by Janet Dailey
“But there’s no statute of limitations on murder. If the truth came out, where would I stand in the eyes of the law?”
“The evidence that saved Bull—the fact that Ham had drawn a gun—would save you, too. So don’t worry your pretty head about it.”
Rose finished the beer, then laughed. “You’re probably the first man to call me pretty, Jasper. Most of the men in Río Seco called me a witch.”
“Then they were superstitious fools.” Jasper stroked the dog that had nosed his hand for attention. “So what’s your plan now that you’re back?”
“To claim my land and live on it. Is that going to be a problem?”
“With Bull?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re going to have a fight on your hands. Bull’s a good man, but when it comes to land, it’s like he’s got a bit in his teeth and a burr under his saddle. If you could make some kind of deal, maybe a partnership—”
“No deal.” Rose stood. “That land is mine. My grandfather left it to me. Bull may’ve had the use of it, but now it’s time for him to give it back. I won’t settle for anything less.”
Jasper tossed away his cigarette and rose to go inside. “Then Lord help you, darlin’. And Lord help Bull, too. You’re both going to need it.”
* * *
After a beastly night of tossing and turning, Bull rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes and boots. It was barely light, too early to call the Rangers’ office about the rustlers. But maybe he could get a start on chores, freeing Jasper to leave for the roundup with the men who’d come down to the ranch.
After splashing his unshaven face and raking back his hair, which was already showing strands of gray, he strode down the hall to the kitchen, where he found Jasper at the table drinking the coffee he’d made. There was a kitchenette in the duplex, but after years of breakfast in the big house, Jasper had never broken the old habit.
“Have some coffee,” he said to Bull. “There’s scrambled eggs and bacon on the stove if you want something solid. From the look of you, you could use it.”
“Didn’t sleep,” Bull grumbled, pouring himself a cup. “So, did you talk to Rose last night?”
“We visited some.” Jasper forked up the last of the scrambled eggs on his plate. “She mostly wanted to know what happened after she shot Ham.”
“Did she mention that parcel of land?” Bull took a seat at the kitchen table.
“She did. She wants it back. For whatever my advice is worth, I think you should give it to her.”
“I figured that’s what you’d say. But that land is our only access to the creek and the cattle tank we built to hold the water. We can’t afford to lose it.” Bull got up, heaped a plate with bacon and eggs, and sat down again. “The best I could do is offer her a different piece of land in exchange. Do you think she’d go for that?”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. That thirty-acre parcel was her grandpa’s. He’s buried on it. And I don’t think she’d take kindly to your digging the old man up and moving him.”
“Well then, I’ll just have to tell her no.”
“Good luck with that.” Jasper rose from the table and carried his plate and cup to the sink. “I’ll be off with the boys as soon as the chores are done.”
“Go on ahead and get an early start on the roundup. I’ve got some time to kill. I’ll take care of the chores myself.”
“Fine. Let me know when we can expect a ranger out here.” Jasper left by the back door. Moments later Bull heard the sound of his truck starting up.
He made easy work of the chores, checking the pastures and adding water to the troughs and feed to the empty stalls in the horse barn. Rose’s old Buick was pulled up outside the duplex, but he saw no sign of life there. After driving straight through from Río Seco, she was probably worn out. Fine, let her sleep. He was in no hurry for the confrontation that was sure to come.
By the time he finished, it was nearly seven o’clock. Lights were on in the house. By now Bernice would be feeding his sons and readying them to catch the school bus at the end of the lane. Bull went into his den, sat down at his desk, and made a call to the regional office of the TSCRA Special Rangers. Clive Barlow, the man who answered the phone, was a longtime acquaintance.
“Howdy, Bull,” Barlow drawled. “What can I do for you?”
Bull had never been a man to waste words. “Yesterday we came up six cows short.”
“That’s a lot of cows—and a lot of cash to lose,” Barlow said. “Since you’re calling us, I’m guessin’ you think it’s rustlers.”
“What the hell else could it be? Cows don’t just sprout wings and fly away.”
