by Janet Dailey
“Yes, sir.” He clicked to the mare again and slapped his heels against her sides, urging her to a quicker gait.
“No, let’s keep it slow,” Logan told him.
“Can’t you ride?” the boy asked on a note of astonishment, then quickly added, “Molly’s a good horse. If she feels you slippin’, she’ll stop right away.”
“I can ride,” Logan assured him with an amused smile. “But I’d like to do a bit of looking around on the way, if that’s all right with you?”
“Sure.” There were those small, slender shoulders lifting in another shrug. “Whatcha lookin’ for?”
“To see if a vehicle might have been driven through here in the last day or so.” He surveyed the wild roll of land between the gate and the distant bluff face.
He saw nothing to arouse his suspicion and turned his attention to the pickup and stock trailer parked some distance from the bluff.
Two riders looked on while a pair of cowboys gently steered a wobbly calf toward the trailer’s ramp. Logan centered his gaze on the mounted men. Both looked to have been cut from the same cloth, big-boned and taller than the average rider, dark-haired and dark-eyed with broad, rugged features. Logan had heard the Calders described often enough that he knew he was looking at father and son.
When the mare shuffled to a halt near the trailer, Logan slid off its rump, then stepped forward to nod to the boy. “Obliged for the ride, Quint,” he said and turned to the two riders.
The older one swung out of the saddle with the unhurried deliberation of his age. “I’m Chase Calder.” He stretched out a hand in greeting.
“Logan Echohawk, acting sheriff in Blackmore’s absence.” He took Calder’s hand and returned the firmness of its grip.
Chase frowned, puzzlement flickering in his dark eyes. “Have we met before?” he asked curiously.
Logan shook his head. “I would have remembered.”
“You look familiar,” he said in explanation, then waved a hand toward his son. “This is my son, Ty, and you’ve already met my grandson.”
“Yes, Quint was kind enough to give me a ride,” he replied, then nodded to Ty and came to the point. “You reported some cattle killed. I’m curious if any of your men might have gone through that gate recently?”
“Not in the last week,” Ty answered. “Spring roundup started Monday. We worked the north range first, and shifted operations here late yesterday afternoon, using the South Gate. Why?”
“I noticed a set of tire tracks. Double-check with your men and make sure none of them have used that gate in the last week or ten days.” With a turn of his head, Logan glanced toward the bluff face and the circling buzzards. “Are the dead cattle over there?”
“Yes. Six cows and four calves.” Ty took a closer look at the officer, his interest aroused by his businesslike attitude and obvious competence. Ty couldn’t imagine any of the other deputies—or even Blackmore, for that matter—noticing the tire tracks and wondering about them.
As crimes went, dead cattle usually didn’t rate very high with the sheriff’s office. Ty had instructed Mike to call simply to make their deaths a matter of record. With a touch of cynicism, he wondered whether Echohawk wanted the position of sheriff to become a permanent one and sought to enlist the support of the Calders.
“Could I have the loan of a horse?” Logan asked, turning back.
“Take mine.” Chase offered the reins to his buckskin.
Taking the reins, he led the horse a few steps forward and stepped smoothly into the saddle, his long legs eliminating the need to shorten the stirrups. He put the buckskin on the bit, then swung his attention back to Chase. “Don’t let anyone use that gate until I can take an impression of those tire prints.”
Chase nodded. “I’ll see that the word’s passed.”
“I’ll ride along.” Ty nudged his horse forward with a squeeze of his legs. When Quint started to rein his horse around to accompany them, Ty stopped him. “No, you stay here, Quint.”
Disappointment dragged down the corners of his mouth, but he made no protest. Logan noticed the boy’s wistful look and gave him a smiling nod of farewell, adult to adult. He had a glimpse of the boy’s expression brightening before the buckskin carried him past the bay mare.
A breeze stirred through the tall green grass, bending it before the two riders. The afternoon stillness was broken by the creak of saddle leather and the muffled two-beat thud of trotting horses. Under other circumstances, Logan would have enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his back and the feel of a responsive horse beneath him. But the job demanded a different awareness of his surroundings, the kind that searched out and absorbed every detail.
