CHAPTER ONE
Southern Arizona, March
AS THE SUN CLIMBED TOWARD MIDMORNING, A GOLDEN EAGLE ROSEfrom its perch atop a hundred-year-old saguaro. Its beating wings, wider than a man’s reach, lifted the bird skyward, where it soared and circled on the updrafts, its golden eyes scanning the desert for prey.
Brock Tolman shaded his eyes to follow the eagle’s flight. He felt a certain kinship with the great bird—both of them apex predators, both of them powerful. But the eagle’s power came from its wings. Brock’s came from his ambition.
As the eagle rose, its moving shadow passed over foothills painted with the bright gold of flowering brittlebush. Crimson-tipped spears of ocotillo and lemony clouds of blooming paloverde dotted the landscape with the colors of Sonoran spring.
In the weeks ahead, blossoming cactuses would blaze with hues of rusty yellow, pink, and magenta. Then white blooms would crown the giant saguaros that stood like guardians over the desert. Finally, the women of the Tohono O’odham who called the desert home would come with their long poles and harvest the seedy red fruit.
Brock had made enough money with his investments to live anywhere he wanted. But he had chosen this place, in the foothills of the Santa Catalina Mountains outside Tucson, to build his private kingdom. The Tolman Ranch was a patchwork of pristine desert and fenced pastureland where genetically bred bucking bulls—close to 100 of them not counting the cows and calves, along with a herd of Angus beef steers—grazed on native grass watered by mountain springs. The ranch’s setting was beautiful, and Brock was not immune to beauty—whether admiring it, coveting it, or possessing it.
Today, as Brock sat astride his big sorrel gelding and watched Miss Tess Champion ride out across the pasture, Brock reflected that most men would be satisfied with what he had. But for him, it wasn’t enough. To Brock’s way of thinking,enoughdidn’t exist. There was always more to want, always more to get.
And more to lose.
Brock shifted in the saddle, feeling the crackle of the folded envelope he’d stuffed into his hip pocket. It had arrived in yesterday’s mail, but he hadn’t opened it until this morning. What he’d found inside had jerked a noose around his heart. He’d recognized the yellowed newspaper clipping at once; but what did it mean? Was it some kind of warning? Maybe an attempt at blackmail? Was his whole perfectly ordered world about to come crashing down around him?
He’d been reading the text when Tess’s truck had pulled up outside. There’d been no time to do anything but replace the clipping in the envelope, fold it, and stuff it into the deep hip pocket of his Wranglers, where it wouldn’t be seen by any eyes but his. He would worry about it later. Right now, he had more pressing matters on his mind.
A few months earlier, he’d bailed Tess’s family’s ranch out of foreclosure and forced a reluctant Tess to take him on as a business partner. He might have had other ideas for Tess—like getting her into his bed. But if there was one thing he’d learned in life, it was that mixing business with pleasure was a recipe for disaster.
So, for as long as they were partners, the rule would be hands off. And that was a damned shame, Brock mused, admiring the way her slender body sat the horse and the way the wind played with the long dark hair that fell loose below her hat. Tess was well past girlhood, but she was a beautiful, smart, sexy woman. The fact that she was the most stubborn, muleheaded, prickly female he’d ever known only sweetened the challenge.
But Brock knew better than to cross that line. He was a man who made his own rules and played by them. With Tess, for now at least, the rule was strictly business.
This morning Tess was here to choose the bull he’d offered her in exchange for Whiplash, the rank bucker who’d been ruled too dangerous for the arena. Brock had long dreamed of breeding a world champion bull. It was his hope that Whiplash’s fiery bloodline might make the magic happen.
In return, Tess had been given her choice from among Brock’s three- and four-year-old bulls, who were just starting their careers in the rodeo arena. There were twenty-three of them in this pasture, all trained, tested, and ready for the big time.
Tess had a keen eye for bulls. She would no doubt pick one of his best. Brock was fine with that. As her partner, he would retain part ownership of any bull she chose. He had nothing to lose.
But curse the woman, why had she insisted on riding out alone to inspect the herd? Brock had saddled up, planning to go with her. However, after declaring that she wanted to view the bulls without the distraction of his company, she’d ridden off and left him fuming at the pasture gate.
Something told Brock that chasing after her would only add to his humiliation. He would let her go. But he couldn’t help worrying. Tess was an expert rider, and she knew her way around bulls. But if anything were to go wrong, she’d be unprotected out there.
He would keep his distance, Brock resolved. But he wasn’t about to let the woman get too far ahead of him.
* * *
Tess paused her mount to scan the pasture. The grassy expanse, scattered with creosote, ironwood trees, and clumps of sage, seemed to go on forever. But why should she let that surprise her? Everything Brock Tolman owned was too large, too grand, and too fine for ordinary folk. Even the horse he’d lent her, a registered Appaloosa, was probably the most superb animal she’d ever ridden.
Not that she was impressed. Brock was a show-off who lived for the power and possessions his money could buy. Tess couldn’t abide the man. What was more, she didn’t trust him.
True, he’d saved her family’s Alamo Canyon Ranch from foreclosure, but he hadn’t done it out of kindness. He wanted the ranch for himself. And now that he had a foot in the door as her partner, he wasn’t about to back off.
Right now, she knew that Brock was watching her. If she were to look back—not that she’d give him the satisfaction—she would see him sitting his horse like John Wayne, just as big and rugged as the late actor—except that Brock was no movie hero. He was more like a scheming, avaricious villain.
But she wasn’t here to judge him. She was here to pick out a promising bull—one that would dominate in the arena and strengthen her family’s own small herd with his bloodline. The future of the Alamo Canyon Ranch could be riding on the choice she was about to make.
She could see the bulls now, loosely scattered at the far end of the pasture. Brock had shown her the stud book at the house, but looking through it had scarcely been worth her time. The young bulls appeared to have solid pedigrees and had been tested in the bucking pen. Any one of them could earn his keep in the PBR or PRCA rodeos. But would any of them have that fiery spark—the spark she’d witnessed in Whiplash before fate had led the big brindle to kill an intruder on the ranch?
Brock’s intervention had saved the bull’s life and given him a home. But Whiplash, so strong and full of promise, would never compete again.
The young bulls had caught her scent. They’d raised their heads and turned in her direction, watching her approach. Tess held the horse to a measured walk. She’d been dealing with cattle all her life, and she knew better than to alarm them, especially bulls.
She also knew better than to get off her horse for a closer look. Here, as on her own ranch, bulls in the pasture were handled on horseback or from sturdy vehicles. They were accustomed to mounted riders. But a human approaching on foot would be asking for trouble.