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“I didn’t know I needed your permission,” Rose said. “According to our contract, I can raise anything on my land.”
“Blast it, I’m not talking about permission,” he said. “I’m talking about common sense. If you’d asked me, I’d have told you that sheep are a sure way to make enemies—right when you need to make friends.”
“I don’t need friends as much as I need money. I helped the Ortegas raise sheep in Mexico. I know how to take care of them. You’ve been good to me, Bull, and I’m grateful. But sooner or later I have to strike out on my own. I hope Jasper isn’t in trouble for bringing the boys over.”
His mouth tightened. “Jasper’s fine. But all my sons can talk about are those damned sheep of yours.”
“So what now?” Rose asked.
“I’ve already come up with a solution. There’s a farmer in the next county who’s willing to take your lambs and raise them with his on private, fenced land. I’ve already called him. As long as they’re healthy, he’ll even pick them up and repay what you paid for them. You can’t get a better deal than that.”
“And then what?”
“We can work out some other way for you to have an income—something we can both live with.”
Bull was trying to be fair, Rose told herself. But he was doing it again—taking over her life. The lambs were hers. She had every right to keep and raise them. And, so help her, that was what she intended to do.
“Sorry, Bull, no deal,” she said. “I’m keeping the lambs.”
His expression hardened. “Fine. Do what you want. But those lambs won’t always be little. The first one that wanders off your property is going to become target practice.”
Rose stifled a gasp. “You’re saying you’d shoot them?”
“I’m not talking about me.”
Without another word, Bull turned away, strode to his truck, and climbed inside. Frozen in shock, Rose watched him drive off. The lines had been drawn, firm and clear. But what had Bull meant? Would someone really shoot her precious sheep?
Never mind, it was just an empty threat, Rose told herself. And right now she had work to do.
Finding a rake, she stepped into the lamb pen and began raking the droppings out of the scattered bedding straw. She glanced up, her eye catching a movement in the willows on the far side of the creek. For a moment she stood still, watching, then went back to work. It had been nothing, she told herself. Only a bird or animal, or maybe the wind. But it was hard to believe she wasn’t being spied on.
* * *
Ferg Prescott sat on the front porch, sipping a bourbon and enjoying the spring sunshine. He’d felt a growing sense of contentment now that Garn was gone. No more listening to that annoying nasal whine. No more stolen cattle. No more stealing time with Bonnie. And no more frustration over a son who wouldn’t lift a finger to meet his father’s expectations.
Garn would get along fine, wherever he was. The boy had all the instincts of a bottom-feeder. For all Ferg knew, he could be president of the friggin’ United States one day. But Garn’s welfare was no longer his concern, and Ferg was damned glad of it.
Last night he’d enjoyed a rip-roaring time in Bonnie’s bed. It had been an easy decision, not mentioning her part in the cattle theft. The woman was a survivor, doing her best to make a few extra dollars. Why punish her for that? And why spoil a relationship that worked so well for him?
The only thing that still troubled him, like a sharp stone in his boot, was the way Bull Tyler had bested him on sewing up that creek property. Putting it in the Landro woman’s name, with ironclad conditions attached, had been a smart move. As long as Bull controlled Rose, he controlled the property. And there was no way Ferg could get his hands on it.
Ferg had been keeping a close eye on the place. One of his new hires, a homely eighteen-year-old named Reuben Potter, had a talent for sneaking around without being noticed. Ferg had assigned him to watch the creek property and report back on everything he saw and heard there.
Thanks to Reuben, Ferg knew about the trailer on the property. He knew about Rose’s garden and the chicken coop. He even knew about the four lambs she’d brought home and set up in a pen. And now, here was Reuben, coming around the corner of the house with that expectant look on his face that told Ferg he’d learned something new.
Ferg got up, gave him a nod, and went into the house. It wouldn’t do to have a hired hand sitting on the porch with him, like a buddy. As was customary, he would see Reuben in his office.
Ferg sat down at his desk and waited. Reuben usually gave him a few minutes before wandering in. By the time he showed up, Ferg was getting impatient.
“Well?” he demanded, as Reuben stepped into the office and closed the door behind him.
Reuben cleared his throat. “It looks like Rose and Bull Tyler had an argument over the lambs. Bull wanted her to get rid of ’em. He’d even found somebody to take ’em off her hands. But Rose said she wouldn’t let ’em go. Bull was pretty mad. I even heard him say that if any of those sheep left her property, they’d be shot.”
“You don’t say . . .” Ferg leaned back in his leather chair. “Anything else?”
Reuben shook his head. “After that, Bull drove off, and Rose went to work cleaning the lamb pen. I figured that was a good time to go.”
“Very interesting,” Ferg said. “Thanks for the update. You can get back to your regular work, but keep your eyes and ears open.”