His keen eyes noticed the narrow band of bent grass that marked the previous passage of several riders, a fact he filed away with a glimmer of irritation. A coyote paused near the mouth of the wide gully and boldly watched their approach, then trotted off when they drew too near, its sides bulging with the fullness of its stomach. Logan caught the first putrid whiff of rotting flesh, the rankness of it confirming his half-formed suspicion that the killings were at least a couple of days old.
He reined in short of the entrance and studied the scene before him. A pair of buzzards stood guard over one of the carcasses. They briefly glared their defiance, then pecked at the dead cow, determined to get another bite before they were driven off. Nearly all the dead cattle were crowded against the back of the gully, suggesting they had been trapped there. Logan took note of the width of the gully’s mouth, then glanced once again at the faint trail left by the first riders.
“How many of you have ridden in there?”
“Four altogether,” Ty replied.
“Did anybody get down to take a closer look?”
“Mike did. After he and Shane Goodman came across the wounded calf, he wanted to see if these had been shot, too. Why?”
“I was wondering—just in case I run across any footprints.” Logan resumed his visual search of the area. “I don’t suppose any of your men recall hearing any gunshots in the last, say, two or three nights?”
“Not to my knowledge, but it would be unlikely. This is a remote section of the ranch. You might check with Culley O’Rourke over at Shamrock Ranch. He’s been known to go riding at night. He might have heard something.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that,” he said, then added, “Stay behind me. I don’t want to sort through any more tracks than necessary.”
He started the buckskin forward, its steps mincing and uneasy. Ty swung in behind him. Single file, they entered the gulch at a walk and hugged the outer edges of it, their nostrils instinctively pinching against death’s rank and rising odor. At their approach, the buzzards hopped off the carcasses, then lumbered into flight with an ungainly flapping of wings. The flies showed no such concern for their presence, the thrum of their wings setting up a steady and solid buzz in the background.
At the head of the gulch, Logan reined in and inspected the scene from a different angle. His searching gaze picked out a large patch of dark-stained grass that remained flattened. It had the look of dried blood, but there were no dead animals in its vicinity. He walked the buckskin toward it and drew rein when he was still short of it, his gaze scouring the area. Flies blackened a twisted pile of shriveled entrails.
Studying it, he said over his shoulder, “When you finish your gather here, I think you’re going to come up a cow short.”
Ty drew up level with him for a closer look. “You think they butchered one?”
“Looks that way,” Logan swung the buckskin away to finish his walk-through of the site.
Twenty minutes later, he had learned as much as he could from horseback. At the mouth of the gulch, he swung out of the saddle and wrapped the buckskin’s reins around the branch of a low bush. “This may take a while,” he told Ty. “If I find anything, I’ll get back to you.”
He set out on foot, this time to comb the entire area for evidence, a time-consuming task made worse by the swarming
flies and fetid odors. A part of him questioned the necessity of such a thorough search, but there was something about the wanton slaughter that made him uneasy. Experience had taught him to trust his instincts.
The afternoon sun stretched its burning light across the rough plains when Logan rode back from the patrol car, empty evidence bags and latex gloves tucked in a saddle pouch. Idly he noted the stock trailer’s closed endgate and the four men gathered beside it, their glances swinging to him. The pickup’s passenger door stood open, revealing the sleeping figure of a boy curled on its seat. The child’s innocence tugged at a corner of his mouth.
At the mouth of the gulch, Logan reined in the buckskin again and stepped effortlessly to the ground. After tangling the reins in the branches of a low-growing bush and removing his gear from the saddlebag, he headed into the gulch.
The fast drumming of hooves pulled his glance to the west where a rider approached at a gallop, bypassing the trailer to make straight for the gulch. Halfway between the two, the rider pulled up with a suddenness that swung the horse sideways, giving a full view of the rider in profile.
