by Janet Dailey
By the time he passed Blanco Springs and took the turnoff to the ranch, Bull’s head was aching, along with every muscle and joint in his arena-battered body. The idea of a hot shower, warm food in his belly, and eight solid hours between the sheets struck him as pure heaven. Unless some new crisis had reared its ugly head, he planned to enjoy every minute of the rest he’d earned. He could wade into the ongoing problems with renewed energy when he woke up.
As he sighted the house, a curse escaped Bull’s lips. Sheriff Mossberg’s big tan Jeep was parked next to the porch. He and Mossberg had rubbed each other the wrong way ever since their first encounter, when the sheriff had refused to look into Carlos’s murder. Today, one thing was sure. This was no friendly visit. With luck, the ex-military lawman was only here to look at the crime scene and ask a few questions. But when Bull drove closer and saw Ferg and a deputy standing next to Jasper, he sensed trouble.
Pulling up next to the sheriff’s Jeep, he turned off the engine, opened the door, and dragged his aching body out of the driver’s seat. “Sheriff?” It was both a greeting and a question. “What can I do for you?”
Mossberg wasn’t smiling. “We’ve been waiting for you, Virgil,” he said. “Turn around.”
Heart slamming, Bull did as he was told. “What the hell—?”
Moving behind him, the deputy yanked his arms back and clamped a set of steel handcuffs around his wrists. The sheriff spoke. “Virgil Tyler, you’re under arrest for the murder of Hamilton Prescott. Deputy, get him in the vehicle and read him his rights.”
As the deputy shoved Bull toward the sheriff’s Jeep, Bull glanced back over his shoulder. Ferg stood next to the sheriff. His face wore a triumphant grin.
* * *
Susan was at the table on the patio, searching the newspaper ads for job openings. So far she’d landed a couple of interviews, but most employers, she’d learned, wanted someone with experience or at least some marketable job skills, neither of which she had. Her father had been right. It was a tough world out there.
She’d circled several possibilities and was about to go into the house and make some calls when her father came outside. One look at his pallid face told her something was wrong.
Her first thought was, Oh no, not more heart problems! “Are you all right, Dad?” she asked anxiously.
“It’s not me,” he said. “It’s something else. I just got a call from Ferg. Ham was murdered two nights ago. Bull Tyler’s been arrested and charged with the crime.”
Using every ounce of strength she possessed, Susan willed herself not to betray any emotion. On the outside, she was a statue. On the inside, she was spiraling into a bottomless black pit, with nothing to grasp and no one to hear her silent screams. This nightmare couldn’t be real. But she had to make herself believe that it was.
Bull. She had to get to Bull. She had to be there for him.
“Tell me what happened.” She forced out the words.
“According to Ferg, Ham got a call in the middle of the night from Bull. Somebody was shooting cattle on the Rimrock. Ham drove over to talk to Bull and tell him it wasn’t his doing. While he was walking toward the house, Bull came out with a shotgun and killed him.”
“How do they know it was Bull?” Susan asked. “Were there any witnesses?”
“No. The hands were all with the cattle. But it was Bull, all right. Ferg had seen Ham leave the house and was worried about him. He showed up before Ham died and tried to get his father home, but Ham didn’t make it.”
“So nobody except Bull saw the shooting.”
“No, but last thing before the end, Ham told Ferg that Bull had shot him. A dying man’s words can be pretty powerful evidence—and there was a lot of bad blood between Bull and the Prescotts.”
No denying that, Susan thought. “What about the girl—the foreman’s niece? Wasn’t she there?”
Cliff gave her a puzzled look. “What girl? I didn’t hear anything about a girl.”
“Never mind.” Susan forced herself to breathe. The story, as Cliff had told it, was entirely believable. Except that she knew Bull, and she knew he would never destroy their lives by killing a man—even a hateful man like Ham—in cold blood. Something was missing.
“Did Uncle Ham have a gun?”
“Ferg says he didn’t. And the sheriff’s men didn’t find one. Bull shot an unarmed man.”
“What does Bull say?”
“As far as I know, he isn’t talking.”
