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* * *
Ferg splashed his cheeks and jaw with Old Spice before going out the door. He might not have bothered, but Bonnie had mentioned that the scent turned her on, and he wanted her turned on tonight.
As he drove his new Cadillac to town he whistled along with the radio. It hadn’t been a great day—hell, it hadn’t been a great week with the missing cattle and all. But hot sex with Bonnie was like a tonic. She made him feel like a young stud again. He would almost marry the woman—if only he could expect her to be faithful.
He’d thought about marrying again—in the hope of getting a more promising son than Garn, if nothing else. But he hadn’t done so well the first time. And wives were trouble. They wanted constant attention. They wanted money. And if they weren’t happy, they’d leave you and take a chunk of everything you owned. Marriage, for what you got out of it, wasn’t worth the risk.
So why bother, when there were women like Bonnie?
The hour was late—it was almost midnight. But Bonnie always saved late nights for him in case he wanted to stay for an encore, or just to have a few drinks. He kne
w he wasn’t her only lover, but he was the only one who mattered. Most of the time he left cash on her dresser, and he wasn’t stingy. But when he didn’t, he knew it was all right with her. Their relationship was about more than money. She was his girl, and he was her special man.
Ferg’s buoyant mood evaporated as he pulled up to Bonnie’s house, parked discreetly down the street as he usually did, and climbed out of his car. There, parked at the curb right in front, for all to see, was an all-too-familiar black Porsche.
There was only one car like that in the whole county. What the devil was Garn doing here?
Stupid question. As if he didn’t know.
As Ferg stood fuming by the curb, Bonnie’s front door opened. Garn stepped out, then strutted down the sidewalk as if knowing he had an audience.
Livid, Ferg stepped into his path, blocking his way. “You’ve got some explaining to do, boy,” he said.
Garn laughed. “I don’t owe you an explanation, or anything else, Daddy-O,” he said. “Bonnie’s in there now, making herself fresh and pretty for you. Nothing else that happened in the past hour is any of your business.”
It was all Ferg could do to keep from ramming his son’s front teeth down his throat. “Are you trying to make me a laughingstock? Find your own damn woman!”
“Why bother? Bonnie’s available, and she knows the score. By now, you should know it, too. No complications, just good, clean fun.” Garn smirked. “Fun for all! When you do her tonight, remember that I was in that sweet spot before you. As they say in some circles, I buttered your bun.”
Ferg slapped his son. His big hand struck with a force that he felt all the way up his arm. Garn reeled and staggered, but the smug smile Ferg hated never left his face.
“You watch your mouth with your father, you namby-pamby little punk. Show some respect.”
“I lost my respect for you years ago.” Hatred glimmered in Garn’s eyes as he faced his father. “That’s the last time you’ll ever lay a hand on me, old man,” he said. Then, still smiling, he walked around Ferg and out to his car.
Ferg hesitated, wondering whether he should ring the doorbell or turn around and leave. He knew better than to ask Bonnie for an explanation. She didn’t owe him one. He knew what she was and what she did. But why now? And why did it have to be with his son?
Garn was still sitting in his car, waiting to see what his father would do—turn and walk away or ring the doorbell and go in. With Garn watching, either way would be a humiliation. But what the hell. Sex was sex, and Bonnie was damned good at it. As long as he was here, he might as well get some. Swallowing his pride, he pushed the doorbell button and waited for Bonnie to come and let him in.
* * *
Garn pulled away from the curb. One hand massaged his swelling jaw. His father’s slap had done some damage, but the blow to the old man’s ego had been worth the pain. It had been damned sweet, seeing the almighty Ferguson Prescott squirm. It would serve him right if he couldn’t get it up with Bonnie tonight.
Garn had enjoyed Bonnie, and he’d paid her generously—not only for the good time in bed but for her services as a liaison between Garn and the mob-owned steakhouse chain that was buying the ranch’s prime beef at a substantial savings over what they’d pay on the open market.
It was a nice little operation, and relatively safe. When Ferg was due to spend time with Bonnie, she’d send out an “all clear” signal by phone. If the timing was right, Garn would call in the location of the cattle and show up to open the gate for the truck. After that, all he needed to do was hold out his hand for the cash, which would go into a secret account, earmarked for the brilliant future he planned—or as a safety net in case he found himself out on the doorstep.
Ferg’s visit tonight had been unplanned until he’d called Bonnie at the last minute. But as it turned out, the timing was good. The truckers would be there at one-thirty, cash in hand.
As for the run-in with his father at Bonnie’s house, that had been an accident. But Garn had no regrets. Even with his sore jaw, the memory of Ferg’s outraged expression would keep him laughing for weeks to come.
* * *
Tanner had stationed himself on the ground behind the crest of a grassy hill, overlooking the small pasture that confined eighteen head of prime Hereford beef. He’d been there for more than an hour without seeing any activity. His legs were getting cramped, and the night air was chilly through his thin jacket. The temptation to give up and go back to the warmth of his bunk was becoming more real by the minute. But he’d resolved to watch until the crack of dawn. He would see this through.
By now the moon had crossed the sky and was settling in the west. Its light cast cedars, animals, and fence lines into long shadows. An owl called out in the darkness. A coyote trotted into sight, spotted Tanner, and turned tail.
He’d fallen into a light doze when the faint, distant crunch of tires on gravel startled him to full alertness. On the far side of the small pasture, a dark shape was moving without lights along the rough road. It was too small to be a truck, but even by moonlight its outline was unmistakable.
