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Straightening, he turned away from the graves. From the hilltop, he could look out over the heart of the ranch—the house, which he’d finished in grand style for Susan, the barns and sheds, the bunkhouse for the hands, the hayfields and pastures, and the teeming paddocks where pregnant cows and heifers had been brought down for calving.
In the thirteen years since he’d left the rodeo and come home to a run-down ranch, he’d nearly doubled the original acreage, adding enough land to run 4,000 head of cattle. He’d built a small duplex behind the house, half for Jasper Platt, the mentor and friend who was now his foreman, and the other half for guests.
After Susan’s death, Jasper’s widowed sister, a plump, cheerful woman named Bernice, had come to keep house and look after the boys. She’d moved into Jasper’s old apartment in the rear of the house and had proven herself to be a treasure.
Bull closed the gate on the sad little graveyard and moved down the hill. By now, Bernice would have fed the boys their supper and sent them off to do their homework. Bull’s own supper would be warming in the oven. He would eat it alone, or maybe with Jasper if they needed to talk. He didn’t see much of his sons; but then, he’d never had much use for children. When they were older, he would teach them to be men and to run the ranch. Right now the most vital thing he could do for them was to build and preserve their legacy.
Family and land. In the end, nothing else counted.
Jasper was waiting at the bottom of the hill, a lanky, scarecrow figure against the fading sky. Knowing that Bull liked to be alone here, he wouldn’t ordinarily have come this far. Not unless there was trouble.
“What is it?” Bull sensed that the news wouldn’t be good.
Jasper scuffed out the cigarette he’d been smoking. “Just got word from the boys coming in off the range. We’re short six head since last month. No sign of carcasses anywhere, not even bones.”
Bull mouthed a curse. “Rustlers. Got to be.”
“Rustlers—or maybe the Prescotts.” Jasper hated their powerful neighbors as much as Bull did.
“It doesn’t make sense for the Prescotts to be stealing our cattle when they’ve got so damned many of their own,” Bull said.
“That doesn’t mean Ferg wouldn’t do it just to rile you,” Jasper said. “He’s hated your guts ever since you stole his girl and married her.”
“I’m aware of that. But rustling’s a serious crime. I can’t imagine Ferg would risk going to jail for a few cows.” Bull began walking back toward the house. “First thing in the morning, I’ll call the Special Rangers and have them get somebody out here pronto.”
In his younger days, Bull might have enjoyed tracking down the rustlers himself. But the Special Rangers who worked for the Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association were hired to combat rustling and related crimes. They were sharp, tough professionals who knew how to handle dangerous thieves and deadly situations. This was their job, not his.
Jasper nodded. “Good idea. I’ll go on ahead tomorrow and get the boys started on the branding and marking.” Jasper seemed about to say more, but he broke off suddenly, staring toward the headlights that were coming up the long, gravel drive from the main road. “Now who the devil could that be? You weren’t expectin’ a visit, were you?”
“Not tonight.” Bull lengthened his stride, ignoring the twinge in his hip. Unexpected company tended to mean problems, unless maybe some lost traveler had taken a wrong turn.
They reached the house as the vehicle was pulling into the yard. At the sight of it, Bull’s gut clenched. He knew that old Buick. He knew its history, and he knew who must be driving it. He swore under his breath. As if he didn’t have enough trouble on his hands.
Lord help him.
Rose was back.
CHAPTER TWO
BULL GLANCED AT JASPER AS THE OLD BUICK PULLED INTO THE yard. Jasper was grinning, making no effort to hide his pleasure. “I’ll be damned!” he muttered. “Never thought I’d see the day!” He started forward, then checked himself, as if waiting to see what Bull would do.
Bull wasn’t surprised that his foreman was happy. When Rose was here as a girl, Jasper had taken her under his wing. The two of them had been as thick as thieves. Jasper had even argued for her rights when Bull had altered the deed to her grandfather’s property and registered the thirty-acre parcel as Rimrock land.
Rose would be wanting that land back—otherwise she wouldn’t have come here. And she’d be madder than a wet wildcat when she discovered what he’d done.
The driver’s door opened on the far side of the car. Catching the remembered scent, the two dogs bounded toward her. Rose paused long enough to scratch their shaggy ears and send them off. Then she walked around the car, into full sight.
In his thoughts, Bull had always pictured her as the scrappy runt of a girl he’d driven to Mexico twelve years ago.
The girl who’d been tough enough to blast the life out of Hamilton Prescott with a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun.the same dis-She turned to face him from a distance—about the same distance as she’d been from Ham when she shot him. The toughness was still there. But this Rose wasn’t a girl anymore. She was a woman in her midtwenties.
Even grown to womanhood, she couldn’t have stood much over five-foot two. Dressed in ragged jeans, a Mexican serape, and cowboy boots that had long since molded to her feet, she had the look of someone from another time and place—or maybe a character from an old Sergio Leone western.
A mane of sun-streaked, tawny brown hair framed chiseled features etched with shadows of grief and hardship. The port-wine birthmark Bull remembered blazed like a banner of defiance down the left border of her face. A more typical woman might have arranged her hair to cover such a blemish. But Rose wore hers like war paint.
She was formidable.
“Rose.” Jasper spoke her name. She turned and saw him. He opened his arms. “Damn it, girl, come here.”
