by Janet Dailey
Ferg hesitated, wondering whether he should ring the doorbell or turn around and leave. He knew better than to ask Bonnie for an explanation. She didn’t owe him one. He knew what she was and what she did. But why now? And why did it have to be with his son?
Garn was still sitting in his car, waiting to see what his father would do—turn and walk away or ring the doorbell and go in. With Garn watching, either way would be a humiliation. But what the hell. Sex was sex, and Bonnie was damned good at it. As long as he was here, he might as well get some. Swallowing his pride, he pushed the doorbell button and waited for Bonnie to come and let him in.
* * *
Garn pulled away from the curb. One hand massaged his swelling jaw. His father’s slap had done some damage, but the blow to the old man’s ego had been worth the pain. It had been damned sweet, seeing the almighty Ferguson Prescott squirm. It would serve him right if he couldn’t get it up with Bonnie tonight.
Garn had enjoyed Bonnie, and he’d paid her generously—not only for the good time in bed but for her services as a liaison between Garn and the mob-owned steakhouse chain that was buying the ranch’s prime beef at a substantial savings over what they’d pay on the open market.
It was a nice little operation, and relatively safe. When Ferg was due to spend time with Bonnie, she’d send out an “all clear” signal by phone. If the timing was right, Garn would call in the location of the cattle and show up to open the gate for the truck. After that, all he needed to do was hold out his hand for the cash, which would go into a secret account, earmarked for the brilliant future he planned—or as a safety net in case he found himself out on the doorstep.
Ferg’s visit tonight had been unplanned until he’d called Bonnie at the last minute. But as it turned out, the timing was good. The truckers would be there at one-thirty, cash in hand.
As for the run-in with his father at Bonnie’s house, that had been an accident. But Garn had no regrets. Even with his sore jaw, the memory of Ferg’s outraged expression would keep him laughing for weeks to come.
* * *
Tanner had stationed himself on the ground behind the crest of a grassy hill, overlooking the small pasture that confined eighteen head of prime Hereford beef. He’d been there for more than an hour without seeing any activity. His legs were getting cramped, and the night air was chilly through his thin jacket. The temptation to give up and go back to the warmth of his bunk was becoming more real by the minute. But he’d resolved to watch until the crack of dawn. He would see this through.
By now the moon had crossed the sky and was settling in the west. Its light cast cedars, animals, and fence lines into long shadows. An owl called out in the darkness. A coyote trotted into sight, spotted Tanner, and turned tail.
He’d fallen into a light doze when the faint, distant crunch of tires on gravel startled him to full alertness. On the far side of the small pasture, a dark shape was moving without lights along the rough road. It was too small to be a truck, but even by moonlight its outline was unmistakable.
It was a black Porsche.
Tanner had brought along a pair of night vision binoculars. Now, as the car stopped short of the pasture gate, he focused them on the windows to make a positive ID of the driver. No surprise there. Even in silhouette there was no mistaking Garn Prescott’s high nose and receding chin.
Tanner whispered a string of curses. Why hadn’t he suspected Garn all along? Ferg’s son had an insider’s knowledge of the ranch and its cattle. He would know how to open the pasture gates. And it was no secret that the young man resented his father. Stealing Ferg’s prize steers would be like a game to him. But now it was time for the game to end.
A larger vehicle—a truck pulling a stock trailer—rumbled around the bend in the road, its headlights off. Garn climbed out of the Porsche with a flashlight and shone it on the lock while he worked the combination. The gate swung open, allowing the truck to drive into the pasture. The two men who climbed out of the truck selected three steers and herded them up a ramp, into the back of the trailer. The time it took allowed Tanner to memorize the license number and general description of the rig.
One man locked the trailer and climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck. The other man handed Garn a fat manila envelope. Garn used the flashlight to peer inside and check the contents, then nodded his acceptance.
With the truck and trailer back on the gravel road, Garn swung the gate shut, closed the padlock, and used a handkerchief to wipe it clean of prints. Then he tossed the envelope into the Porsche, climbed in, and drove off without lights in the direction of the ranch house.
