by Julie Miller
Wait. He was kissing Tracy Cobb?
Confusion darkened her eyes and ricocheted like a shot inside him when he lifted his head. She’d felt it, too. That zing of rightness. That sudden heat. An undeniable connection between them. Her lips were pink and decadently parted as quick, warm breaths snuck between them and caressed the sensitive skin at the base of his throat. What the hell...?
“Trace?” His uneven breaths mingled with hers. He narrowed his eyes in a frown, trying to make sense of what was happening here. “Was that weird?”
“Virgil McCabe...” Heat instantly dotted her cheeks. She blinked the confusion from her eyes and released his crumpled shirtfront. Was she angry about that kiss? Had he overstepped some line he shouldn’t? He knew he tended to be a little impulsive, but she’d been right here in the room with him, kissing him back. “Sometimes you’re totally clueless for a detective.”
“Tracy—”
“You coming, Bull?” Wyatt came out of the office and strode past them. A chuff on the shoulder reminded Bull that they needed to move.
“Right behind you.” Bull spared one more look at Tracy’s flushed cheeks and tilted chin before turning to follow his brother. He could still feel those hands on his skin, clutching at him like she meant it.
“Boss!” The screen door slammed back in the kitchen. Maria squealed and a pan clattered to the floor. “Boss!” Bull exchanged a glance with Wyatt and hurried out to meet the sound of booted feet running across the house’s hardwood floors. He reached the hallway and Rusty Fisher plowed into him. He caught the older cowboy by the shoulders, steadying him on his feet before releasing him. Red-faced and panting for breath, Rusty looked from one brother to the other. “Bull? Wyatt?”
“What’s wrong?” Bull asked. Did the horses have reason to be restless?
Tracy and his father filled the archway behind them. “What is it, Rusty?” Justice demanded.
“The southwest pasture, down by the river.” His chest heaved with one more deep breath. “It’s on fire.”
* * *
INTERVIEWING THE TWO BOYS Brittany might have been helping cross the border had to wait. Steel-gray smoke billowed on the horizon to the south, and the wisps of black curling higher up toward the sky indicated that the fire was spreading, and fast.
A grass fire under these arid conditions, especially when the winds picked up at this time of year, could have devastating consequences. While Wyatt called 911 to report the fire and call for a helicopter to give them eyes on the exact location and dimension of the blaze, Tracy and every able rider on the J-Bar-J hurried to saddle a horse or get behind the wheel of a truck to rescue the livestock who were caught in the fire’s path. A couple of the older hands stayed at the house with hoses to water down the grass and roofs of the main house, bunk house and cabin.
Most of a long, hot day later, Tracy’s thighs ached from the hours she’d spent in the saddle. And the ball cap she’d borrowed to help ward off the sun had left enough of her face exposed that she could feel the heat of the late afternoon drawing the freckles out across her cheeks.
“Yaw, yaw.” She swatted a coiled rope against her leg, using the sound and the movement and a quick turn of the sorrel mare named Lila she was riding to drive the straying Hereford back toward the stone gate to the section where they were moving all the cattle they’d been able to round up. With the cow now trotting after the others who’d already found the new grass to graze on, Tracy nodded to the woman standing ready to close the gate. “Okay, Dakota.”
The tall blonde might not be an expert at herding cattle, but every person on the ranch had gone to work, trying to save as much of the livestock as possible. Maria was a mile away, back at the main house, watching over Dakota’s son and calling brothers and cousins in the area who could get to the J-Bar-J quickly and help. Even Tracy’s dad was out on his horse, moving some of the cattle onto Cobb land, while her mother was fixing coffee and sandwiches to feed the ranch hands and volunteers who had given up their time to help a neighbor save his home and livelihood.
“Hold up!” Bull came loping up to the gate on his big bay with two more steers.
“Yaw, cow!” Justice trotted in on his horse right behind him with two more. Dakota caught the gate and held it open, and as soon as Bull came back out, she closed the steel bars and slid the lever into the stone post to keep it closed.
