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Sky parked his dusty pickup outside the front office of Haskell Trucking, climbed out of the cab, and closed the door with a barely audible click. A middle-aged driver, outside for a smoke, took one look at him and disappeared around the corner of the prefab building. Sky Fletcher was known to be a quiet man. He was even quieter when he was angry.
Walking in the front door, he saw Slade Haskell sitting behind the counter. The man looked like hell, his clothes rumpled, his eyes bloodshot and rheumy, his jaw sporting a scruffy beard. Looking up, he eyed Sky with a surly glare. Sky had heard his story from Beau. But even he was surprised at Haskell’s condition.
“What d’ you want, Fletcher?” he grunted.
“I heard Lute was working here.”
“Out back. You’ll see him.”
“Thanks.” Sky turned toward the door.
“Fletcher.”
Sky paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
Haskell’s expression had turned savage. “The next time you see that bastard Beau Tyler, you tell him I’m not done with him. I’m comin’ to get him, and when I’m through, he’ll never mess with another man’s wife again!”
With a curt nod, Sky walked out the door. He would warn Beau, of course, but Haskell’s threat hadn’t surprised him. The man was all bluff and bluster, and today he didn’t look fit to battle a prairie dog.
Walking around the building, he spotted Lute across the gravel parking lot. He was standing next to an empty cattle truck, a clipboard in his hand, evidently going over some shipping instructions with the driver. A rush of cold anger tightened the grim line of Sky’s mouth. The boy appeared to be doing well for himself, but his near-fatal mishandling of the Tylers’ prize mare topped Sky’s short list of unforgivable sins.
Lute had seen him. Sky remained where he was, watching as the boy wavered between running away and coming over to account for himself. In the end he seemed to decide that running would only make things worse.
“Hullo, Sky.” Lute looked down at the clipboard, unable to meet his cousin’s accusing eyes.
“When I brought you to the Tylers’, I told you your behavior would reflect on me and on our family. It seems you didn’t care.”
Lute’s lower lip jutted out as his anger welled up. “You said I could be a cowboy! But you gave me a job shoveling shit!”
“That wasn’t just a job. It was your first lesson. I’d planned on training you to help me work with the new colts.”
“Yeah? Well, too bad. I got sick of it. Now I’ve got a job where people respect me! I don’t stink at the end of the day, and I’m even making decent money! See that blue truck over there? It’s mine, bought and paid for!”
Sky glanced across the lot to where the employee cars were parked. The light blue truck had some rust spots and a sagging rear bumper, but he knew it was the first vehicle Lute had ever owned. Sky remembered the beat-up Ford Bronco he’d bought himself and driven with such pride. For a young man barely out of his teens, it was power and status. Heady stuff.
“Is owning your own truck worth working for a drunken wreck like Slade Haskell?” he asked Lute.
Lute thrust out his chin. “I won’t be workin’ for Slade much longer. He’s goin’ to jail soon. And when he’s gone, Stella says—” He broke off as if he’d revealed too much. “I’ve almost got my trucker’s license. Once I get that, I’ll have everything I want, and I won’t have to lick anybody’s stinkin’ boots!”
Sky’s cold anger still blazed. But it was tempered with a twinge of pity. Lute was in for some hard lessons. But the young fool had blown his chances on the ranch. It was time to cut the strings.
“It sounds like you’ve made your decision,” he said. “I wish you the best, Lute. But you’re finished on the ranch. You’re never to set foot on Tyler land again, and if I catch you anywhere near my horses, I’ll whip you within an inch of your life.”
Lute watched his cousin stride back around the building. A moment later the engine of Sky’s pickup roared to life and faded down the street. Sky was a fool, he told himself. He’d spent most of his life working for the almighty Tylers, and what did he have to show for it? A lot of big, fat nothing. He’d made their horses prized all over Texas, but the family still treated him like the fatherless half-breed Comanche bastard he was.
Not that Sky was his concern. Right now he had weightier issues on his mind. Slade’s trial date was getting closer. Lute had spent the cash from Stella to buy the truck. But he still needed to do what she’d paid him for.
Slade’s fight with Beau Tyler had left Lute with the makings of a perfect plan—a way to eliminate not just one man he hated but two. The only trouble was, the plan wasn’t coming together fast enough. First he’d needed a weapon—no way was Stella going to give him anything that could be traced back to her, and Slade’s guns were locked away. He’d solved that problem a few nights ago by making a night raid on the Tyler place. Jasper kept a loaded Remington 30.30 deer rifle strapped under the seat of the ATV he drove around the
ranch. It had been an easy matter to sneak into the shed, unbuckle the gun from its place, and hike back to the truck he’d left down the road.
Stealing a rifle that could be traced to the Tylers had been a stroke of brilliance. But he still needed to get Slade somewhere isolated where he could use it. Lute had never killed a man before, never even come close. But there was a first time for everything. And when he imagined Slade shooting pretty little Jess and dumping her body like so much trash, he knew he was capable of pulling the trigger.
Stella was getting impatient. She hadn’t said so in words, but he could tell by the looks she gave him when he came into the bar. Time was running short. If he didn’t act soon, he could lose everything he’d worked for.
The idea struck him like a thunderbolt. It was so perfect he had to restrain himself from laughing out loud.
Sky’s visit had played right into his hands. The copy machine in the front office was stocked with plain white paper. Lute, thanks in part to his mother’s training, was an accomplished forger. Beau Tyler had been the one to sign his payroll checks at the ranch, and Lute, out of long habit, had memorized his signature.
