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He knew the lay of the land from the maps he’d studied. This narrow parcel ran like a finger, north along the creek from the main border of the Rimrock. Beyond its boundaries, the land was federal, open range all the way into the Escarpment, where the creek, fed by artesian water under the caprock, flowed in a steady stream. According to Texas law, nobody owned the water. It was the access to the water that made the difference in this dry country.
The cattle tank had been filled recently. Tanner could see horse tracks along the bank and boot tracks by the head gate, which could be opened to let water flow into the pipe. There were cattle tracks, too, and here and there the small, pointed prints of Mexican cowboy boots where the mysterious woman had walked. Her prints were most numerous next to the fallen t
ree, which must have been a giant when it was growing.
The trunk lay a few inches off the ground, its girth supported at either end by its roots and the broken stubs of its branches. Crouching, Tanner peered underneath. He could see no sign that the ground had been dug up or disturbed in any way except for a single small, fresh handprint pressed into the earth.
What was he seeing here?
Was it some kind of message?
Backing off, Tanner studied the ground beneath the tree trunk. A narrow section of earth, about six feet long, had settled over time, as if the dirt had once been dug up, replaced, and left.
It looked a grave, he realized, more than likely an old one. He couldn’t be sure without digging it up. But he had too much respect for the dead to disturb the place without a good reason.
Instead he focused on the mysterious woman. Was she a messenger, a spy, or a mourner? Was she part of the Tyler crew, or was she, like him, a trespasser on the land?
Nothing else Tanner saw here gave him any answers. But if there was any chance the woman was linked to the rustlers, he’d be smart to keep an eye on her.
The Buick had vanished around a bend in the road, probably going back to the Rimrock. For now, there was nothing left to do here. Still pondering, Tanner crossed the creek to his horse, mounted up, and set off to find Ferg Prescott and report what he’d seen.
* * *
After visiting her land, Rose drove the twenty-mile road into the town of Blanco Springs. She hadn’t seen much of the place when she’d last stayed at the Rimrock. Most of the time, Bull had insisted on keeping her out of sight. He’d even made up a story about her being Jasper’s visiting niece. Only later had she learned that this wasn’t just for her safety. Bull, she’d long since learned, rarely did anything unless it served his own purpose.
After eleven years, the town was much as she remembered—the working-class homes, the grocery and dry goods stores along Main Street, the ramshackle Blue Coyote Bar, and the Burger Shack, which sold sandwiches, pizza, shakes, and sodas. The thought of a real hamburger and an ice-cold Coke made her mouth water, but she didn’t want to attract the kind of attention she’d get at a place like that. Not today, at least.
At the end of Main Street she found the city and county building where, she assumed, the property records would be kept. The County Recorder’s office was in the basement. When she asked to see a map of the Rimrock Ranch, the clerk, a bespectacled young man who made an effort not to look at her birthmark, gave her a plat—a hefty book of surveyors’ maps with legal descriptions that meant nothing to her. Sitting down with it at a long table, Rose leafed through the pages until what she was seeing began to make sense. After forty minutes of searching, she opened a map and recognized the creek and the strip of land her grandfather had left her.
Marking the page with a scrap of paper, she carried the plat to the counter, pointed out her land, and asked the clerk who owned it.
“Have a seat and I’ll look it up,” he said. “Forgive me if it takes a few minutes. I’m new at this job.”
“Is there anybody around who was here twelve years ago, when the deed was recorded?” Rose asked.
“Sorry. Beth Hazelton, who ran this place for decades, passed away last month. I was part-time help. Now I’m running it myself, at least until the next election for County Recorder.”
When Rose failed to make chatty conversation, he rummaged in the files and books for a few more minutes. Rose’s gut told her what he would find. But she had to hear the news for herself before she could confront Bull.
“Found it!” the clerk said. “The deed to that parcel of land was recorded in 1974.”
“And the owner?” Rose’s pulse quickened.
“Mr. Virgil Tyler of the Rimrock Ranch.”
Rose had known what she would hear. Still, she couldn’t help clasping at a last thin thread of hope. “Is anyone else’s name on the deed?” she asked.
“No name’s recorded except Mr. Tyler’s. These days we make photocopies of deeds, but from back then, we’d have only the record. Mr. Tyler would have kept the deed himself.”
“I see. Thank you.” Rose strode out of the basement room, a bitter taste welling in her throat. She’d hoped against hope that her suspicions weren’t true. But it was time to face reality. Bull Tyler, the man who’d sheltered her under his roof, saved her life more than once, and stood trial for the act she’d committed, had stolen her land and was very likely plotting to keep it.
* * *
“You say you saw a woman by the creek?” Ferg Prescott’s beetling brows met above a nose reddened by too much Kentucky bourbon. In middle age, he was putting on weight, developing jowls and a paunch that overhung his belt. Now, seated behind his massive desk, he looked like what he was—the absolute ruler of the biggest ranch in Blanco County, a powerful presence whose word was law.
Tanner had met him less than a week ago. But he already knew enough to watch his step with the man. Ferg Prescott was sharp, volatile, and ruthless. His ranch hands were well paid, well housed, and well fed, but fear of their boss took a toll on them all.
“Far as I know, the only woman on the Rimrock these days is the housekeeper,” Ferg said. “Could that be who you saw?”
