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Rose’s smoldering anger flared. “Does that make him any different from you, Bull? You cheated me out of the land my grandpa left me. That property is mine, and I want it back. If you won’t give it to me, I’ll get it some other way.”
“How? By going to Ferg? Hell, girl, he’d destroy you to get that land. Look at what he did today—hiding his cows on the Rimrock so he could frame me for stealing them, and maybe even for shooting your friend, McCade. All that to blackmail me into giving up the creek property. That’s the kind of snake you’d be dealing with. His old man killed your granddad for that land. Ferg’s just as bad, if not worse. He’s capable of anything.”
“Maybe so.” Rose’s voice had gone flat and cold. “But this isn’t about the Prescotts. It’s about me and what’s mine. It’s about what’s right.”
“It’s about what’s sensible, Rose. The only way to protect that land and the access to the creek is to keep it as part of the Rimrock. I’m willing to pay you a fair price for it, or trade you for a parcel of land somewhere else. But that’s as far as I’ll go.”
“No.” Rose jumped out of her chair and stood facing him. “My grandfather meant for me to have that land, and I won’t settle for anything else. If that’s all you have to offer me, we’re done here.”
Fighting tears of frustration, she turned away from him and strode down the steps. She’d given Bull every chance to right the wrong he’d done her, and he’d refused. It was time to make a new plan.
* * *
It was after midnight when Ferg climbed into the cab of his pickup, which he’d parked down the block from Bonnie Treadwell’s house, just like in the old days. He hummed to himself as he settled into the driver’s seat and slipped the key into the ignition. Bonnie might be past her prime and putting on a little weight, but when it came to satisfying a man, the old girl hadn’t lost her touch.
Back in the day, when she was waiting tables at the Burger Shack, she and Ferg had been hot and heavy. She’d broken off their relationship to have her trucker husband’s baby. But now that she was divorced, with her ex sharing custody of the boy, she was hornier than ever. Ferg knew he wasn’t the only man who shared her bed—she had a thing for hot, young cowpokes. But as long as he was at the top of her list, Ferg didn’t mind. There were worse things than getting what he wanted in bed without the demands of having a wife.
Where Main Street turned onto the two-lane highway, he stomped the gas pedal, enjoying the squeal of rubber on asphalt as the truck picked up speed. He’d had a few drinks at Bonnie’s, but what the hell? Traffic was light, and even the cops were asleep at this hour. After rolling down the truck windows, he turned up the radio and blasted Merle Haggard into the night.
Flying bugs splattered a mosaic of wings and guts on the windshield. Ferg made a game of pretending they were people in his life. Splat! There you go, Bull Tyler. Splat! You, too, Jasper Platt. Splat! And you, Garn, you gutless wonder of a son. Sometimes I want to—
The earsplitting blare of a horn blasted Ferg’s ears. A huge semi loomed in his windshield, roaring straight down on him. Seized by panic, Ferg wrenched the steering wheel, hard right—but not far enough or fast enough to pull his pickup out of the oncoming lane. The monster truck was almost on him when the driver swerved hard onto the shoulder of the narrow road. Gravel crunched as the shoulder crumbled under the massive tires. Brakes squealing, the semi shuddered to a stop, resting at an angle, just short of tipping onto its side.
A glance in Ferg’s rearview mirror showed the driver’s door opening. He floored the gas pedal and sped away without another look. He was grateful to be alive. But the last thing he needed was a confrontation with an angry trucker and maybe a DUI arrest if the man called the highway patrol.
Ferg had broken out in a cold sweat. Shivering, he closed the truck windows and switched off the radio. It was still sinking in how close he’d come to dying back there. What in hell’s name was that semi doing on the road at this hour, anyway? Only two things would put a big rig on an isolated highway at this hour—a woman or a bunch of stolen cattle.
The notion of cattle thieving led him to recall the day’s events. His foreman had passed on the news that the so-called stolen cattle were safely back. But nobody had mentioned finding Tanner McCade’s body. Deke Triplehorn had orders to lie low after the shooting. The fact that he hadn’t reported in would suggest that he’d done his job.
But what about McCade? If the TSCRA ranger was dead on Rimrock land, there still had to be some way to pin the crime on Bull. He would think on that. Meanwhile, the romp with Bonnie and his narrow escape on the way home had left him exhausted. Right now, all he wanted was to go to bed. He would take stock of the situation in the morning. Whatever was going on, he would figure out a way to work it to his advantage.
Stifling a yawn, he pulled through the gate and drove up the lane into the yard. The house was dark. Even the porch light was off. It operated on a timer, so the bulb must’ve burned out.
Ferg parked the pickup, switched off the headlights, and climbed out of the truck. Stumbling up the steps, he made his way onto the porch. His eyes caught a slight movement in the dark. The hair rose on the back of his neck as he realized that he wasn’t alone. Somebody was sitting in one of the chairs.
“Hello, Ferg,” said Tanner McCade. “Sit down. Let’s have a talk.”
* * *
Tanner had been lying low but keeping an eye on the boss of the Prescott Ranch. Earlier that night, he’d seen Ferg leave in one of the ranch pickups, freshly shaved and wearing a clean change of clothes. A man like Ferg wouldn’t have bothered cleaning up at night unless there was a woman waiting somewhere. And he wouldn’t have taken one of the work vehicles unless he didn’t want to be recognized.
Not that he was breaking any laws. Ferg was a widower, and as long as the women were willing, his sex life was none of Tanner’s business. But cattle showing up where they didn’t belong and bullets flying out of nowhere were another matter.
Tanner had weighed the wisdom of confronting Ferg. On one hand it might be smart to keep what he’d discovered to himself and try to learn more. On the other hand, his head hurt like hell, he’d come damn close to being killed, and he was sick and tired of being played. This had become personal.
A sliver of a crescent moon rode the peak of the sky. In its faint light, Ferg looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “Hell, McCade, you shouldn’t startle a man like that,” he muttered. “If I’d had a gun on me, you’d have been dead by now.”
“You look surprised to see me, Ferg,” Tanner said, deliberately using Prescott’s first name. “Any reason why?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ferg grumbled, moving toward the door. “Whatever it is, it can wait till morning.”
“Fine. But morning will be when I call in to the district office and tell them how your cattle really came to be on the Rimrock and how I came within a gnat’s eyelash of getting shot through the head today.”
Ferg sank onto a chair. “What is it you want, McCade? Name your price.”
“You think I want money? I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a blackmailer.” Inwardly, Tanner celebrated a small victory. Ferg wouldn’t have offered him a bribe if he didn’t have something to hide. “I’m not here to get you in trouble,” he said. “All I want is the truth. I know that the men who fetched your cattle home were the ones who herded those cows onto the Rimrock in the first place—and that they were acting on your orders. What I don’t know is why.”
Ferg’s silence ended in a nervous laugh. “Why, it was a joke, that’s all. A joke on Bull Tyler. We were friends as boys, and we still play pranks on each other.”
