The jangle of his cell phone interrupted the rest of the thought. Brock shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and strode into the next room to answer the call.
“Mr. Tolman.” It was Jim, the younger of his two ranch hands. “Get here as fast as you can. Something’s happened.”
Driven by the urgency in the young man’s voice, Brock yanked on his clothes; collected his wallet, watch, and phone; and raced downstairs to his truck.
The night was barely fading as Brock pulled into the parking lot to see people gathering around the gate to the pens. As he climbed out of the truck, Jim, looking stricken, came running to meet him.
“It’s Cannonball!” The young man was out of breath. “He’s not moving! We think he might be dead!”
Sick with dread, Brock shouldered his way through the crowd and into the pen complex. He could see three of his bulls, milling and snorting on the far side of their pen. Cannonball lay on his side against the rails. A man Brock recognized as one of the PBR vets was reaching through, holding a stethoscope against the massive body.
The vet straightened as Brock approached. “I’m sorry, Brock, there’s no pulse. He’s gone.”
“What the hell happened?” Brock reeled, struggling against denial. “He was fine last night. Did somebody do this?”
“I’d have to get into the pen and take a closer look. But I don’t see a wound of any kind. And there’s no discharge, which makes poison unlikely. My first guess would be a coronary attack or a brain embolism. It’s rare, but we both know it happens.”
“Yes.” Brock had heard of bulls simply dropping dead. The great champion Pearl Harbor, ranked number one at the time of his death, had died suddenly of a blood clot near the brain. And more recently Air Support, a top-ranked young bull, had died of a brain embolism. There had to be others, less well-known. But Cannonball? This couldn’t be happening.
“I could do a necropsy if you need to know everything,” the vet said. “Or at least, for starters, I could analyze his blood.” He took a large syringe out of his bag. “He’s probably been dead for less than two hours. His blood’s starting to congeal, but with luck I can get enough of a sample for testing.”
“Yes, go ahead and do the blood work,” Brock said. “This is a long shot, but there was a rattlesnake in the trailer. He seemed fine yesterday, but maybe if he was bitten in a vein . . .”
“That seems unlikely, but I’ll check for venom,” the vet said. “If nothing shows up, then we’ll talk about the necropsy.”
“Fine.” The thought of his beautiful bull, laid out to be opened up and examined, was almost more than Brock could stand.
“Brock, I’m so sorry!” Tess had moved forward to stand beside him. “He was a great bull. What a loss. Do you have any idea what happened?”
“We’re still working on that.” Brock tried and failed to keep the emotion out of his voice.
“I can check the security cameras for you,” Tess said.
“Thanks. At least they might give us some clue.”
She hurried off. Someone was opening the gate to move the other three bulls down the chute to a different pen. Cannonball’s carcass would be hauled away and put in cold storage like butchered beef until it could be examined. Brock stared down at his boots to hide a rush of emotion. He’d thought the world of that bull, a great bucker and a sweetheart to handle. Damned rotten luck.
But what if Cannonball’s death wasn’t just bad luck? What if someone had had a hand in it?
The walkway between the pens was covered in wood shavings, pressed by a multitude of feet. Looking for telltale footprints would be a waste of time. But what if there was a connection between the yellowed news clipping, the rattlesnake in the trailer, and the death of his prize bull? What if all three incidents were the work of the same person?
A chill crawled up Brock’s spine.
A blackmailer would have nothing to gain by planting a snake or killing a bull. But what if the motive of the mysterious sender wasn’t blackmail?
What if it was revenge?
But he was jumping to conclusions now, taking great leaps of logic that had no basis in evidence. True, the clipping was a worry. But the snake and the death of the bull were no more than coincidences. Even if they were connected, he’d be foolish to fly into a panic. If his enemy was smart and ruthless, Brock told himself, he would have to be smarter and even more ruthless. Somehow, he would beat the bastard at his own game—whatever that game might be.
He could see Tess, coming back, weaving her way through the crowd, a troubled expression on her face. As she came closer, she shook her head. “I checked with security. No luck. The camera that covers this pen had been reported out of order. They don’t know why. They called a technician to come and look. They’re still waiting for him to come.” She looked up at him, her deep gray eyes overflowing with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Brock. Losing a good bull like Cannonball is like losing family. What are you going to do now?”
“Talk to Clay, I guess, and then take the other bulls home. I was hoping to see Whirlwind buck tonight, but I don’t have the heart to stick around. I’ll see you in a few days when I deliver Quicksand to you.” He forced a smile. “That bull’s a handful. It’s still not too late to change your mind.”
“My mind is made up. I just have a feeling about him—call it a hunch. At least he’ll be a challenge.” She turned to walk away, then paused. “Would you call me if you learn any more about Cannonball’s death? You’ve got my cell.”
“I’ll do that,” he said. “Good luck with Whirlwind tonight.”
“Thanks.” She hurried off in the direction of Whirlwind’s pen. Brock watched her vanish. Then he went back to helping the arena crew move his bull to where it could be loaded onto a flatbed, covered with a tarp, and hauled away.