Susan gazed down at the newspaper she’d spread on the table. A slow terror crept over her as she struggled to collect her thoughts. If it could be proven that he’d lured Ham to the Rimrock to kill him, Bull could spend his life in prison, or even be sentenced to death.
Something wasn’t adding up. She had to help Bull, but to do that she had to know the truth—truth she could only get from Bull’s own lips.
Or maybe from someone else—someone who had no reason to like her or even talk to her, especially now.
“I suppose we’ll be going to the funeral,” she said. “Did Ferg tell you when it’s to be?”
“Three days from now.” Cliff looked stricken. He and Ham had grown up together, Susan reminded herself. They were brothers in every way but blood. He was genuinely grieving.
“The coroner’s agreed to release Ham’s body to the mortuary before then. No mystery about what killed him. I’ve already booked our flights. Since we won’t want to impose on Ferg’s family, we’ll be flying into Lubbock early that morning, renting a car, and returning home that night. I hope that’s agreeable.
“It’s fine.” Susan wouldn’t be making the return flight with her parents, but she could fight that battle when the time came. All she wanted was to stay in Texas and be there for Bull.
* * *
That night she drove to the hotel and shut herself into the phone booth with a handful of quarters. With a shaking hand, she lifted the receiver, inserted some coins, and placed a call to the Rimrock.
Jasper answered on the second ring.
“Jasper, this is Susan Rutledge. I know you might not want to talk to me—”
“You know right,” he drawled. “If you hadn’t let Bull steal you from Ferg, he might not be in this godawful mess.”
“I want to help him,” she said. “I can pay for a lawyer, a good one.”
“You know Bull wouldn’t stand for that. Anyway, he’s got a decent lawyer, one the court gave him.”
“Fine.” Susan took a deep breath. “Jasper, maybe you can’t say a lot. But please tell me one thing. Every instinct in my body tells me that Ferg is lying and Bull didn’t do this. Am I right?”
“Yup.”
“So you know what really happened.”
“I didn’t see it, but I know what Bull told me, and I believe him.”
“So why don’t you tell the sheriff the truth?”
“Because Bull ordered me not to. And because nobody would believe me—just like they wouldn’t believe Bull.”
“Can’t you tell me more?”
“Not over the phone,” Jasper said. Susan could only hope it was a veiled invitation.
“I’m coming,” she said. “There’s no way I can stay with the Prescotts. Will you let me stay at the Rimrock?”
“I will . . . for Bull.”
By the time Susan ended the call, she knew what she had to do. At home she packed a bag, wrote a note to her parents, who were at a charity dinner, and left by the back door. Minutes later she was in her Mustang, headed for the Interstate.
It was time to grow up.
* * *
Bull’s court-appointed lawyer, Ned Purvis, had retired from active practice six years ago. But he still helped out when the court was shorthanded and needed a defense attorney. It kept him sharp, he liked to say. And there was nothing like a good murder trial to get the old juices flowing. Nearsighted and troubled by arthritis, he walked with a slight limp. In a movie, he might’ve been played by Walter Brennan.
Bull hadn
’t planned to tell him about Rose. But after Purvis assured him that lawyer–client privilege was inviolate and that he’d need the whole story to serve as his defense, Bull came clean, revealing everything.
“So a fourteen-year-old orphan girl shot Ham Prescott and you took her out of the country to protect her.” Purvis shook his head. “I believe you. Nobody would make up such a crazy story. But it wouldn’t hold up worth a damn in court. The prosecution would push the idea that the girl saw you kill Ham, and you got her out of the good old U.S. of A. to keep her from testifying—or maybe even killed her, too.”
“I’ve thought of that.” Bull sat on a straight-backed chair, wearing an ugly black-and-white-striped prisoner’s jumpsuit. His wrists were handcuffed to the table in the interrogation room of the Blanco County jail. His arraignment, where he would enter a not guilty plea, was hours away. He had never felt more wretched in his life, but he couldn’t give up his freedom and let Ferg destroy everything he’d fought for.