And that was that.
Once Garn was safely out of sight, Tanner stood, stretched his legs, put away the binoculars, and hiked back to where he’d left the pickup.
From the bunkhouse he would call the dispatcher at TSCRA headquarters and have them put out an APB on the truck and trailer. With any luck at all, the cattle buyers would be picked up within the hour.
The real question was what to do about Garn, whose only crime, any good lawyer would argue, was aiding in the theft of his own family’s livestock. Would Ferg be angry enough to press charges? That question would have to wait until tomorrow.
In the bunkhouse, Tanner made the call to headquarters. His job was done for now, but he had one duty left. He wouldn’t go to sleep until he’d made sure Rose was all right.
He went back outside, then climbed in the pickup and drove back along the west border of the ranch to the creek. Switching off the headlights, he parked in the trees and walked to where he could see the trailer, dark and peaceful in the moonlight.
He didn’t want to disturb her sleep. But as the memory of their loving swept over him, a hard reality struck. Now that he’d solved the mystery of the stolen cattle, his time here, with her, would be over.
Tomorrow he would come by the trailer to say good-bye. After that, he could be transferred anywhere in the region. Or maybe he should at least ask for time off to go back to Wyoming and help his brother on the ranch. Either choice would mean a parting from Rose. And given the nature of time and fate, he could be seeing her for the last time. From now on, it would be up to Bull and Jasper to look after her and make sure she was safe.
He stood for a moment, remembering her sweet passion and the feel of her body in his arms. Then he forced himself to turn around and walk back to the truck.
* * *
Rose thrashed and moaned, caught in the grip of a nightmare. The agents of the cartel had captured her and dragged her back to Refugio. He had staked her to the ground for his men to torture with red-hot brands. The first one would put out one of her eyes. She writhed and screamed as the glowing iron, fashioned in the shape of an elaborately curled “C,” moved closer . . . closer . . .
She woke with a convulsive jerk. Her eyes shot open, seeing only darkness. Slowly she began to breathe again. She was alone in the trailer, safe and secure within its walls. The sheets that wrapped her still held the masculine scent of Tanner’s body. She turned over and pressed her face into the pillow, breathing in the aroma of his hair. Even now, she knew better that to expect him back again. But for once in her life he had made her feel safe, almost loved, in a man’s arms. He had given her the gift of hope— the hope that someday she might know that wonderful feeling again.
But nothing, it seemed, could banish the dreams or the fear that they would come true. She had a home now. She had friends to help and protect her. But Refugio would never stop looking for the woman who’d killed his brother. And when he found her, his revenge would be a death of unspeakable pain and horror.
Reflexively, she reached down to where she’d stashed her Smith and Wesson .44, under the edge of the mattress. Drawing it out, she laid it next to her pillow, with her fingers touching the grip. The 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun that had been her grandfather’s was wrapped in a blanket and stashed behind the seat in her pickup—not a safe place. If anybody broke into the truck, that gun would be the f
irst thing they’d find and steal. She would need to find a safer place for it.
Tanner had been worried about Garn Prescott. But Garn was little more than a silly boy. She knew who the real enemy was, and she knew that one day Refugio or his men would come for her. When that day arrived, she would have to be ready to fight for her life.
Closing her eyes, she tried to go back to sleep. But she was wide awake now—free, at least, from another nightmare. Through the window she watched the moon vanish behind the escarpment. Then she lay back to wait for dawn, listening to cricket songs and to the soft babble of the creek. This was her life now. Until the terror closed in on her, she would savor every precious moment of it.
* * *
“Sorry.” Ferg rolled to one side of Bonnie’s bed and lay staring up at the ceiling. “I’m afraid this isn’t my best night,” he said.
“Well, there’s always the next time,” Bonnie soothed. “Most nights you’re a real stallion. Don’t worry, you’ll get it back.”