Horses and riders gathered outside the gate to rest for a few minutes and drink water from the bottles in their saddle bags. Bull’s bay rocked him back and forth as he peeled off his black hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the fresh blue bandanna he pulled from his hip pocket. For a few seconds, Tracy saw a glimpse of the tall boy who’d stolen her teenage heart.
But when he adjusted his Stetson back over his forehead and used its shade to peer off toward the late afternoon sun, she could see he was all man now. It wasn’t just the deeper voice and shorter hair. Or the broader shoulders and harder chest that stretched beneath the dusty white shirt he wore. It wasn’t the leather holster that crossed his back or the badge clipped to his belt.
Lines of life experience were etched beside his handsome eyes—hopes, regrets, secrets she might never know created complex shadows there. This was the man who had kissed her this morning—seasoned by life, sure of what he wanted. The boy deep inside, beaten down by his father’s will and clinging to the familiar security of a lifelong friendship, was the one who had pulled away and questioned why they were so drawn to each other.
Tracy Cobb loved them both—the hurting boy and the mature man. She gripped the saddle horn tight in her leather-gloved hand. A lot more than her leg muscles ached. If only she could convince him that that love was real—and that it was reason enough to stay.
Catching her staring assessment, although misreading its cause, Bull nodded to her. “The wind shifted and it’s taking the fire down to the river. It’s out in the wilds now and shouldn’t come any closer to the house or irrigated land.”
“Hopefully, there’s enough water in the river and creeks out there to burn the damn thing out.” Justice turned to the man with the mustache climbing over the gate. “How many acres do you think we lost?”
Rusty snapped shut the cell phone he’d been talking on and buttoned it into his red shirt pocket before climbing into the saddle of the quarter horse he rode. “Hard to tell right now, boss. But I counted eighty-four head in there.” He tapped his pocket. “Mr. Cobb says he’s got another twenty up at his place. That leaves another dozen animals we weren’t able to find.”
Justice swore. “That’s a hell of a lot of money to lose. Not to mention the hay I’ll have to buy to replace the grass we lost.”
“Hell of a way for an animal to die, too.” Bull’s sarcasm tempered his father’s anger.
“Maybe they found some high rock where there’s nothing around them that can burn,” Tracy suggested.
Not bothering to mask his heavy sigh, Justice looked toward the coming sunset. “It’s too late to start another search. I don’t want anyone finding a hot pocket still burning and getting trapped. I’ll have to hire some extra men to clean up this mess and sort out the herd again.”
With the urge to lash out cooling along with his father’s, Bull nodded a grudging agreement. “You’d better take these people on up to the house and feed them.” He tugged on the reins and turned his horse away from the group. “While there’s still some daylight, I want to check out a few things. We’re pretty close to the border here.”
“Son?”
Bull heard his father’s warning. Maybe he even understood a little of the concern that aged Justice’s chiseled face. Bull touched the brim of his hat and nodded. “I’ll be careful.”
Tracy touched her heels to the sorrel’s sides and urged her into a trot. “I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
Ignoring Bull’s protest, she reined the mare in to walk beside his taller mount. “It’s dangerous to ride out by yourself when there’s been a fire. Y
our father’s right—there could be some pockets still burning. Two pair of eyes are better than one. You do your detective work and I’ll watch out for everything else.” A knowing smile warmed her face. Patience might not be a virtue Bull possessed, but Tracy had had a lot of practice waiting for him to wake up and realize they were made for each other. She could wait a little longer. “Besides, it’ll be like old times—you and me riding the hills together.”
“You’re not still mad at me for kissing you?”
“Maybe it’s not the kiss I was mad about.” Pulling the ball cap snugly over her hair, Tracy nudged her horse into a canter and took off.
It didn’t take long to hear Bull running up behind her.
Forty-five minutes later, at least one fear had been laid to rest. The fire was out.
But something even more troubling left Tracy twisting nearly 360 degrees in her saddle to ensure that she and Bull and their horses were the only things moving around the burnt pines and rocks on the bank leading down to Homestead Creek, a tributary that fed into the Rio Grande less than half a mile away. Bull was kneeling on the ground, holding on to the reins of his horse as he studied the inky-black streaks that were slightly darker than the charred earth around them. He put his gloved fingers to his nose and rubbed the sooty residue between his fingers.
