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Spoken like a budding damned politician, Ferg thought. He’d always equated political types with rats and maggots. But at least the young fool had the cojones to stand up for what he wanted. Maybe that was better than nothing.
“We’ll talk later,” he said, as a new idea sprang up in his mind. “Meanwhile, I’ve got an errand for you to run.”
He scrawled a note on ranch stationery, folded it into an envelope, and wrote a name on the outside. “Take this to the Rimrock Ranch,” he said. “Deliver it personally to Miss Rose Landro.”
* * *
Garn didn’t mind being asked to deliver the note. He’d been dying of boredom, and any excuse to get away from the ranch and his father’s bombastic presence was welcome.
He drove slowly on the dirt road that connected the two ranches. Much as he loved flying along in his sleek Porsche, he didn’t want to raise dust that would settle on the car’s shiny black finish that had just been waxed the day before.
With one hand on the wheel, he glanced at the note his father had given hi
m. Miss Rose Landro. The name was intriguing. He pictured some exotic movie star type, but Miss Landro could just as easily be eighty years old.
Since the envelope was unsealed, he took the liberty of unfolding the note and reading it. Interesting, he thought. Whomever this Miss Landro was, it seemed he was about to get to know her, perhaps know her well.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WAS ONE-THIRTY WHEN ROSE ARRIVED BACK AT THE RIMROCK. BERNICE was standing on the front porch, a gingham apron over her slacks. Her apple-cheeked face broke into a smile as Rose climbed out of her car. “So there you are, honey. I knew you might be too tired for breakfast. But when you didn’t show up for lunch, and I saw that your car was gone, I started to worry. Come on in the kitchen. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
Rose would have answered that she could make her own sandwich, but she knew Bernice meant well and was trying to be friendly. With a murmur of thanks, she followed the woman into the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table she remembered from the old days.
“Where are the boys?” she asked, making conversation. “Are they in school?”
“Yes, they take the bus into Blanco Springs. They’ll be home around four. They’re good boys. You’ll enjoy getting to know them.” Bernice busied herself at the kitchen counter, slicing cold roast beef and homemade bread. “Jasper’s told me a lot about you,” she said.
“A lot?” Rose’s pulse skipped. “How much?”
“I’d say just about everything, including some secrets I’d never tell a soul. My brother thinks the world of you. He’s always hoped you’d come back.”
“Jasper was my best friend when I was here before,” Rose said. “But I get the feeling Bull isn’t all that happy to see me. I’ve only made his life more complicated.”
Bernice sliced the sandwich in two, arranged it on a plate, and set it, along with a napkin and a glass of milk, in front of Rose. “Bull’s got a good heart,” she said. “He’s been through hard times, and it’s given him some rough edges. But in the end, you can count on him to do the right thing.”
Rose took a bite of her sandwich. She wanted to believe the words she’d just heard. But she knew better. Bernice appeared to be one of those trusting people who refused to speak or even think ill of anyone—including her.
The truth, Rose knew, was that Bull would do whatever it took to hang on to her land. And she would do whatever it took to get her inheritance back.
“This sandwich is delicious,” she said, changing the subject. “Thank you. I was really hungry.”
Bernice smiled. “You’re welcome, dear. Now you enjoy your lunch while I go out and gather the eggs.” She started toward the back door, then turned. “Oh—Jasper said you’d likely be wondering about our chickens. You’ll be happy to know they’re the great-great-great-grandchildren of the ones he helped you rescue and bring here.”
Rose gave her a genuine smile. “Thanks. That makes me happy. I loved those silly chickens.”
After Bernice had gone out, Rose finished her sandwich and milk. She was just carrying the plate and glass to the sink when the doorbell chimed.
At the innocent sound, her instincts sprang to full alert. Had she been followed here from Río Seco? Could someone be waiting on the other side of the door to shoot her or drag her back to face Refugio Cabrera in Mexico?
Her pistol was in the car, under the seat, far out of reach. Maybe she’d be safer not answering. Rose took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm and think rationally. Odds were that the visitor posed no danger at all. She could be jumping at shadows.
A glance out the front window revealed a late-model black Porsche parked in front of the house. It sported current Texas plates and appeared freshly washed and waxed. Her own car, after the long drive, was coated with dust, its hood and windshield spattered with the remains of flying insects. Any vehicle pursuing her from Mexico would likely be in the same condition.
Unless Refugio’s connections in the U.S. were already on her trail . . .
The doorbell rang again. Telling herself to stop being so skittish, Rose strode toward the door and opened it.
The tall, snobbish-looking young man on the porch was dressed in khakis and a yellow polo shirt. His blond hair was combed back in waves, his nose large and sharp, like a hatchet blade, and his chin slightly receded. He looked her up and down, his pale eyes reflecting surprise, curiosity, and something else that roused a prickle of discomfort. Rose willed herself to stand her ground.