“Simmer down, Bull. We’ve already got a man on it. Ferg Prescott called us last week. Seems he’s missin’ cows, too. We sent one of our rangers undercover to look into it, a new guy named Tanner McCade. When he checks in, I’ll let him know you’re havin’ troubles as well.”
“Blast it, Clive, don’t just pass the word. Send him over so I can set him straight on what’s happening.”
“Can’t do that, Bull. He’s undercover, workin’ as a hand for Prescott. It wouldn’t do for him to be seen talkin’ to you.”
Bull mouthed a curse. “So, does Ferg know who he is?”
“Ferg had to know to hire him on. But nobody else is supposed to know, not even you. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him about your trouble when he checks in.”
“Do that.” Bull slammed down the phone. Damned waste of time. Meanwhile, he was losing cows—and money. Hell, he’d be better off strapping on a gun and taking matters into his own hands. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d sent a rustler to the promised land. In the old days . . .
But the old days were gone, and these new times were different. Too many rules and regulations, with the law and the government looking over your shoulder. For now, all he could do was tell his men to keep a sharp eye out.
Still seething, he strode out to his pickup, swung into the driver’s seat, and roared out of the yard.
* * *
Standing in the shadow of the porch, Rose watched him go. She’d been awake since early dawn, but she’d stayed out of sight, not wanting to confront Bull until she knew more about what he’d done with her land.
She could see lights and movement through the window of the kitchen, where Bernice was probably making breakfast for the boys. Rose knew she’d be welcomed at the table. But she wasn’t ready to mingle, let alone get into a conversation about her own plans. She’d found ajar of instant coffee in the kitchenette of the duplex and made do with that for breakfast. Now that Bull had left, she was ready to visit the place where she’d taken refuge with her grandfather after fleeing the foster system, and where she’d stayed until he was murdered by Ham Prescott.
The sunrise faded to a blue morning as she drove the Buick behind the outbuildings and onto a deeply rutted dirt road that led north along the east boundary of the ranch. Her grandfather’s land wasn’t far—a couple of miles at most—but the going was slow. Rose had to balance the wheels between the high center and the outside edge of the road to keep from scraping the Buick’s undercarriage.
Maybe the next time she came here, she could ask Jasper to lend her a horse. The old car would have to be sold or traded for a pickup that could handle the road and haul supplies for building her cabin. With luck, she might even find a collector and get a good price for the restored vehicle. But she was getting ahead of herself. First she needed to secure and hold the parcel that was her inheritance.
When familiar landmarks told her she was getting close, she parked the car next to a clump of mesquite and slid the .44 out from under the seat. Rose had long since learned not to take her safety for granted. The cartel was like a giant spider, the strands of its web reaching far beyond the Mexican border. Their agents could be anywhere, and look like anyone. If they’d traced her car, they could already be closing in.
And Ferg Prescott, whose ranch bordered her land on the far
side of the creek, could have his eyes on the place his father had killed for. Alone out here, she couldn’t be too careful.
As she climbed out of the car, the splash and gurgle of the creek reached her ears. Memories swept over her, the old log cabin on its banks, the vegetables and chickens she’d raised, and the nighttime treks to the outhouse in the trees. Most poignant of all was the memory of her grandfather—his deep, gravelly voice, his kindness, and his defiant courage at the end of his life. She would never stop missing him.
The cabin would be gone. Bull Tyler had torched it, with her grandfather’s body inside, to hold off Prescott’s men while they made their escape. Only her chickens, which Jasper had caught and taken to the Rimrock, had been saved.
Rose had braced herself for whatever she was about to see. But even so, the sight of the trampled bank, the head gate, and the ugly pipe leading from the water to the cattle tank, with only a few tilted posts remaining where a fence had once marked the boundary, almost crushed her heart. This had been a beautiful place once, a place she had loved. But all that had changed.