“Is that what I think it is?” Tracy asked.
Bull wiped his hand on his jeans and pushed to his feet. The leather creaked beneath his weight as he swung up into the saddle. Her heart was already beating a little faster before he confirmed her fear. “I don’t have a crime lab out here to verify it, but I think this fire was intentionally set. Those look like chemical pour burns to me.”
Tracy tried to cool her concern on a deep breath. “Another message from Calderón?”
“Most likely.”
“This is the kind of enforcement Garcia and Ortiz carry out, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Poor Brittany.” The girl had been Calderón’s prisoner for four days now. The drug lord had lopped off her hair and threatened worse. She must be terrified, and feeling so alone and abandoned. And Justice was aging by the minute, it seemed. Tracy remembered him as a force of nature growing up. Last week she’d seen a father, a normal man. Now, as the clock ticked toward the Christmas Eve deadline, the lines of his face grew more deeply etched, and the height and breadth of him seemed to shrink. And, as if abducting his daughter wasn’t enough, now the Los Jaguares were bringing the threat right to Justice McCabe’s back door.
A tight fist of helpless fear and frustration squeezed around Tracy’s heart. She couldn’t see the purplish and rose hues surrounding the giant orange sun where it set on the horizon. Its beauty was lost in the enormity of the devastation surrounding them—the cruel deaths of innocent animals, both J-Bar-J livestock and wild animals. The destruction of property that would require money and man-hours to rebuild. The unnatural changes in the landscape, with exploded cacti and char marks on the beautifully dramatic rocks. Calderón and his men were responsible for all this waste and intimidation and galling lack of compassion for anyone and anything. All for drugs. All for money.
Tears scratched like grit in her eyes. Such a waste. Such a violent, horrible waste.
“Brittany’s a McCabe.” Bull tried to reassure her. “She’s tough. She’ll be okay.” Or maybe he was trying to reassure himself. “She’s a tough kid in school, right? You said she tries to help others?”
“Yeah.” Reaching across the space between their horses, Tracy linked her hand to Bull’s, needing some of his strength at that moment. “Now that I think of it—the essays she writes, the way she expresses herself in class—she reminds me a lot of you.”
“Smart and good-looking?”
His teasing made her laugh. Tracy returned the favor. “Hardheaded and passionate about the ideas that get stuck in her head.”
His laugh was deep and rich and drove away the tears that had tried to spill over.
Then, just as though someone had flipped a switch, the laughter stopped. Bull released her hand and stood up in his stirrups, peering over the top of the creek bank. “What’s that?”
“What’s what? Bull?”
He was already picking his way down through the charcoal tree stumps and limestone outcroppings by the time Tracy got her horse to high enough ground to see the old dirt supply road that ran parallel to the creek bed. But it wasn’t the washed-out road that had caught his eye. It was the burned-out flatbed truck sitting on four melted tires in the middle of that road.
“Oh, my God. You don’t think somebody got caught in the fire, do you?” Tracy followed him down and tethered the horses while Bull circled the truck for a closer look. Had the Los Jaguares’s intimidation tactics turned to murder? Had the fire been set to get rid of the truck? Or its contents? “Brittany?”
“Stay there.” Metal screeched across metal as Bull pried the blackened passenger door open. “There’s no driver. No body. She’s not here.”
Tracy’s breath rushed out in a gasp of relief. “Thank God.”
With a grunt of steely determination, he forced the glove compartment door open. It snapped off in his hand and Bull dug through the debris inside. “Whatever identification was in here is burned to a crisp. Let’s hope the thing has plates.”
As Bull inspected the rest of the abandoned vehicle, Tracy evaluated the skeletal remains of the truck’s shape. “Do you think that’s the farm truck Brittany got into at school?”
“With this location and the destruction of evidence?” Bull circled the truck, scanning up and down the creek bed. “I’d bet my badge on it. Hold on.”