“I know,” Ferg said. He’d never had this problem before. But tonight had been a fiasco. Every time he got close, the memory of Garn’s insolent, laughing face would hit him like a dash of cold water. Garn. He’d never liked his son. Right now he just plain hated him.
He knew better than to talk about Garn with Bonnie. She never mentioned her other clientele, and even if she did, the subject of Garn would only sour their relationship. The best thing he could do now was get up, go home, and forget tonight had ever happened.
He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and reached for his clothes. His wallet was in his jeans. Pulling it out, he laid a wad of bills on the pillow. “Here, you worked hard enough to earn it.”
“Forget it.” She pushed the money back at him. “Save it for next time. It’ll be better, I know.”
Ferg took the money, even though it was one more blow to his manly pride. She’s right, he told himself. Next time would be better. But wherever Garn was right now, he fervently wished his son in hell.
* * *
Later that same morning, Tanner’s call to Clive Barlow at headquarters confirmed that the truck and trailer, with the stolen cattle, had been stopped by a patrol. The driver and the man who’d paid the money were in jail, and the steers were in a holding corral, waiting to be hauled back to the Prescott Ranch.
“Have the two men said much?” Tanner asked.
“They’re claiming it was a legitimate purchase, but they’ve both got known mob connections,” Clive said. “I’m guessing they’ll be out on bail before lunchtime.”
“So they fessed up that Garn Prescott was selling them his father’s prime beef at a bargain price?”
“It looks that way. How do you want to handle that?”
“You’re asking me?”
“It’s your case,” Clive said. “We know Garn’s guilty, but if Ferg chooses not to press charges, Garn’s off the hook. And even if it went to court, my money would be on a good lawyer getting him off. Ferg would be better off slapping the kid’s hands and cutting off his allowance.”
“Garn’s an adult.”
“In this case it won’t make much difference. The Prescotts are the most powerful family in the county. I’m guessing Ferg will want to keep this out of the press.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Tanner hung up the phone and walked outside. He’d solved the mystery of Ferg’s stolen cattle, but not to anyone’s satisfaction. All he could do was wrap it up and move on.
After breakfast he found Ferg in his office. “I’ve discovered the truth behind your stolen cattle,” he said. “You’re not going to like it.”
“I’m a big boy. I can take bad news.” Ferg had been about to light a Havana, but he laid it down on the onyx ashtray. “Go ahead.”
Still on his feet, Tanner told him what he’d seen last night and what Clive had reported this morning. Ferg didn’t speak, but a dark red color crept up his neck and rose like a conflagration into his face. His fist smashed down on the bell that he used to summon the cook. Moments later the old man shuffled into the room.
“Get Garn down here!” Ferg thundered. “I don’t care what he’s doing. I want him in here now!”
Tanner waited as Ferg lit the cigar and puffed furiously. “How we handle this is up to you, Ferg,” he said. “If you want to press charges, I can arrest Garn here and now, or you can choose to deal with the situation yourself. Clive said he’d go along with whatever you decide.”
Ferg’s face was so deeply flushed that Tanner feared he might have a stroke. He didn’t speak until his son stumbled into the room wearing a maroon silk robe over blue silk pajamas. Garn’s blond hair was mussed, his eyes still bleary from sleep. He made a move toward the empty chair that faced his father’s desk.
“Stand up like a man, if that’s even what you are!” Ferg growled. “Garn, I’d like to introduce you to Tanner McCade, a TSCRA special ranger assigned to track down the cattle thievery on this ranch. It seems he’s tracked it down to you!”
The sidelong glance that Garn cast at Tanner simmered with pure hatred.
“Tell him, McCade,” Ferg said. “Tell my so-called son what you saw last night.”
Tanner summed up what he’d witnessed as briefly as possible. “The men in the truck were arrested. They named you as an accomplice.”
Garn glanced around the room like a caged animal seeking escape. There was none.
“It wasn’t stealing!” he blurted. “Those steers were as much mine as yours! I had every right to sell them!”
