Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

Bull took the receipt, walked outside, and gave it to the yard man, also a stranger, who loaded the bed of the truck with bales of hay. Bull climbed into the cab and drove off. Jasper was right. Things had changed in Blanco Springs. And not in a good way.

But he had changed, too. At just short of twenty-one, he was a man—the last of his family. His father had left him a legacy of tragedy and ruin—along with a choice. He could sell the ranch and leave for good, with enough money to make a new start anywhere he chose. Or he could stay, pay off his father’s debts, rebuild the ranch, and create a legacy of his own—a new dynasty of Tylers who could look any man in the eye and face any challenge together.

But what was he thinking? Hell, even with his savings in the bank, he didn’t have enough money to run the ranch for more than a couple of months, let alone make the repairs and buy new stock. He’d have to be crazy to bust his gut and empty his bank account when he could j

ust sell out and leave.

He drove past the county building. The sheriff’s big tan Jeep, which he’d noticed earlier, was gone from its parking spot. He would have to check back later. Meanwhile, he had time to kill, and he was getting hungry. He didn’t plan to buy groceries until he was ready to leave town. Otherwise the food might spoil in the hot truck. It wouldn’t hurt to grab a two-dollar burger and a Coke while he waited for the sheriff.

By now it was lunchtime. There were half a dozen vehicles in the Burger Shack parking lot. One of them was a sleek, red Thunderbird convertible, with its top down. As he drove past it, Bull couldn’t resist slowing down to admire its flashy beauty. Never in his life would he own such a machine—or even want to. But it was no sin to look. Jasper had mentioned that Ferguson Prescott was driving a car like that. No surprise there. Ferg had always been a show-off.

Bull parked the truck, tossed his hat on the seat, and pocketed the keys. Sooner or later he was bound to run into Ferg. Here was as good a place as any.

After pushing open the restaurant door, he looked around. He could see Bonnie, busy behind the counter, but Ferg was nowhere in sight. Only as Bull walked up to place his order did he spot his onetime friend in the round corner booth.

Ferg had been a linebacker on the high school football team. He was no more than average height but was built like a brick wall, all muscle. Like Bull, he’d put on a good thirty pounds in weight since then. With his wavy chestnut hair carefully combed, his square-chiseled face clean-shaven, he could’ve passed for the star of a TV Western.

And he wasn’t alone.

Sitting across from him in the booth was a girl. More child than woman, she couldn’t have been much older than sixteen. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face in a messy ponytail. The fabric of her olive green tee showed the firm buds of her breasts. Her bell-bottom jeans were stylishly frayed. All in all, she was just a gangly kid. But she had beautiful eyes—deep dove gray, strangely haunting. And her full lips formed a pretty, childish pout. Given a couple of years to grow up, she could be worth a second look.

But what the hell was a kid like that doing with Ferg?

“Hey, Virgil!” Ferg gave him a wave. He’d always been a friendly sort, but Bull knew better than to turn his back on him. Jasper’s opinion of the Prescotts was spot-on.

He shifted over, making space in the booth. “Bonnie told me you were back in town. Come have a seat and tell us what you’ve been up to.”

Bull would have ignored the invitation, but something about the girl intrigued him—maybe even worried him. And it wouldn’t hurt to know what was going on with Ferg and his family. He placed his order with Bonnie, who gave him a smile and a wink. Then, taking his Coke, he ambled over to the booth and sat down.

Leaning back against the corner part of the seat, Ferg appeared to be taking his measure. “Sorry about your dad,” he said.

“Thanks.” Bull held his tongue in check. He wasn’t here to bait Ferg. He was here to listen and learn.

A slow grin stole across Ferg’s face. “Bonnie tells me you’re going by another name. Bull, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“Short for Bullshit?”

The jab hit home, and the bastard knew it. Ferg’s grin broadened.

“No.” Bull steeled his resolve to stay cool. “It’s a nickname the other bull riders gave me because I could take a pounding without giving up. You might say I earned it.”

“Is that right? I’d have guessed they called you Bull because you smelled like one.” Ferg kept his grin. The girl sipped her Coke, her gray eyes shifting from one man to the other as if she might be hoping to see a fight. She had long, restless hands, the fingernails bitten to the quick.

Bull took a long draw on his Coke. “Question for you, Ferg,” he said. “How much do you get paid for babysitting?”

Ferg looked startled. Then he laughed. “Bull Tyler, allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Susan Rutledge. Her dad and my dad were stepbrothers growing up. I guess, technically, that makes us stepcousins. Her dad is here visiting from Savannah, so I volunteered to show her the town.”

“My apologies, Miss Susan Rutledge.” Bull gave her a nod, savoring the classy sound of her name when he pronounced it.

The girl glared back at him. “Ferg told me the people around here were ill-mannered bumpkins,” she said. “Now I know what he meant. For your information, Mister Bull Tyler, I’m not a baby. I even smoke.”

“Not legally.” Ferg gave her a playful nudge. Her giggle was like a little girl’s. Watching them, Bull felt a low-simmering anger. If Ferg was messing around with this underage child, he deserved to be shot.

“Do you chew, Miss Susan?” Bull’s question dripped sarcasm. “I’ve got a plug of tobacco in my pocket. I’d be happy to share it with you.”

The girl pulled a face. “Ugh! That’s gross. Last summer I kissed a boy who chewed. It tasted awful.”