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As she climbed out of the car, the splash and gurgle of the creek reached her ears. Memories swept over her, the old log cabin on its banks, the vegetables and chickens she’d raised, and the nighttime treks to the outhouse in the trees. Most poignant of all was the memory of her grandfather—his deep, gravelly voice, his kindness, and his defiant courage at the end of his life. She would never stop missing him.
The cabin would be gone. Bull Tyler had torched it, with her grandfather’s body inside, to hold off Prescott’s men while they made their escape. Only her chickens, which Jasper had caught and taken to the Rimrock, had been saved.
Rose had braced herself for whatever she was about to see. But even so, the sight of the trampled bank, the head gate, and the ugly pipe leading from the water to the cattle tank, with only a few tilted posts remaining where a fence had once marked the boundary, almost crushed her heart. This had been a beautiful place once, a place she had loved. But all that had changed.
Near the edge of the clearing, a massive cottonwood trunk lay where the tree had fallen, its limbs cut away. Here, in a space dug out underneath, was where Bull had buried her grandfather’s charred remains. No casket. No service—perhaps not even a prayer. And only a temporary marker, long since gone.
Kneeling beside the spot, Rose laid a hand on the makeshift grave. “I’m back, Grandpa,” she whispered. “And now that I’m here, I’m going to make a home in this place—a home you’d be proud of.”
She was about to rise and go when a familiar prickling of her senses warned her of danger. She’d seen nothing, heard nothing. But all her instincts told her that she wasn’t alone.
Someone was watching her.
She froze, one hand thumbing back the hammer to cock the. 44. She had learned to depend on her danger instincts. If she sensed that someone was watching her, she was probably right.
She’d seen no one on this side of the creek. But the other side was Prescott land—hostile territory ever since the old days, when she’d lived here with her grandfather and Ham Prescott’s hired thugs had harassed them with guns and torches in an attempt to force them off the property.
In the end, when he wouldn’t sell, Ham Prescott himself had shown up on the far side of the creek and shot her grandfather with a rifle. Her grandfather had made it back into the cabin but died a short time later. That was when Bull and Jasper had shown up, rescued her and her chickens, and set the cabin ablaze to cover their escape.
And that was when Bull had found the hidden deed to the property and kept it for himself.
Rose could still feel a hidden presence on the far side of the creek. Ham Prescott might be long gone, but his son Ferg was in charge now, and Ferg was no different from his father. He could easily have his men watching her.
She kept the pistol cocked, her grip steady and sure. If she had to, she would shoot first and ask questions later.
CHAPTER THREE
SCREENED BY WILLOWS, TANNER MCCADE WATCHED THE WOMAN ON the far side of the creek. Who was she? And what the hell was she doing out here?
On the pretext of riding fence, he’d been checking the boundaries of the Prescott Ranch, looking for places where rustlers might have parked a truck and crossed over with stolen Prescott cattle, when he heard the approaching motor. Leaving his horse in the trees and moving into the willows, he’d watched the vintage Buick pull up and park next to a clump of mesquite.
Ferg Prescott had warned him that, when it came to cattle rustling, the neighboring rancher, Bull Tyler, was the prime suspect. True or not, there was clearly no love lost between the two men. Some asking on Tanner’s part confirmed that the Tyler–Prescott feud dated back to the previous generation. And one of the biggest bones of contention had been this nameless creek and the land on the far side of it.
Tanner had seen an aerial photo, showing the creek and the place where a length of PVC pipe led to a circular cattle tank on the Tyler property. Both the Prescott Ranch and Bull Tyler’s Rimrock got most of their water from wells. But the creek, which gushed year-round from its source in the escarpment, was an important water source for range cattle. Control of the land along the banks meant control of the water. That control was split between two powerful men who appeared to hate each other’s guts.
Now Tanner was seeing the disputed spot for the first time. Everything was pretty much as he’d expected.
Except for the woman.
She was kneeling beside the old fallen tree on the far side of the creek, so close that he could have tossed a stone and hit her. Her back was toward him now, but he’d seen her walking toward the water with a heavy pistol in her hand. Small as she was, her powerful, confident stride seemed to say, Don’t mess with me!
He had to admit she was pretty—not like most women, but more the way a wild hawk was pretty, fierce and alert, her sun-streaked hair tied back with a length of black ribbon, her denim shirt and faded jeans skimming the curves of her sinewy little body. She wasn’t young, but young enough . . .
For what? Tanner gave himself a mental slap. He was looking for rustlers, not a bed partner. And her actions in this place were enough to put her under suspicion.
Now she was bending lower, reaching under the tree trunk as if feeling for something, maybe a message. He could step into sight, aim his pistol, and order her to drop that big .44 she was packing. But he’d never shot a woman, and he didn’t want to chance doing that now. Besides, if he spooked her, he would never learn what she was up to or whether she had any unsavory friends lurking around.
Her body stiffened abruptly, as if she’d heard something. Tanner hadn’t moved or made a sound, but she seemed to sense his presence. From her kneeling position by the fallen tree, she rose to a crouch. One hand cocked the pistol as she glanced around. Satisfied, but still alert, she stood, giving him his first head-on look at her striking face.
Her skin was sun-bronzed to a golden hue. Her features were sharp and proud, her eyes as dark as the heart of a sunflower. When she glanced to one side, he saw the wine-colored streak that spilled down the left side of her face. Rather than mar her features, it lent her a wildness that was almost erotic.
But he wasn’t here to ogle her, Tanner reminded himself. If this woman was in league with the rustlers—perhaps as a lookout—it would be his job to round her up and bring her in with the rest.
Still gripping the pistol, she backed away from the creek, toward the mesquite clump where she’d left her car. Tanner began to breathe again as she lowered the gun, climbed into the Buick, turned the car around, and headed back toward the Rimrock Ranch. At least the woman and the car would be easy to recognize if he saw them again—and something told Tanner he would.
But right now he wanted a closer look at whatever was under that fallen tree trunk.
Tanner straightened to his lean, six-foot height. Holstering the gun, he crossed the creek at a shallow spot and moved up the bank to the clearing where he’d seen the woman. It was his first time on Tyler property. The sense of being in a forbidden place triggered a prickle that raised the hair on the back of his neck. For all he knew, he could be shot just for being here.