“What is it?”
He pulled out a pocketknife and pried a sticky tar-like substance off the bed of the truck. He sniffed it, then nodded. “I’ve seen this before, when drug dealers burn their cocaine stash. Somebody was using this truck to run drugs.” He knelt down to clean the substance off his knife. “It’d be easy enough to hide a kilo or two inside the middle of a hay bale. I’ll call Wyatt, see if he knows who some of Calderón’s drivers are. Maybe one of them picked up Brittany.”
“I don’t think she’d get into a truck with a total stranger. It’d have to be someone she—”
“Miss Cobb?” a raspy voice croaked from the rocks behind Tracy. The horses shifted. A bloody, soot-stained hand clamped over her shoulder and Tracy screamed.
Chapter Four
Bull flew around the truck. “Tracy!”
A man had staggered out from the rocks and grabbed her. Bull pulled his gun as the man dragged Tracy down to the ground.
“Police! Stop or I’ll... Damn it, Trace.”
The man wasn’t attacking her. He was collapsing. Streaked with soot and mud, with dirty red smears on his face and hands that had to be blood, the man was falling. And instead of protecting herself, Tracy was turning him in her arms, trying to catch him.
They were both on the ground by the time Bull had scooted the horses aside and knelt beside them. “He could be armed or booby-trapped—”
“Bull, help me. It’s Julio Rivas.” She pulled the man’s head into her lap. “One of my missing students.”
“Miss Cobb...” Mees Cobb. Not a man at all. A lean, lanky teenage boy with filthy clothes, a thick accent and an unfocused look in his eyes that indicated shock or dehydration. “We have to save Brittany.”
Even if he wasn’t friendly, the young man was too injured or exhausted or both to be much of a threat. Bull holstered his weapon and gently lifted him so that Tracy could pull her arm from underneath him. Then he turned the boy and together they laid him on the burnt grass and gravelly soil in a more comfortable position. Bull took a closer look at a mat of sticky black hair and the puffy swelling at the boy’s left temple. A quick inspection beneath his damp, mud-caked T-shirt confirmed Bull’s suspicions. Julio Rivas had been hurt in ways that didn’t look like the results of a truck wreck or burns.
“Shh, Julio. Don’t try to talk.” T
racy’s comforting tone for the teen turned into a command for Bull. “He needs water.”
With a nod, Bull got up and pulled a water bottle from his saddle bag. He wet down the bandanna from his back pocket and handed it to Tracy while he took over holding up the teen’s head and helping him drink several swallows of the warm water.
“Son? I’m Detective McCabe. Who hurt you?” He waited for Tracy to wipe some of the grime from the boy’s nose and mouth before he offered him another drink. “Julio? Who did this to you?”
The dark brown eyes blinked, his focus improving a little bit each time. Exhaustion, blood loss, and potential internal injuries like a cracked rib or bruised kidney were still a concern, but Julio was breathing more deeply now, even though he winced at the pain. “Two men. A big man with a white bandage on his nose and bruised eyes. And a skinny guy. He was meaner.”
Bull didn’t need a police blotter to make the identification from that description. “Manny Ortiz and Sol Garcia.”
He handed the water bottle off to Tracy and let her continue cleaning the scrapes and minor burns the teen had sustained on his face and hands while Bull pulled out his cell phone to report in to Wyatt. He climbed back up to the top of the bank, but it didn’t make any difference.
“No damn reception out here.” He looked up and down the creek bed and back across the rising flatland from where they’d come. A quick assessment of the situation and some quicker decisions had to be made. They were alone out here, although what little sunlight remained made it difficult to see for more than a couple of miles in any direction. Although they were still on J-Bar-J land here by the creek, they were closer to the Mexican border than to the main house or any paved road. And Julio was a long way from even being able to climb up the rocky creek bank, so a long hike or fast ride back to civilization would be out of the question. And Bull’s teenage sister was about to spend another night held hostage by a dangerous drug lord. Snapping the phone shut, he tucked it into his pocket and slipped back down through the steep rocks to rejoin them. “Is that your truck, Julio?”