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Her anxiety mounted with each second. Should she go after him? Or would that only increase the likelihood of their being seen? Not that it mattered. She couldn’t take Beau with her, and she couldn’t leave him behind. Heart in her throat, she waited. Over the distant bawling of the cows, she could hear the hammering of her heart.
What if something had happened to the boy? It would kill Bull to lose his son, and she would be to blame for letting him go. Why hadn’t she found a way to stop him?
At long last, the bushes rustled, and Will appeared, scratched and dirty but unhurt. Sick with relief, Rose fought the urge to seize the boy’s shoulders and give him a good shaking. “Didn’t you hear me telling you to come back? Anything could have happened. . .”
Her words trailed off as she saw his expression. Will’s face was pale, his blue eyes wide with shock and fear.
“What is it? What happened?” she demanded.
“I saw a man on the ground.” Will’s voice was a shaky whisper. “His horse was by him. He looked like he was dead.”
“You’re sure?”
“I didn’t get close. I’ve never seen a
dead person before. Not even my mom. Dad wouldn’t let me see her.” Will’s manly bravado had vanished. He looked like the scared child he was.
“Did you see anybody else?”
Will shook his head. “Just cows. They were in the canyon, with a rope strung across the rocks so they couldn’t get out. But two of them came far enough for me to see their brands. Our brand is a rocking R, for Rimrock. These cows were branded with a bar-P. They were Prescott cows, not ours. We need to go find Dad and tell him.”
“What about the man?” Beau asked. “What if he isn’t dead? What if he’s just hurt?”
“What if he’s a rustler?” Will countered. “What if he stole those cows?”
Rose sighed. She couldn’t leave a wounded man to suffer a lingering death in the desert. But her first concern had to be the safety of Bull’s sons.
“Right now you boys have got to get out of here,” she said. “Take Chief, go back to where we left Brownie, and wait while I check on the man. If I’m not back in five minutes, start down to the ranch without me. I’ll catch up.”
“What if something happens?” Beau asked. “What if you don’t come back?”
“Then you just keep going. Get home as fast as you can and tell somebody what happened. Understand?”
The brothers nodded, both of them looking worried.
“Good. Now get going!”
The sturdy pinto had no trouble carrying two young boys. Rose watched them until they rounded the biggest mesquite clump and disappeared. They’ll be all right, she told herself. Will knew the way home. And she didn’t plan to be here long. If the man Will had found was dead, she could take his horse and have someone at the ranch call the law. But what would she do if he turned out to be wounded and dangerous?
Rose cast around for a makeshift weapon. All she could find was a solid leg bone from what appeared to be a deer or a sheep. Bleached clean and probably dragged here by a coyote, it wouldn’t hold up in a serious fight. But it was all she had.
Leaving the mare, she crept forward. A thorny branch scratched a stinging trail across her cheek, drawing blood. A scorpion skittered across her boot and vanished into the underbrush. Rose ignored it and kept moving. Ahead, the bulky outline of a horse loomed through a screen of mesquite. Sensing her approach, the animal snorted. “Easy, boy,” she whispered, hoping the big dun wouldn’t startle and bolt. “I won’t hurt you.”
In a sandy clearing, she found the man. His rangy body, vaguely familiar, lay sprawled facedown on the sand, as if he’d been shot off his horse. A streak above his temple was crusted with blood that had seeped into his dark hair. Two circling dots in the sky became vultures, keeping a grim death watch.
Dropping the bone, Rose crouched over the man’s body and slid a hand beneath the back of his leather vest. Through the sweat-drenched cotton shirt, she felt the subtle rise and fall of his rib cage. He was alive—and the wound, she realized, was no more than a crease where a bullet had grazed his scalp. But unless she could bring him around and get some water down him, he might not be alive for long.
A canteen hung from a strap on the horse’s saddle. Rose was about to move away and get it when she noticed the butt of a holstered revolver jutting from beneath his hip. The weapon lay partway under his body, but the grip was within easy reach.
Moving with care, Rose closed her shaking fingers around the grip and gave it a tug. The gun didn’t move. Either it was a tight fit in the holster or it was wedged beneath his body. She tugged harder. The man shuddered and groaned. Then, in a lighting move his hand flashed out and clamped around her wrist.
Dazed but still powerful, he twisted like a cat, yanking her arm as he righted himself and sat up. “What do you think you’re . . .” His voice broke off. He stared at her, a half-muffled string of curses purpling the air. Only now, as she saw his face, did Rose recognize Ferg Prescott’s man, Tanner McCade.
Releasing her hand, he shoved her backward and jerked the pistol out of its holster. “You’ve got about five seconds to explain what you’re doing here, lady. If I don’t like what I hear, I’ll be taking you in and turning you over to the law.”
Rose pushed herself to her knees, glaring into his bloodshot eyes. “Turning me over for what?” she demanded.
“For cattle rustling—or at least as an accessory. Hear those cows? They belong to the Prescott Ranch. And they’ve been herded onto Rimrock property. That’s rustling in anybody’s book. And here you . . . are.”