Ferg laid the cigar in the ashtray. “Then why do it in the middle of the night? Damn it, you’re my only son, Garn. I’ve tried to raise you right. I’ve tolerated your laziness, your fancy-pants manners, and your total lack of interest in the ranch that our family has worked to build over generations. I’ve tried to tell myself that you’d come around and take responsibility for your inheritance. But now you’ve crossed the line. You’ve sullied the family honor by stealing from your own flesh and blood! What’ve you got to say for yourself?”
“What’ve I got to say?” Garn drew himself up. “All my life you’ve been trying to make me into another you! But I’m not you! And I don’t give a damn about this ranch or the so-called family honor. Honor? Coming from a man like you, that’s a joke!”
Ferg’s anger had turned cold. He glanced at Tanner. “This man has the authority to arrest you and take you to jail. All I have to do is say the word. Is that what you want?”
Garn didn’t answer. For the first time, he looked nervous.
“Is it?” Ferg thundered. Garn gave a slight shake of his head.
“All right,” Ferg said. “Since I don’t want this stain on our family to become public record, I don’t plan to press charges. But I want you gone by the end of the day. I don’t care where you go or what you do. I just don’t want to look at your ugly face again.”
Garn flinched but held his ground. “Fine. I won’t miss this hellhole of a ranch, and I won’t miss you. If I ever set foot here again, it’ll be because you’re dead and gone!” He turned to go, a ludicrous figure in flowing silk nightwear. “Oh, one more thing. If you wonder how I made contact with those buyers, you can ask your girlfriend, Bonnie!”
With that he walked out the door and closed it behind him with an abrupt click. Ferg had gone pale. Evidently he hadn’t known about his lady friend’s involvement.
“Come here, McCade.” His voice was hoarse with strain. Tanner walked to the desk. “Listen. I want you to swear that you’ll forget everything you heard in this room.”
“Done,” Tanner said. “I’ll tell Clive that you decided not to press charges. The rest never happened.”
“And Bonnie—you never heard her name.”
“Got it. I’ll be going now.” Tanner turned away and left the house. He’d already stashed his personal things from the bunkhouse in his own truck. It felt good to see the Prescott ranch growing smaller in his rearview mirror. The whole experience here had left him with a
bad taste in his mouth.
Before he drove back to headquarters, just one thing remained to be done. It would be the most painful thing of all—saying good-bye to Rose.
* * *
Rose was stringing out the salvaged wire for her fence when Tanner pulled up in his truck. Even before he switched off the engine, she knew that he’d come to say good-bye. The pickup he was driving had a Wyoming license plate, which meant it was his own. And he hadn’t come the usual way, from the Prescott side of the creek. He’d driven through the Rimrock to get here. She could only conclude that he’d solved his case and was on his way out of Blanco County—and out of her life.
She stood, pulling off her gloves and putting on a brave face as he climbed out of the truck and walked toward her. She’d known this moment would come. The only surprise was that it had come so soon.
“So your work here is finished,” she said, before he could speak. “Thank you for coming to say good-bye.”
Something like pain flashed across his face, but he managed to return her smile. “We’ve got a little time, Rose,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
As if it were a natural thing, he took her hand. She let him lead her down through the trees, along the creek. Her pounding heart felt as if it were about to break, but she was too proud to let that show. “I’ve known this time would come,” she said. “Where are you off to next?”
“Back to headquarters for now,” he said. “From there I could be sent off on another case—unless I get leave to go back to Wyoming and help my brother. I’ll be requesting time off, but since I’m new at my job, I’m not expecting a yes.”
“How long would you be in Wyoming?” she asked, not that it would make any difference. Gone was gone.
“A couple of weeks, maybe. My brother’s in a bad way. His wife is expecting their fifth baby, and the doctor’s ordered her to bed. And the calving season is on. The ranch isn’t a big one, but Clint can’t afford to hire much help, even with the money I send him.”
“Would you be all right, going back?” She knew about the memories waiting for him there.
