* * *
Whirlwind’s performance that night was nothing short of spectacular. With seasoned rider Joao Reyes Santos on his back, the silver bull leaped, kicked, and spun his way to a 93.5 first place. As he was named Bull of the Event and she accepted the prize money, Tess’s only regret was that there was no one here to share the moment. Not her family. Not Ruben or Pedro. Not even Brock, whose bull might have won instead. Only Clay Rafferty caught her eye and gave her a thumbs-up.
The untimely death of a bull was always heartbreaking. It meant the loss of income, the loss of future hopes, and the loss of a friend and family member. As Tess drove home through the night, with Whirlwind dozing in his trailer, she found herself imagining how it might feel to lose this precious animal. The tragedy would be unthinkable, but it could happen. Anything could happen.
She had never imagined losing her mother, or Mitch, or Jack, or Callie. Only her father had died predictably, of cancer. Wise people told you to hold on to those you loved, to keep them close. Treasure every moment.
It might be good advice; but God help her, it wasn’t enough.
* * *
Tess arrived home in the murky hours before dawn. The headlights of her truck revealed Ruben, standing by the paddock gate to help her unload Whirlwind.
She backed the trailer up to the open gate and waited while her foreman released the bull, who trotted out to enjoy a roll in the grass and an early breakfast. Then she pulled forward and climbed out of the cab. The unhitching and cleaning of the trailer could wait for daylight.
When she told him about Whirlwind’s victory and the extra prize money, Ruben’s grin seemed to light the darkness. “He is an angel, that one. An angel in the body of a bull.”
“Well, be prepared,” Tess told him. “The new bull will be here in the next few days. But Quicksand is more devil than angel.”
“We’ll see.” Ruben chuckled. “There’s a place for devils in this business—if they can buck. Now get some sleep,hija. Everything here is taken care of.”
With her purse looped over her shoulder, Tess made her way into the house. After the long day and the long drive, she was exhausted. Every joint and muscle ached as she crept down the hallway to her room. The bed she’d left neatly made up had been slept in and not remade. Typical Val. Tess could only guess that she and Casey had been at loggerheads again. But right now, she was too tired to care. After stripping down to her underwear, she flung herself onto the mattress, dragged the covers up to her chin, and tumbled into sleep.
* * *
Brock had watched Whirlwind’s victory on TV last night. He was happy for Tess, knowing that no bull in the competition, not even Cannonball, could have beaten Whirlwind. But he was still reeling, not just from the loss of a prized animal, but from the implications surrounding Cannonball’s death.
Yesterday, on arriving home, the first thing he’d done was check the voice messages on his landline phone and rummage through the mail that Cyrus had left on his desk. Nothing. No threats, no demands, and no more clippings. Maybe he was imagining things. But the envelope he had locked in his wall safe, with the clipping inside, was very real.
This morning, with no word from the vet who’d taken Cannonball’s body, he’d saddled a horse and ridden out to view his kingdom. Seeing his ranch, the vast pastureland, watered by springs and broken by strips of natural desert, had always calmed his spirit. He started with the west pasture, where 1,600 head of red Angus beef, the financial backbone of the ranch, were fattening for market. Brock had little attachment to these animals, who were looked after by a separate crew of hands. But the income from this herd allowed him to pursue his real passion—the bucking bulls.
The adjoining pasture held the bucking cows and heifers. Most of the cows were pregnant, their calves to be born over the next few weeks. Although cows didn’t compete, their lineage was as important as that of the bulls. In the breeding of great buckers, it had been shown that bulls got their size and athleticism from their sires. But the bucking gene, and the fighting spirit to drive it, came from the mothers.
Last year’s calves had been sold or moved up to their own herd of adolescent bulls. Most of the new crop would likely be auctioned off next year, as well. But waiting in the wings for the next breeding was Whiplash, the only surviving full brother of Whirlwind. Brock could hardly wait to put the big brindle in with his best cows and see the calves that came from their mating.
Raising his binoculars, he spotted Whiplash beyond the fence in the next pasture. He was standing on a grassy hillock, apart from the other bulls, surveying the landscape as if it belonged to him—a magnificent bull who could have gone all the way if he hadn’t been found guilty of killing an evil man.
Brock reminded himself to mention the sighting to Tess and Val when he delivered their black bull. The sisters would be happy to hear that Whiplash was doing well.
And the black bull . . . Brock used the remote to open the gate and close it behind him. As he rode into the pasture, he could see the bulls, clustered at the far end, like a smudge against the pale green earth. Riding closer, he passed the brushy patch where Tess had been thrown from her horse. He thought about stopping to hunt the snake down, but he didn’t have anything to kill it with. And rattlers, nasty as they might be, were useful in controlling the prairie dogs, whose holes could break the leg of a cow or horse.
As he rode closer, the bulls turned to face him. Quicksand moved to stand in front of the others, snorting and tossing his horn as if to protect them from the human intruder.
Brock reined his horse to a halt. “It’s all right, big boy. I’m not coming any closer. But be warned. Your life is about to change, big time.”
He remained where he was, studying the small herd. These were young animals, with limited exposure to the arena. This summer, they would be taken out to minor events, bucked, and if they did well, moved up in the ranks. Quicksand was older, but because he’d already proven to be a problem, he remained in limbo—a talented bucker who refused to behave and had nowhere to go.
Tess, if she could manage him, just might have saved his life.
Brock had left the pasture and was riding back to the stable when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered.
“Brock, this is Tom Hammond, the vet who checked your bull. I ran a tox screen on the blood I took.”
“Did you find anything?” Brock’s pulse had kicked into overdrive.
“I did. No trace of snake venom, but plenty of ketamine and pentobarbital—in dosages high enough to knock out a rhinoceros. I could do the necropsy, but I’d say we already have our cause of death. If you want, I can call someone to dispose of the body. The bill will go to the PBR.”
Cannonball deserved better, Brock thought. But he didn’t have the mental energy to haul the 2,000-pound carcass back to the ranch and bury it here. “Do that. And thanks,” he said.