It was Cat. Recognition jolted through him like a flash of lightning, pinning him to the spot. A man’s clothes couldn’t alter the shape of the woman’s body within them. With jaws clamped tight, he stared across the intervening space. For a moment, the air had that charged and sulky feel of storm-thick clouds weighted with thunder.
Restlessly tossing its head, Cat’s horse danced in place, revealing the indecision of its rider. A voice lifted, pulling her attention from him to the small group of men by the stock trailer. She threw him a last look, then swung away and cantered her horse to them, a single black braid hanging down the center of her back.
Regret knifed through him, slicing the tension that had held Logan motionless. He bit back a savage oath, angered to discover that even though she wasn’t for him, he still wanted her. The need was a deep ache that wouldn’t be reasoned away.
Nerves raw, Cat was out of the saddle the instant her horse came to a stop. Her glance flew to her father, quickly noting the look of indulgent humor in his eyes—not censure or accusation, nothing that suggested any of her fears had been realized.
“Quint,” she began, then her searching glance saw him, curled up asleep in the truck. She smiled in relief.
“I caught him nodding off in the saddle,” Chase explained. “I managed to convince him that Molly needed a break. He dropped off to sleep about ten minutes ago. Too much excitement, I guess.”
“They told me back at camp about the cattle.” Her glance strayed to the gulch, but it wasn’t relief she felt when she discovered Logan was nowhere in sight. “When I saw your buckskin, I thought that’s where you were.”
“No, I loaned him to the new man that’s taken over for Blackmore. Echohawk’s his name. Seems to know his job, too.”
“You can bet Blackmore wouldn’t have spent more than ten minutes in there, as bad as those rotting carcasses smell,” Ty put in.
Cat listened to the exchange with only half an ear. Her thoughts were still on Logan, wondering how it was possible that a father wouldn’t instinctively recognize his own son—unless—“Did Quint see—” she began impulsively, then paused, unsure how to word the question without arousing suspicion.
“We kept him away from the gulch,” Ty said, as if that answered her question. “The scavengers had already been at work. It wasn’t something he should see at his age.”
She took that to mean Logan hadn’t met Quint yet. Tension raveled through her all over again. “I think I should take Quint and go back to the house. You can get by without me, can’t you?” she asked Ty.
“Sure.” He gestured in the direction of Shane Goodman, lounging against the trailer’s slatted sides, a cigarette cupped in his hand. “Shane was just going to head back there with the wounded calf. You can ride with him. That will give Quint a chance to sleep a little longer.”
“I’m ready when you are,” she told Shane, eager to leave.
“Let’s go.” He pushed away from the trailer, taking a quick, last drag on his cigarette before crushing it under his heel.
Surrendering her horse’s reins to Ty, Cat climbed into the truck cab and gently eased Quint onto her lap. He stirred once fitfully, then snuggled against her, something he seldom did at the advanced age of five. Smiling, she slipped off her hat and laid it on the seat next to him while Shane climbed into the driver’s side and started the engine. Once the brake was disengaged, the truck rolled forward. The trailer hitch squealed as he swung the wheel toward the west.
Cat frowned. “I thought we were going back to the ranch.”
“We are.”
“But Three Mile Gate is just over there. Why are you going this way?”
“We can’t use that gate. That Echohawk fella found some tire prints there,” he explained. “He thinks they might have been left by whoever killed those cows. The guy’s sharp.”
That’s what worried her. Logan was neither blind or stupid. And he wouldn’t be pushed.
Five miles from the Triple C headquarters, Quint pushed up and looked around with heavy eyes. “Where are we going?”
“Home. I thought I’d get back early and give Jessy a hand with supper.” Cat gathered him onto her lap. He leaned his head against her shoulder, too groggy with sleep to remember he was too old to be held.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then stared out the window, silent for a long run of minutes. His head swiveled against her shoulder as he turned to glance at Shane. Seeing the cowboy behind the wheel seemed to jog his memory.
“Did Shane tell you some cows got killed?”
“Yes, he did.”
Again there was a lengthy pause. “I never got to see them. I think dead animals must look awful.”
