That was a lie if he’d ever heard one. “So if it was a joke, why did you send me on the trail of those cattle?”
“Don’t you get it? That was part of the joke. You were supposed to find the cows and threaten Bull with arrest. Then we’d have a good laugh and it would be over. Trouble was, Bull got wind of it and didn’t think it was funny. He ordered me to get my cows off his land.”
“You don’t see me laughing, either. Was my getting shot part of the joke?”
Ferg’s only response was a blank stare.
“
I mentioned it earlier. The men who went after the cows knew about it, too. I met them coming back.” Tanner raised his hat to show the gauze bandage he’d wrapped around his head. “The bullet grazed me, knocked me out, until . . .” He hesitated. Did he want to bring Rose into this? “I came to and made it back here,” he said, deciding against it. Ferg was already lying through his teeth. Nothing he might say about Rose could be counted as truth.
“Well, I’m damned sorry you were shot,” Ferg said. “I may have tried to prank Bull with those cows, but I sure as hell had nothing to do with shooting you. It was probably Bull, or one of his men. I wouldn’t put it past them to gun down a stranger they caught on Tyler land.”
“Your men told me the same thing. I’ll have to look into that—assuming there’s still work to be done here. I don’t like to think you requested an agent here for a joke.”
“Lord, no! I’m still losing stock for real. I’ve shown you the books. We’ve had at least a dozen prime steers vanish into thin air in the past week.”
“Fine. I’ll report in and tell Clive I need to stay awhile longer. But no more tricks, Ferg. No more lies or going behind my back. Understand?”
“Understood.”
Tanner didn’t offer his hand as he turned to go. He hadn’t had much respect for Ferg to begin with, and he was learning that the man was a bully and a liar.
As he walked back to the bunkhouse, his head still aching, his thoughts drifted to Rose and the memory of those sunflower eyes looking down at him, that small, firm breast brushing his shoulder, and those tough little hands washing the blood from his skin. She’d smelled like cheap soap and sagebrush, a mix that had stirred his senses and, even now, left him mildly aroused.
Strange that Rose, of all people, had found him lying unconscious and wounded—maybe too strange now that he thought about it. What if she’d already known where to look for him?
What if it had been her finger that pulled the trigger?
* * *
Sunday morning, after Bull and Jasper had left to check the stock in the new pastures, Rose made coffee in her duplex, gulped it down, bundled up her scant possessions, and carried them outside to her truck.
Last night she’d given Bull one final chance to make things right with her land. He’d made his position clear. The lines had been drawn. She could no longer take advantage of his hospitality or enjoy the friendship of Jasper, Bernice, and the boys.
This was war.
The previous owner of the pickup had left the camper in good condition. Rose piled in her clothes, blankets, tools, and her grandfather’s shotgun, which she laid gently under the mattress. Then she climbed into the cab and took the back road to the creek and the parcel of land that her grandfather had given his life to protect.
Today was Sunday—no day of rest for ranchers and ranch hands who had animals to feed and care for. Still, as she drove the rutted dirt road across the scrubby open range, she sensed a serenity that had settled over the land and over her spirit. What she was about to do wouldn’t be easy. But it had to be done, and she felt right in doing it.
The roundup had cleared the cattle from this part of their range. They would likely be moved back when the grass had had time to grow and the dry summer made the watering tank a vital necessity. All to the good. With luck, she would have a few months of peace and quiet before Bull moved his stock back here. She would consider leasing him rights to the tank, but a lot of things had to happen first.
She pulled up to the edge of the property and climbed out of the truck. She no longer feared Ferg Prescott’s men. Ferg knew her and had offered his help. If she was going to get her property back, she would likely need it.
The narrow strip of land was much as she had left it, the grass eaten and trampled, the tank untended now that the cattle had been moved. A few sunflowers were sprouting where she had once planted her garden—a good omen, she thought.
Looking around, she began to take stock of her needs. First would be a good, stout fence. The barbed wire and posts that had surrounded the place in the old days had been trampled into the ground. Some of the rusty wire might be usable if she could dig it up. But she would need to buy new posts, or fill in the gaps with some of the saplings that had sprouted along the creek. She could sleep in the camper. It had a propane stove but no plumbing. She would have to dig a latrine in a secluded spot until she could build an outhouse.
The creek water was good for drinking and washing. She would have to bathe with a rag and a basin in the dark, but she’d roughed it before and knew how to get by.
As before, she walked to the massive fallen tree that sheltered her grandfather’s grave. Kneeling, she placed her hand on the earth. A lump rose in her throat as she made a silent promise to the old man who had taken her in, protected and educated her. She would make a home here, worthy of the dream he had shared with her.
“Well, look who’s here!” A slightly nasal male voice startled her. Rose sprang to her feet, whirling in the same motion. Garn Prescott stood behind her, a grin on his jut-nosed face. That grin widened as he looked her up and down, his manner unmistakable.
Rose’s stomach clenched, but she knew better than to show fear. She drew herself up and looked hard into Garn’s colorless eyes. His lashes, she forced herself to notice, were so light they were almost transparent, and he had a ripe pimple on his chin. How old was he? Nineteen, maybe?
“You need to get back on your own property,” she said, wishing she hadn’t left her pistol in the truck.