“I want to leave Rose out of this,” Bull said. “If I get off on the basis of her guilt, it would make her a fugitive for the rest of her life. Besides, bringing her up would only complicate our case.”
“So you’re saying that you’d admit to killing Ham yourself, even if it wasn’t true?”
“Rose shot Ham in self-defense. If I’d been in her place, I would’ve done exactly the same thing.”
“Hold on an all-fired minute while I get this straight. You told me that Ham killed her grandfather—and that you used that information to control him. That’s extortion and obstruction of justice. I can see why you wouldn’t want it brought up in trial. But the basic question is this: Did Rose shoot Ham for revenge, or because he was a threat to her?”
“The revenge part doesn’t make any difference. Ham was walking toward the house with a pistol in his hand. I saw it myself. I knew he was capable of killing. So did Rose. Whoever shot him, it was self-defense, pure and simple.”
Purvis’s eyes narrowed behind his thick spectacles. “Are you trying to do my job, young man? Listen, Ferg’s story is that you phoned Ham, lured him to your place, and shot him as he got out of his truck. That’s first-degree murder.”
“Ferg’s lying. I never called anybody. You can check the phone company records.”
“I’ll do that.” Purvis made a note on his yellow legal pad. “The other thing is the gun. The sheriff and his deputies searched every square inch of that yard. There was no sign of any gun, let alone one with Ham’s blood and fingerprints on it.”
The news caught Bull by surprise, touching the place where he felt fear. “I know Ham had a gun,” he said. “It was a small one, in his right hand. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Could Ferg have taken it?”
“If he had, he would’ve kept it to himself. But I don’t think he did. I helped him get Ham into the truck. His hands were in sight the whole time.” Bull shook his head. “Ham was shot mostly on the right side. The gun would’ve flown out of his hand when he was hit.”
“Then why wasn’t it found the next morning when the sheriff showed up?” Purvis stood up and shuffled his papers. “You’d better pray that gun turns up. With it, you’ve got good support for self-defense. Without it—you’re up the creek, my friend.”
CHAPTER 18
THE SUN WAS HIGH AND HOT WHEN SUSAN DROVE HER MUSTANG into the dusty Rimrock yard and pulled up to the house. Dozing in the shade of the porch, the two dogs roused and came bounding out to greet her.
“Whoa . . . Down, boys! Good doggies!” She shooed them away. She liked dogs, but these two furry bundles of mischief were into everything, and they loved collecting dirt and smells on their shaggy coats. If they were hers, she would take them to a groomer and have them washed and clipped. Maybe one day . . .
She began to shake. Only now, as she rooted her feet on Bull’s beloved ranch, did it strike home that he was really gone, and he might not be coming back?
Exhausted after long hours of driving, her body craved rest. But the need to find out more about Bull was even more urgent.
“Hello?” Except for the dogs, the yard was empty. The vanes of the windmill turned lazily in the breeze. Two magpies squawked and scolded from an overhead power line. The two pickup trucks, Bull’s and Jasper’s, were parked nearby. Where was everybody? Rose, at least, should be here.
“Hello?” she called again.
“Howdy, ma’am.” The gangly young cowboy coming around the house startled her. “Jasper asked me to keep an eye out for you. He’ll be along in a bit. Meanwhile, he says you can go inside and help yourself to a cold one.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.” Susan retrieved her purse from the front seat and her bag from the trunk. She opened the screen door and brought them inside, setting them in the living room. She’d been in the house only once before. Back then, Bull had apologized for its messiness. Now she could see that work was being done. In the kitchen, the flooring, plumbing fixtures, and refrigerator had been replaced, and some of the cabinets had been torn out. When she remembered that Bull had been fixing up the house for her, she almost broke down. But she mustn’t cry. Not yet.
In the refrigerator there was nothing to drink except beer. But at least it was cold. She popped the tab on the can and walked back into the living room. The house was eerily quiet. Had something happened to Rose?
“So you came.” Jasper walked in from the kitchen, his clothes dusty, his face dour. One hand held an open can of Dos Equis. “I was hoping you’d decide against it.”
“I couldn’t stay away,” Susan said. “Thank you for letting me come. I hope I can help in some way.”
