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It was a black Porsche.
Tanner had brought along a pair of night vision binoculars. Now, as the car stopped short of the pasture gate, he focused them on the windows to make a positive ID of the driver. No surprise there. Even in silhouette there was no mistaking Garn Prescott’s high nose and receding chin.
Tanner whispered a string of curses. Why hadn’t he suspected Garn all along? Ferg’s son had an insider’s knowledge of the ranch and its cattle. He would know how to open the pasture gates. And it was no secret that the young man resented his father. Stealing Ferg’s prize steers would be like a game to him. But now it was time for the game to end.
A larger vehicle—a truck pulling a stock trailer—rumbled around the bend in the road, its headlights off. Garn climbed out of the Porsche with a flashlight and shone it on the lock while he worked the combination. The gate swung open, allowing the truck to drive into the pasture. The two men who climbed out of the truck selected three steers and herded them up a ramp, into the back of the trailer. The time it took allowed Tanner to memorize the license number and general description of the rig.
One man locked the trailer and climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck. The other man handed Garn a fat manila envelope. Garn used the flashlight to peer inside and check the contents, then nodded his acceptance.
With the truck and trailer back on the gravel road, Garn swung the gate shut, closed the padlock, and used a handkerchief to wipe it clean of prints. Then he tossed the envelope into the Porsche, climbed in, and drove off without lights in the direction of the ranch house.
And that was that.
Once Garn was safely out of sight, Tanner stood, stretched his legs, put away the binoculars, and hiked back to where he’d left the pickup.
From the bunkhouse he would call the dispatcher at TSCRA headquarters and have them put out an APB on the truck and trailer. With any luck at all, the cattle buyers would be picked up within the hour.
The real question was what to do about Garn, whose only crime, any good lawyer would argue, was aiding in the theft of his own family’s livestock. Would Ferg be angry enough to press charges? That question would have to wait until tomorrow.
In the bunkhouse, Tanner made the call to headquarters. His job was done for now, but he had one duty left. He wouldn’t go to sleep until he’d made sure Rose was all right.
He went back outside, then climbed in the pickup and drove back along the west border of the ranch to the creek. Switching off the headlights, he parked in the trees and walked to where he could see the trailer, dark and peaceful in the moonlight.
He didn’t want to disturb her sleep. But as the memory of their loving swept over him, a hard reality struck. Now that he’d solved the mystery of the stolen cattle, his time here, with her, would be over.
Tomorrow he would come by the trailer to say good-bye. After that, he could be transferred anywhere in the region. Or maybe he should at least ask for time off to go back to Wyoming and help his brother on the ranch. Either choice would mean a parting from Rose. And given the nature of time and fate, he could be seeing her for the last time. From now on, it would be up to Bull and Jasper to look after her and make sure she was safe.
He stood for a moment, remembering her sweet passion and the feel of her body in his arms. Then he forced himself to turn around and walk back to the truck.
* * *
Rose thrashed and moaned, caught in the grip of a nightmare. The agents of the cartel had captured her and dragged her back to Refugio. He had staked her to the ground for his men to torture with red-hot brands. The first one would put out one of her eyes. She writhed and screamed as the glowing iron, fashioned in the shape of an elaborately curled “C,” moved closer . . . closer . . .
She woke with a convulsive jerk. Her eyes shot open, seeing only darkness. Slowly she began to breathe again. She was alone in the trailer, safe and secure within its walls. The sheets that wrapped her still held the masculine scent of Tanner’s body. She turned over and pressed her face into the pillow, breathing in the aroma of his hair. Even now, she knew better that to expect him back again. But for once in her life he had made her feel safe, almost loved, in a man’s arms. He had given her the gift of hope— the hope that someday she might know that wonderful feeling again.
But nothing, it seemed, could banish the dreams or the fear that they would come true. She had a home now. She had friends to help and protect her. But Refugio would never stop looking for the woman who’d killed his brother. And when he found her, his revenge would be a death of unspeakable pain and horror.
Reflexively, she reached down to where she’d stashed her Smith and Wesson .44, under the edge of the mattress. Drawing it out, she laid it next to her pillow, with her fingers touching the grip. The 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun that had been her grandfather’s was wrapped in a blanket and stashed behind the seat in her pickup—not a safe place. If anybody broke into the truck, that gun would be the f
irst thing they’d find and steal. She would need to find a safer place for it.
Tanner had been worried about Garn Prescott. But Garn was little more than a silly boy. She knew who the real enemy was, and she knew that one day Refugio or his men would come for her. When that day arrived, she would have to be ready to fight for her life.
Closing her eyes, she tried to go back to sleep. But she was wide awake now—free, at least, from another nightmare. Through the window she watched the moon vanish behind the escarpment. Then she lay back to wait for dawn, listening to cricket songs and to the soft babble of the creek. This was her life now. Until the terror closed in on her, she would savor every precious moment of it.
* * *
“Sorry.” Ferg rolled to one side of Bonnie’s bed and lay staring up at the ceiling. “I’m afraid this isn’t my best night,” he said.
“Well, there’s always the next time,” Bonnie soothed. “Most nights you’re a real stallion. Don’t worry, you’ll get it back.”
“I know,” Ferg said. He’d never had this problem before. But tonight had been a fiasco. Every time he got close, the memory of Garn’s insolent, laughing face would hit him like a dash of cold water. Garn. He’d never liked his son. Right now he just plain hated him.
He knew better than to talk about Garn with Bonnie. She never mentioned her other clientele, and even if she did, the subject of Garn would only sour their relationship. The best thing he could do now was get up, go home, and forget tonight had ever happened.
He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and reached for his clothes. His wallet was in his jeans. Pulling it out, he laid a wad of bills on the pillow. “Here, you worked hard enough to earn it.”
“Forget it.” She pushed the money back at him. “Save it for next time. It’ll be better, I know.”
