“Only what I told you about the drugs they found in his blood. I’m still trying to figure out how anybody, having those drugs and knowing how to inject them, made it into a guarded enclosure with other people around. Maybe I shouldn’t have left. If I’d stayed, I might’ve learned something, or found some evidence. But right then, all I wanted to do was load my other bulls and go home.”
“Of course. You were in shock,” Tess said. “But the person who killed your bull is still out there. Has anything else happened?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” He wouldn’t tell her, or anyone else, about the clipping—although it could be connected to the death of his bull. “I need to get home now. Call me when you have a decision on the contract. And good luck with Quicksand.”
“Thanks. I have hope.” As she looked up at him, her eyes like sunlight shining through storm clouds, Brock was seized by the senseless impulse to bend down and kiss her soft, full lips. But he held himself back. This wasn’t the right time or place—or even the right woman. His business partner was still off-limits.
“Keep me posted,” he said, and climbed into the truck.
Pulling the empty, swaying trailer up the switchbacks left him white-knuckled. It was a relief to make it to the level road and then the straight asphalt highway.
The drive back would give him plenty of time to think. He’d kept himself busy the last few days, getting Quicksand ready to load and finishing the contract for the hayfields. Not wanting to involve his lawyers, he’d written it up himself, using a template. Now that the bull was delivered and the contract was on hold, it was time he got back to the most urgent problem—finding out who’d killed his bull, which might lead to whoever had sent the clipping.
The conversation with Tess had started his mental wheels turning. If the vet was right, Cannonball had been killed in the dark hour before dawn—a time when workers and stock contractors were already showing up at the pens. The bulls that had competed the night before were being loaded for the drive home. The security shift was changing. And the grounds people were already putting fresh wood chips on the walkways and cleaning out the empty pens. Cowhands were filling food tubs and water troughs. The bulls would be awake and stirring.
At that hour, the overhead security lights, still dimmed, would be casting shadows into the pens and walkways below. It would be easy enough for anyone to walk into the complex dressed as a worker or guard. But it would take planning and skill to find the bull, get him close to the rails, and deliver the injections without being noticed.
Had the killer targeted Cannonball, or had the white bull simply been the one within reach? Either way, knowing wouldn’t change anything.
Brock had no way to explain the broken security camera. That could’ve been a coincidence—an unlucky one for him. A photo of the killer, even from above, could have gone a long way toward solving the mystery. As it was, he could only guess who was behind the crime.
It stood to reason that the killer was a specialist who’d been paid to do the job. Someone else had probably hired them. Someone out for vengeance, most likely.
But who? And why?
He was only guessing now, trying to make sense out of bits and pieces. For all he knew he could be way off track. He needed more evidence.
In Sells, the headquarters of the Tohono O’odham reservation, he stopped for gas and a chilled Red Bull. By now it was midafternoon. The sun glittered on the russet earth. A lizard skittered out of sight as Brock walked back to his truck.
Farther down the highway, ravens were flocking on a road-killed jackrabbit. Brock swerved around the spectacle. He felt raw inside, as if things in his life were slipping beyond control. He had to get that control back.
Tomorrow he would drive back to the Cave Creek Arena and find out everything he could. The PBR event had moved on, but a PRCA—Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association—competition was scheduled for the coming weekend. With luck the pens would still be set up, and the arena workers and security team would still be around. He would also call Clay Rafferty to see if the PBR had investigated his bull’s death.
He was off to a late start, but he wouldn’t stop until the people behind the crime were brought to justice—the law’s justice, or his own.
* * *
Above the pass, the sun’s day was ending. Its fading light streaked colors across the western sky—crimson, violet, tangerine, and blinding gold. Night-flying insects buzzed and fluttered among the cactus blossoms. Lights had come on in the windows of the house.
Tess and Ruben stood by the fence, studying the new bull. Quicksand was still snorting, trembling, and digging at the grass with his single horn.
“You’ve been watching him all day,” Tess said. “What have you learned about him?”
“Not everything,” Ruben said. “But there is one thing I know for certain. This bull is not mean or angry. He is afraid—more than afraid. He is terrified.”
Tess stared at the bull. “How can you tell?”
“It shows in his eyes, the way he holds his ears, and the way he trembles. You told me how Brock’s men found him in the desert, stolen from his mother, lost, alone, and in danger from coyotes. I think he has never gotten over that fear. In a new and strange place, like here, he still feels lost. He doesn’t know he’s safe.”
“But with the other bulls on Brock’s ranch—he was right out in front, as if he were protecting them.”
“He probably felt safe with them. Or maybe he thought they were all in danger.”
“So he’s like a person with PTSD.”
“My people have other names for it. But yes, I think maybe so.”
“Can we do anything to help him?”