“Not always.” Her response seemed to reassure him in some way.
“Grandpa gave me a job to do.”
“He did?” She smiled, moved by the importance he attached to that.
“Uh-huh,” he confirmed with a vigorous nod of his head. “I waited at the gate all by myself so the sheriff would know where to come.”
Stunned by his answer, Cat struggled not to show it. “You did? And all by yourself, too?”
“Yup.”
“What did you think of him?” Unconsciously she tightened the circle of her arms, gathering him closer to her.
“He was okay.” His slim shoulders lifted in an awkward shrug. “I gave him a ride on Molly.”
“I’ll bet he appreciated that.” An oddly poignant picture of the two of them riding the docile mare flashed in her mind. Cat knew she should have been relieved that neither of them had felt any connection to the other. After all, she wanted father and son to remain strangers to each other. So why this twinge of regret? She shied from the possible answer to that.
Instead she focused on the positive. It was becoming increasingly obvious that she was the only one who saw Quint’s resemblance to Logan. No one else had noticed it. Certainly Culley hadn’t until she pointed it out to him.
Perhaps her secret was safe after all. It was ironic that she had been afraid all this time without cause. Logan was no threat to her whatsoever.
FIFTEEN
Evening spread its thickening darkness across the high plains, blurring the dips and swells of the rolling terrain. Night’s first pale stars glittered dimly in the empurpled sky while below, twin headlight beams raced ahead of the speeding patrol car. Behind the wheel, Logan fixed his hard gaze on the halo of light in the near distance. He had been told the headquarters of the Triple C Ranch resembled a small town. It definitely threw the light of one.
He watched it grow brighter, his foot heavy, the speedometer hovering at seventy. Weariness pulled at him, adding its strain to his restless, irritable mood. He was conscious of the day’s grit on him and the hunger that gnawed at his empty stomach, reminders that what he wanted most was a hot shower, a cold drink, and a filling meal, not necessarily in that order.
But all that would come later; he had a stop to make first.
It was the job that brought him to the Triple C. Nothing else. Naturally Cat would be there, he had no doubt. That knowledge hardened his features, turning them into an impenetrable mask.
The patrol car topped the last rising swell of land, and the lights of the sprawling headquarters broke brilliantly through the deepening cloak of nightfall. Logan slowed the car and swung it toward the white-pillared front of the big house that rose head and shoulders above the rest of the buildings. It was a rangeland mansion, not as grand or elaborate as others he’d had cause to enter, but a mansion nevertheless.
Parking in front of it, Logan switched off the headlights and killed the engine, then stepped out, a high tension threading its way through his muscles. His gaze lifted to the two-story house and the fanlike gushes of light that spilled from its windows, giving its solidness a look of warmth and welcome.
He crossed to the front steps, impatience lengthening his stride. There was no bell to ring at the front door. He lifted the heavy brass knocker and brought it down solidly three times. The hard clanging shattered the evening’s hush and grated on nerves already made raw with tension and fatigue.
There was a warning turn of the knob before the door swung open and light flooded the porch. A tall, slender blonde stood in the opening, her classically strong features composed in an expression of warm interest tinged with curiosity.
Before he could utter a word, her glance flicked to his uniform and a smile lifted the edges of her wide mouth. “You must be Sheriff Echohawk.” She extended a hand in greeting. “I’m Ty’s wife, Jessy.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Calder.” He had long ago found formality was best. It subtly established a boundary that the average person preferred.
“I expect you’re here on business.” Releasing his hand, she backed away to admit him. “Please come in.”
“Thank you.” He stepped inside and automatically removed his hat, combing a hand through his hair to lift its flatness.
In that same fractional second, he scanned the interior area, visually fixing the layout in his mind from habit. There, across the wide sprawl of the living room, stood Cat, poised at the bottom of the stairs, her shoulders bared by a pale blue sundress that softly draped her body. She lifted her head, showing him a pride that was like steel. He stared at her, knowing a hunger for which no word existed.