Jasper sank into a battered armchair by the old brick fireplace. “There’s not much you can do here except wring your hands and fret. But you’re welcome to stay.”
Susan sank onto the arm of the sofa. “Have you seen Bull since the arrest?”
Jasper shook his head. “Only at the arraignment and bail hearing, and then I couldn’t talk to him. The judge set bail at $300,000. Bull could’ve put up the ranch and made it, but he chose not to do that. He said there’d never been a lien on the Rimrock, and there wouldn’t be one now. Proud cuss, maybe a little crazy in the head, but I understand.”
“I need to see him, Jasper. How do I do that?”
“They’ve got him locked up pretty tight. His lawyer, Ned Purvis, is a good sort. Old geezer, but sharp. If you want to see Bull, your best chance would be to go through him.”
“You’ve got his number?”
“It should be around here somewhere.”
Susan glanced around, still puzzled. “Where’s Rose? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. She’s . . . gone.” Something about that flicker of hesitation and the look in Jasper’s eyes betrayed the truth. Stunned, Susan stared at him. She recalled the overheard conversation between Bull and Ham, and what Bull had said later about the girl being in danger. Suddenly it all made sense.
“Oh, my God.” She breathed the words, scarcely daring to speak them aloud. “It was Rose who shot Ham, wasn’t it? And Bull’s protecting her. Where is she?”
“Bull hustled her out of the country after the shooting. I’ve got a pretty good idea where he left her, but I won’t say more than that. The sheriff was waiting for him when he got back here. It was Ferg who called the law in and told Mossberg his version of what happened. Don’t ask me if Ferg was lying, or if he really thought Bull killed his dad. I don’t know the answer.”
“But if Bull’s innocent, why doesn’t he just tell the truth?” Susan demanded.
Jasper rose. “No more questions. Anything else you want to know, you can ask his lawyer. Old Purvis knows more than I do, and he can explain it better.” He turned toward the kitchen, then paused. “The phone number you want is on a piece of paper in the office. You can bunk in Rose’s old room. It’s the one that’s empty. Clean sheets for the bed are in the closet. I’ll be out by the pasture if you need anything.”
He was
gone without waiting for her to thank him.
Susan took a few minutes to put her suitcase on the bed and freshen up in the bathroom. She couldn’t blame Jasper for being distant. She’d started out as Ferg’s fiancée, then stirred up trouble when she fell in love with Bull.
If she’d left well enough alone, would Bull be in jail now? But even if she could answer that question, it was too late to change anything. Now was now. The man she loved was in trouble, and she would do anything in her power to save him.
In the office she found the phone number and called Ned Purvis. The lawyer answered the phone himself. His voice was that of an old man with a note of warmth that put her at ease.
“Bull didn’t tell me he had a fiancée,” he said after she’d introduced herself.
“We’re keeping that under wraps for now,” Susan said. “But it’s urgent that I talk with you. I need to understand what’s happened and maybe give you some insight into the Prescott family. Most of all, I’m hoping you can get me into the jail to see Bull.”
There was a pause. “No promises, but I’ll see what I can do. I’ve got some free time this afternoon. How soon can you get here?”
“I can leave now,” she said.
He gave her directions to his home, which was on a country road east of Blanco Springs. Fatigue forgotten, she raced out to her car. Thirty minutes later she pulled up in front of a charming, old Victorian house with roses in the front yard and gingerbread trim along the roof that shaded the broad front porch. A small, neat-looking man in shirtsleeves rose from a wicker chair.
“Miss Rutledge.” He nodded, as if tipping an imaginary hat. “Please have a seat. It’s cooler out here than inside.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Purvis. You have a lovely home.” Susan sat in the white wicker chair he’d indicated. A pitcher of iced lemonade and two glasses sat on a matching wicker coffee table.
“Thanks. Since my wife passed away two years ago I don’t have much to do except take care of the place—unless a case like this one happens along. Here.” He poured a glass of lemonade and handed it to her, then picked up a yellow pad and a pen from the table. “Now, let’s talk.”