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Guilt bored deeper, like a sharp-bitted auger, as he ended the call. Five months ago, he’d seen the ad for this job in a newsletter for ranchers. The requirements—knowledge of the cattle business and law enforcement experience—had been a perfect fit for him. Taking the position as a special ranger for the TSCRA had meant leaving Wyoming and moving to Texas. Clint and Ruth had tried to talk him out of it. But he’d argued that the extra money would contribute more to the ranch than his presence and his meager salary as a deputy sheriff.
He’d made good on that promise, at least. Most of his salary went back to the ranch for new stock and equipment, supplies, and repairs and to help his brother’s family through the lean winter months.
But Tanner had kept his real reason for leaving to himself. Desperate to escape his memories, his nightmares, and his gut-wrenching guilt, he’d jumped at the chance to get away and start over. Maybe in a new place, with new people and new responsibilities, he could begin to heal.
So far, that wasn’t working so well.
* * *
Ferg Prescott poured himself a second shot of bourbon and tossed it down in a single gulp.
Why now? He punctuated the thought with a string of the vilest curses in the English vocabulary. Why, now that the plan was in place to destroy Bull Tyler and get his hands on the creek property, did that ugly little bitch of a girl have to show up?
He knew who she was, of course. After his dying father had named her as his killer and the girl had disappeared, Ferg had hired a top-notch investigator to track down her background information. It had taken months of work, cost a pile of money, and taken some conjecture on Ferg’s part, but he’d finally gotten some answers.
Rose Landro, child of a single mother and an untraceable father, both presumed dead, had run away from foster care to stay with her maternal grandfather, an old hermit who’d bought the creek parcel years earlier and lived on the land in a tumbledown shack. As his only known relative, Rose would have been heir to the land.
But that was where things got interesting.
When Ham Prescott had shot the old man for refusing to sell, and Rose, hiding in the shack, had witnessed the crime, Bull had taken her in and used her to blackmail Ham. That had led to Ham’s going to the Rimrock to silence her and running smack into her shotgun blast.
Restless, Ferg stood up and walked to the window, gazing out at his kingdom. Beyond a stand of budding cottonwoods lay the back road from the Rimrock, where he’d stopped the truck that night, delaying long enough to make sure his father died before reaching home. That was when Ham had told him it was the girl who’d fired the fatal shot.
Ferg had kept his dying father’s confession secret and blamed the shooting on Bull. With Bull in prison it would have been easy to get the land and control the water from both sides of the creek. But Bull had not only gone free, he’d gotten rid of the girl and taken the land for himself.
And now, the rightful owner of the contested property had shown up.
Ferg sat down again, lit a fresh Havana, and blew a smoke ring into the air. On second thought, Rose’s return might not be so bad. His present scheme was risky. If it failed, he could use her as a backup, maybe become her ally against Bull to help her get the land back . . .
A tentative knock at the door broke into his thoughts. That would be Garn, his son and heir. But Garn could damn well come back later. Ferg knew what the young fool wanted, and he wasn’t in the mood to talk about it now.
His twenty-one-year-old son had been conceived by accident when he and Edith were little more than hormone-crazed kids, not even married yet. Spineless and bookish, with no interest in ranching, Garn had none of the drive and fire that had made the Prescotts the most powerful family in the county.
Even more disappointing than Garn was the fact that Edith hadn’t given him the strapping, manly sons he’d wanted. After four miscarriages, she’d had her tubes tied for the sake of her health. Not that it had done much good. She’d died a few years later from ovarian cancer.
Her photo hung on the side wall of his office, in a spot where he rarely looked. Now he gave it a passing glance. She looked the way she had in life, her colorless blond hair drawn back in a bun, her face bare of makeup. In younger days, she’d been pretty in a buxom sort of way, and always up for a romp in the backseat of his car. But the miscarriages had convinced her that she was paying for her sins. A preacher’s daughter, she’d turned back to her religious roots, taken a separate bedroom, and spent her nights reading the Bible. Not that Ferg had minded. He’d never been faithful to his marriage vows and had no trouble finding comfort elsewhere.
Still, life wasn’t fair, he groused. Susan Rutledge Tyler, the woman he’d once hoped to marry, had given Bull two strong sons before the crash that took her life. Unless he wanted to marry again and start over, he was stuck with Garn.
But back to the girl. He needed a way to break the ice with her. Blowing another smoke ring, he pondered what the ranger had told him. He’d mentioned a Buick, an old one. And Ferg had discovered an interest in collecting vintage cars. Maybe . . .
The rap on the door had become more insistent. Garn wasn’t going away. Ferg sighed. “Come on in.”
His son stood in the open doorway of his office. Pale like his mother, with a long face and gangly body like his preacher grandfather’s, he was wearing a yellow polo shirt.
A goddamned yellow polo shirt with some kind of animal on the pocket! He couldn’t even look like a rancher!
Bull sucked on his cigar and blew out the smoke in a cloud. “If you’re here to talk to me about that fool Washington internship, you can forget it. I told you it was a waste of time, sending in that application.”
“But it wasn’t,” Garn said. “I’ve been accepted. I won’t be starting until fall, but I need to respond in the next few days.” He took a breath, as if gathering courage. “This is my dream, Dad. I’ve wanted to go into politics ever since President Reagan came to the ranch on that bird-hunting trip.”
“I don’t give a damn what your dream is,” Ferg said. “You’re not going to Washington. You’re going to stay here and learn to run the ranch.”
“I knew you’d say that,” Garn said. “That’s why I mailed my letter of acceptance this morning. It’s a done deal. I’m going.”
“Over my dead body!” Ferg thundered. “I let you go to college when you begged me. But now that’s done. You’re staying right here!”
Garn shook his head. “Let’s not fight about this, Dad. I’m twenty-one years old. I can do what I want. Meanwhile, I’ll be here through the end of summer. That’s almost five months. If we can make peace, I’ll knuckle under for that time and focus on the ranch.”
