would have a few months of peace and quiet before Bull moved his stock back here. She would consider leasing him rights to the tank, but a lot of things had to happen first.
She pulled up to the edge of the property and climbed out of the truck. She no longer feared Ferg Prescott’s men. Ferg knew her and had offered his help. If she was going to get her property back, she would likely need it.
The narrow strip of land was much as she had left it, the grass eaten and trampled, the tank untended now that the cattle had been moved. A few sunflowers were sprouting where she had once planted her garden—a good omen, she thought.
Looking around, she began to take stock of her needs. First would be a good, stout fence. The barbed wire and posts that had surrounded the place in the old days had been trampled into the ground. Some of the rusty wire might be usable if she could dig it up. But she would need to buy new posts, or fill in the gaps with some of the saplings that had sprouted along the creek. She could sleep in the camper. It had a propane stove but no plumbing. She would have to dig a latrine in a secluded spot until she could build an outhouse.
The creek water was good for drinking and washing. She would have to bathe with a rag and a basin in the dark, but she’d roughed it before and knew how to get by.
As before, she walked to the massive fallen tree that sheltered her grandfather’s grave. Kneeling, she placed her hand on the earth. A lump rose in her throat as she made a silent promise to the old man who had taken her in, protected and educated her. She would make a home here, worthy of the dream he had shared with her.
“Well, look who’s here!” A slightly nasal male voice startled her. Rose sprang to her feet, whirling in the same motion. Garn Prescott stood behind her, a grin on his jut-nosed face. That grin widened as he looked her up and down, his manner unmistakable.
Rose’s stomach clenched, but she knew better than to show fear. She drew herself up and looked hard into Garn’s colorless eyes. His lashes, she forced herself to notice, were so light they were almost transparent, and he had a ripe pimple on his chin. How old was he? Nineteen, maybe?
“You need to get back on your own property,” she said, wishing she hadn’t left her pistol in the truck.
“Oh? And who’s going to make me?” He took a challenging stance, his fists planted on his hip bones.
“You sound like a fourth grader,” she said. “You’re acting like one, too.”
He laughed, but Rose could tell she’d stung him. “I wouldn’t be so high and mighty if I were you, Rose Landro. I know a lot about you.”
“You don’t know me at all.”
“I know enough. I know you shot my grandfather. And I know you used to live here, and that you’d do anything to get this place back.” He winked. “Anything . . .”
“I think you’d better leave.” Rose could feel the adrenaline surging—a wild animal’s fight-or-flight response.
“I could do a lot for you,” he said. “I’ve got connections, and my father listens to me and takes my advice. I’ve got money, too. And good credit if you need a loan to fix this place up. All I’m asking in return is a little neighborly cooperation.”
Sweat beads trickled down the back of Rose’s neck. Her first impulse was to make a break for the truck and drive off, but he’d placed himself in her way. He didn’t look very strong, but he was young and tall, with long arms and big hands. In a struggle, she wouldn’t stand a chance against him.
Heart in her throat, she turned aside, toward the creek. “I’m not that desperate,” she said. “Go get yourself another girl, one closer to your own age.”
His hand caught her elbow, spun her around, and whipped her against him, pinning her arm behind her back. His face was so close that she could see the pores on his nose and smell the mint on his breath. “A woman like you, the way you’ve lived, I know you’ve done it plenty before. And liked it too, I’ll bet.”
“Let me go.” She glared up at him, on the edge of wildness. “Let me go, or so help me I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
He twisted her arm harder, hurting until she almost cried out. “I’d like to see you try, bitch. You’ll thank me when I’m done with—”
“That’s enough, Junior. Let her go.” Tanner’s deep voice came from somewhere behind Garn. With a muttered curse, Garn let go of Rose’s arms and shoved her away from him. She stumbled and fell back against the old cottonwood trunk.
Tanner had stepped out of the willows and crossed the creek. He stood facing Garn, so broad-shouldered and muscular that he made Ferg’s son look like a scarecrow. The pistol at his hip remained holstered.
“Go home, boy,” he said. “If you leave right now, I won’t tell your father wha
t you just tried to do to this lady.”
Garn’s face had turned crimson. “My father doesn’t care! He says that a man needs experience to be a real man. And she’s no lady. You can tell that just by the look of her. She’d spread her legs for the price of a movie ticket. This is none of your business, cowboy. Back off, or I’ll have your ass fired!”
Tanner didn’t move, but his mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile. “I’d like to see you try,” he said. “Run along. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
Garn glared at him. “You’ll pay for this!” He spat out the words as he turned and strode back across the creek, soaking his expensive-looking wing tips in the shallow current. Moments after he disappeared beyond the willows, Rose heard the growl of a light motorbike fading away.
Tanner walked over to where Rose had stumbled against the big cottonwood trunk. She was struggling to stand, her eyes crying angry tears. “Are you all right?” he asked, holding out his hand.
She took it and let Tanner pull her to her feet. Even then she couldn’t control her tears. Garn hadn’t hurt her physically, but his ugly words had pierced her like an ice pick thrust to the bone. Was that how people saw her, as cheap, common, and available to any man who wanted her? Was that the way she should see herself?
Even Tanner, looking down at her now—was that what he saw, a low-class, pathetic creature with no value except as a toy for men to abuse? Did he feel sorry for her?
It was all she could do to keep from breaking apart like a shattered doll. But she had her pride. She wasn’t about to let him see how deeply she’d been hurt. The last thing she wanted was his pity.
Forcing a smile, she drew herself up. “It’s a good thing you happened along,” she said. “I was just about to beat that poor boy to a bloody pulp.”
“I could tell,” Tanner said. “I got here just in time to rescue him. And the fool didn’t even thank me.”
Knees quivering, Rose took a step forward, then stumbled. Tanner reached out to catch her, but she sank back onto the cottonwood trunk, pulling her knees against her and wrapping them with her arms.
