* * *
After lunch—a beef sandwich eaten off the kitchen counter—Will chose a sturdy paint gelding from the long barn, saddled it, and took the trail up to the back pastures. The windy weather wasn’t the best for riding, but he’d wanted to check the stock and the fence
s before the coming storm. At least that was his excuse.
He didn’t really need to go. He’d put Beau in charge of readying the pastures and the cattle for bad weather, and, much as Will was tempted, he’d learned better than to show up and try to supervise. Beau knew his job, and any interference from his big brother would only rile his temper. Will had resolved to keep his distance, but he wanted to get out of the house and see things for himself.
The events of the past few days had left him shaken and out of sorts. He felt the need to ride the ranch alone, to see the land and see himself as part of it. With so much uncertainty hanging over him, he needed a reminder of who he was, why he was here, and what he was fighting for.
Collar raised against the wind, Stetson jammed on and tied under his chin, he rode across the fire-scarred flat and up toward the edge of the foothills. The stiff breeze whipped waves across the yellow grassland and battered his sheepskin coat. A pair of ravens soared on the windy swells, tumbling as if in play.
In the pastures red-coated Hereford cattle clustered with their backs to the wind. After the summer drought and the fire that followed, Will had sold off most of his steers at a loss. The animals that remained were breeding stock—prime cows and bulls and last spring’s half-grown calves—his best hope for the next season. If he could keep them fed and healthy over the winter, he’d have a good start on next summer’s herd. But if the coming winter turned harsh, the price of extra hay and the calorie-rich cottonseed cake known as “cow candy” could bankrupt him.
In the distance he could see Beau’s crew with the flatbed truck, setting up stacks of baled hay to serve as extra wind breaks for the cattle. Two generations ago, when Bull’s father, Williston Tyler, had cleared the land for pasture, he’d had the foresight to leave clumps of cedar growing in place. Last summer’s wildfire had destroyed many of the scrubby evergreens. A few stands had been spared, but if the storm turned out to be a bad one, the trees wouldn’t be enough. Cold would be the worst danger. The cattle were still growing their long winter coats. They’d been given extra feed to strengthen their resistance, and heaters had been installed to keep their water tanks from freezing over. But the worry wouldn’t ease till this early storm had passed.
Last summer, after the drought and the fire, he and Beau had taken out a hundred-thousand-dollar short-term bank loan, secured by some acreage, to tide the ranch over for a few months, pending the sale of the steers and Sky’s colts. But the cattle had sold low; and with other Texas ranches in as much trouble as the Rimrock, few of their owners had cash to spend on new horses.
At the first of the year, the loan, along with the interest, would be due. If they could talk the bank into an extension, they had a chance of pulling through. Otherwise, they’d have no choice except to lose the land or sell it—a solution that would make Bull Tyler turn over in his grave.
As if spurred by the thought, he headed the horse uphill toward the escarpment. A forty-minute ride brought him to the mouth of a narrow box canyon with high, red sandstone walls. Sheltered from the wind, it was a mystical place. Soft red sand covered the floor. On the side where a sheer cliff rose straight up, a panorama of Native American petroglyphs—wild animals, warriors, mythic spirits, and many, many horses—paraded across the sandstone face, telling silent stories of a past that would never live again.
Will dismounted, tethered the horse, and walked up the canyon, enjoying the peace of the place. But someone had been here recently. For the space of a breath, Will felt the warning prickle at the back of his neck. Then he relaxed as he recognized the prints of Sky’s worn soles and Lauren’s narrow designer boots. This, he knew, was one of their favorite places.
Near the spot where Will stood, mesquite bushes screened a small, steep side canyon—the disputed canyon that his father had sold to Ferg Prescott years ago for a dollar. The last time Will had been here, the stream in its bed had been dammed at the top. Barbed wire had blocked the entrance with a sign reading, PROPERTY OF PRESCOTT RANCH. But as Will pushed his way through the brush, he realized something had changed. The barbed wire and the sign were gone. Water trickled down the rocks, the sound of it music to a rancher’s ears.
Lauren had kept her word. But the parcel was still in Prescott hands, and she had nothing to gain by selling it. Will was doing his best to be patient, but with the threat of jail hanging over him, he needed to get the matter settled. Whatever happened next, he owed it to his father’s memory to make the Rimrock Ranch whole again.
* * *
Will returned to the ranch house, hung up his coat and, hearing voices, found Jasper and Erin at the kitchen table, drinking cocoa with marshmallows. “You look like you could use some thawin’ out,” Jasper said. “Pan’s still hot on the stove. Help yourself to what’s left.”
“Thanks.” Will emptied the steaming cocoa into a mug, skipping the marshmallows, which were too sweet for his taste.
“Daddy, can I go out and see Tesoro?” Erin asked. “Sky’s out there. I just saw him drive up.”
“Have you finished your schoolwork?”
She grinned. “All done.”
“Fine, then. But put on a coat. It’s brisk out there.”
Erin raced to get her coat. The front door opened and closed as she left the house. Will took a cautious sip of hot cocoa and settled back in his chair. He’d hoped to catch the old man alone for a quiet talk.
“I rode out to the petroglyph canyon today,” he said. “Lauren promised me Sunday that she’d free up the water in that little side canyon. It’s been done. The fence and the sign are gone, too.”
Jasper’s gaze narrowed beneath his grizzled brows. “But the gal hasn’t budged on selling you back that land, has she?”
“She asked for more time. I’m trying to be patient and give her some rope.” Will studied the man who’d been more of a father to him than Bull Tyler ever had. “You don’t like her much, do you?”
Jasper’s scowl deepened. “She seems nice enough, all right. And she makes Sky smile, which takes some doin’. But she’s Garn Prescott’s daughter and Ol’ Ferg’s granddaughter, and they was both rotten, no-good skunks! I’ll never trust a Prescott as long as I live!”
Will shook his head. “Well, I hope you change your mind, Jasper. When Lauren marries Sky, she’ll be family.”
“She’ll still be a Prescott. I’ll wait to pass judgment.”
“Speaking of Old Ferg,” Will said, changing the subject, “I’ve always wondered why my dad sold him that little canyon—and for just a dollar. You’ve been with our family longer than anybody on the ranch, even me. I know there are stories Bull never wanted told. But he’s gone, and I need to know. Are you ready to tell me?”
“Maybe.” Jasper’s mouth tightened as if holding back the secret. Will waited, giving the old man a moment to ponder. When Jasper cleared his throat, Will braced for what he was about to hear.