Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

He would stay—not for long, but for now.

Lengthening his stride, Jasper entered the house by the back door, passed through the cluttered kitchen and down the hall. He’d moved his few possessions from the dilapidated bunkhouse into one of the spare bedrooms to keep an eye on Williston. After the old man was gone, it hadn’t made sense to move out.

The Colt .45 Peacemaker hung from its belt on a nail in the back of the closet. He took the heavy pistol down, strapped it around his hips, and went back outside to look for Carlos.

* * *

The sheriff’s office, along with the jail, the courtroom, and the library, was still housed in the old county building on Main Street. Bull parked the truck and crossed the lawn to the front door. So far nothing seemed to have changed. Same dingy beige walls, needing paint. Same creaky floorboard outside the sheriff’s office. The receptionist at the desk, though a little older and grayer, was the woman he remembered from the library, which she opened on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Same wire-rimmed glasses, same mole on her chin. Even her flowered dress looked familiar. Mildred, that was her name. Mildred Patterson.

He cleared his throat, causing her to look up from the romance novel she was reading. The puzzled expression on her face dissolved as she recognized him. But she looked more startled than pleased.

“Hello, Mrs. Patterson.” Bull remembered to take off his hat.

“Virgil Tyler! Heavens to Betsy, you’ve grown up!” Her voice seemed unnaturally shrill. “When did you get back into town?”

“Today. We’ve got trouble at the ranch. I need to talk to the sheriff.”

She glanced toward the sheriff’s closed door, then seemed to check the spiral notebook on her desk. “I’m sorry, but he’s out. Would you like to leave a message?”

Virgil hesitated. He could ask the woman to pass on a report about Carlos and his car. But then he’d miss his chance to question the sheriff about his father’s death.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to talk to Sheriff Mossberg. When’s he due back?”

“He didn’t say. You could try after lunch. Again, I’d be happy to pass on a message.”

Bull’s eyes caught a flicker of movement behind the frosted glass pane on the sheriff’s door. Was someone in the office, or was it just a trick of the light—maybe a tree limb blowing outside the office window?

“Thanks, but I’ll come back later,” he said. “Tell the sheriff I stopped by.”

Tugged by a vague uneasiness, Bull walked back to the truck. Nothing was wrong, he told himself. Mildred Patterson had been cordial enough, and it made sense that the sheriff might be busy doing his job. But Jasper had said that things had changed in town. Was this what he’d meant?

He drove to the feed store, where hay was sold by the bale from a shed out back. It was expensive here. Buying a big load from a farmer would have been a better bargain. But this was an emergency, and he’d only be taking enough hay to fill the back of the pickup.

He parked around back where he could load and went inside to order and pay. The pugnacious-looking red-headed man behind the counter was a stranger. He glanced out the back window at the rusty pickup.

“If you’re wantin’ hay for the Tyler place, I can’t sell you no more,” he said. “Your credit’s all used up, and your account’s past due.”

“I can pay cash,” Bull said.

“You got enough cash to pay off the account? There’s more than eight hundred dollars owed on it.”

Bull tried to ignore the knot in his stomach. “I can’t pay it off now, but I can pay cash for a pickup load.”

The man folded his arms across his burly chest. “No deal. Clear off the debt and we can do business. Otherwise, good luck findin’ hay anyplace else.”

Bull fought the urge to punch the man’s smug, freckled face. Hay was scarce right now with last fall’s crop almost gone and the spring crop still in the field. He’d be lucky to find any for sale, and the bastard knew it.

He pictured the starving horses and cattle. His hand went to his wallet. “Can you take a credit card?”

“If it’s any good. And if you can show me some ID.”

Bull had used the Visa card to tide him over between rodeos. Clearing the account and paying for the new hay would damn near max out his limit. But he didn’t have much choice. He watched as the clerk checked his driver’s license, ran the card, and handed him the slip to sign.

“Virgil Tyler.” The man checked the card against the signature. “I heard that old drunk had a boy who’d lit out for the rodeo. That you?”

Bull held his temper with effort. “Williston Tyler was my father. But I don’t go by Virgil anymore. The name is Bull Tyler.”

“Bull Tyler, huh?” The man grinned. “Well, good luck livin’ up to that one.”