Near the edge of the clearing, a massive cottonwood trunk lay where the tree had fallen, its limbs cut away. Here, in a space dug out underneath, was where Bull had buried her grandfather’s charred remains. No casket. No service—perhaps not even a prayer. And only a temporary marker, long since gone.
Kneeling beside the spot, Rose laid a hand on the makeshift grave. “I’m back, Grandpa,” she whispered. “And now that I’m here, I’m going to make a home in this place—a home you’d be proud of.”
She was about to rise and go when a familiar prickling of her senses warned her of danger. She’d seen nothing, heard nothing. But all her instincts told her that she wasn’t alone.
Someone was watching her.
She froze, one hand thumbing back the hammer to cock the. 44. She had learned to depend on her danger instincts. If she sensed that someone was watching her, she was probably right.
She’d seen no one on this side of the creek. But the other side was Prescott land—hostile territory ever since the old days, when she’d lived here with her grandfather and Ham Prescott’s hired thugs had harassed them with guns and torches in an attempt to force them off the property.
In the end, when he wouldn’t sell, Ham Prescott himself had shown up on the far side of the creek and shot her grandfather with a rifle. Her grandfather had made it back into the cabin but died a short time later. That was when Bull and Jasper had shown up, rescued her and her chickens, and set the cabin ablaze to cover their escape.
And that was when Bull had found the hidden deed to the property and kept it for himself.
Rose could still feel a hidden presence on the far side of the creek. Ham Prescott might be long gone, but his son Ferg was in charge now, and Ferg was no different from his father. He could easily have his men watching her.
She kept the pistol cocked, her grip steady and sure. If she had to, she would shoot first and ask questions later.
CHAPTER THREE
SCREENED BY WILLOWS, TANNER MCCADE WATCHED THE WOMAN ON the far side of the creek. Who was she? And what the hell was she doing out here?
On the pretext of riding fence, he’d been checking the boundaries of the Prescott Ranch, looking for places where rustlers might have parked a truck and crossed over with stolen Prescott cattle, when he heard the approaching motor. Leaving his horse in the trees and moving into the willows, he’d watched the vintage Buick pull up and park next to a clump of mesquite.
Ferg Prescott had warned him that, when it came to cattle rustling, the neighboring rancher, Bull Tyler, was the prime suspect. True or not, there was clearly no love lost between the two men. Some asking on Tanner’s part confirmed that the Tyler–Prescott feud dated back to the previous generation. And one of the biggest bones of contention had been this nameless creek and the land on the far side of it.
Tanner had seen an aerial photo, showing the creek and the place where a length of PVC pipe led to a circular cattle tank on the Tyler property. Both the Prescott Ranch and Bull Tyler’s Rimrock got most of their water from wells. But the creek, which gushed year-round from its source in the escarpment, was an important water source for range cattle. Control of the land along the banks meant control of the water. That control was split between two powerful men who appeared to hate each other’s guts.
Now Tanner was seeing the disputed spot for the first time. Everything was pretty much as he’d expected.
Except for the woman.
She was kneeling beside the old fallen tree on the far side of the creek, so close that he could have tossed a stone and hit her. Her back was toward him now, but he’d seen her walking toward the water with a heavy pistol in her hand. Small as she was, her powerful, confident stride seemed to say, Don’t mess with me!
He had to admit she was pretty—not like most women, but more the way a wild hawk was pretty, fierce and alert, her sun-streaked hair tied back with a length of black ribbon, her denim shirt and faded jeans skimming the curves of her sinewy little body. She wasn’t young, but young enough . . .
For what? Tanner gave himself a mental slap. He was looking for rustlers, not a bed partner. And her actions in this place were enough to put her under suspicion.
Now she was bending lower, reaching under the tree trunk as if feeling for something, maybe a message. He could step into sight, aim his pistol, and order her to drop that big .44 she was packing. But he’d never shot a woman, and he didn’t want to chance doing that now. Besides, if he spooked her, he would never learn what she was up to or whether she had any unsavory friends lurking around.
Her body stiffened abruptly, as if she’d heard something. Tanner hadn’t moved or made a sound, but she seemed to sense his presence. From her kneeling position by the fallen tree, she rose to a crouch. One hand cocked the pistol as she glanced around. Satisfied, but still alert, she stood, giving him his first head-on look at her striking face.
Her skin was sun-bronzed to a golden hue. Her features were sharp and proud, her eyes as dark as the heart of a sunflower. When she glanced to one side, he saw the wine-colored streak that spilled down the left side of her face. Rather than mar her features, it lent her a wildness that was almost erotic.
But he wasn’t here to ogle her, Tanner reminded himself. If this woman was in league with the rustlers—perhaps as a lookout—it would be his job to round her up and bring her in with the rest.
Still gripping the pistol, she backed away from the creek, toward the mesquite clump where she’d left her car. Tanner began to breathe again as she lowered the gun, climbed into the Buick, turned the car around, and headed back toward the Rimrock Ranch. At least the woman and the car would be easy to recognize if he saw them again—and something told Tanner he would.
But right now he wanted a closer look at whatever was under that fallen tree trunk.
Tanner straightened to his lean, six-foot height. Holstering the gun, he crossed the creek at a shallow spot and moved up the bank to the clearing where he’d seen the woman. It was his first time on Tyler property. The sense of being in a forbidden place triggered a prickle that raised the hair on the back of his neck. For all he knew, he could be shot just for being here.
He knew the lay of the land from the maps he’d studied. This narrow parcel ran like a finger, north along the creek from the main border of the Rimrock. Beyond its boundaries, the land was federal, open range all the way into the Escarpment, where the creek, fed by artesian water under the caprock, flowed in a steady stream. According to Texas law, nobody owned the water. It was the access to the water that made the difference in this dry country.
The cattle tank had been filled recently. Tanner could see horse tracks along the bank and boot tracks by the head gate, which could be opened to let water flow into the pipe. There were cattle tracks, too, and here and there the small, pointed prints of Mexican cowboy boots where the mysterious woman had walked. Her prints were most numerous next to the fallen t
ree, which must have been a giant when it was growing.
The trunk lay a few inches off the ground, its girth supported at either end by its roots and the broken stubs of its branches. Crouching, Tanner peered underneath. He could see no sign that the ground had been dug up or disturbed in any way except for a single small, fresh handprint pressed into the earth.
What was he seeing here?
Was it some kind of message?
Backing off, Tanner studied the ground beneath the tree trunk. A narrow section of earth, about six feet long, had settled over time, as if the dirt had once been dug up, replaced, and left.
It looked a grave, he realized, more than likely an old one. He couldn’t be sure without digging it up. But he had too much respect for the dead to disturb the place without a good reason.
Instead he focused on the mysterious woman. Was she a messenger, a spy, or a mourner? Was she part of the Tyler crew, or was she, like him, a trespasser on the land?
Nothing else Tanner saw here gave him any answers. But if there was any chance the woman was linked to the rustlers, he’d be smart to keep an eye on her.
The Buick had vanished around a bend in the road, probably going back to the Rimrock. For now, there was nothing left to do here. Still pondering, Tanner crossed the creek to his horse, mounted up, and set off to find Ferg Prescott and report what he’d seen.
* * *
After visiting her land, Rose drove the twenty-mile road into the town of Blanco Springs. She hadn’t seen much of the place when she’d last stayed at the Rimrock. Most of the time, Bull had insisted on keeping her out of sight. He’d even made up a story about her being Jasper’s visiting niece. Only later had she learned that this wasn’t just for her safety. Bull, she’d long since learned, rarely did anything unless it served his own purpose.
After eleven years, the town was much as she remembered—the working-class homes, the grocery and dry goods stores along Main Street, the ramshackle Blue Coyote Bar, and the Burger Shack, which sold sandwiches, pizza, shakes, and sodas. The thought of a real hamburger and an ice-cold Coke made her mouth water, but she didn’t want to attract the kind of attention she’d get at a place like that. Not today, at least.