Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

“Suit yourself. No skin off my nose.” Bull sipped his Coke. What the girl did was none of his business. But somebody ought to warn her that she was in bad company.

“So, Bull, are you home to stay?” Ferg asked.

Bull shrugged. “I just got here. Ask me in a week or two.” No use talking about the dire condition of the ranch. He wouldn’t be telling Ferg anything he didn’t already know. “How are your parents?” he asked, making polite conversation.

“My mother passed on two years ago. My dad’s as ornery and stubborn as ever.”

“I didn’t know about your mother,” Bull said. “I’m sorry.”

“Dad’s already grooming me to take over the ranch. He keeps pushing me to get hitched and give him a passel of grandsons to carry on the family name. Hell, I’m too young for that! I’ve got a lot of living to do before I settle down.”

“Smart thinking,” Bull said. “I can’t picture you as a father. Not yet at least.”

Had Ferg just flinched? Dismissing the thought, Bull glanced around to see Bonnie coming from behind the counter with his burger on a paper plate.

“Here you are, cowboy.” She set Bull’s order on the table, bending close to give him a view of her ample cleavage. “The fries are extra special from me. Eat hearty.”

Bull hadn’t ordered fries. “Thanks,” he said as she strutted away, hips twitching with every step.

Bull reached for the ketchup and was pouring it on the fries when he realized he was the only one with food. “Aren’t you two eating?” he asked.

“Naw. We’ve got lunch waiting at home. We were just having Cokes. Come on, Cousin Susan, I need to get you back to the ranch before your dad sends a posse after us. Enjoy your burger, Bull.”

Ferg slid around the booth, pushing the girl out ahead of him. When she stood, Bull saw that she was surprisingly tall and as slim as a boy. Ferg’s hand rested on the small of her narrow back as he ushered her toward the door. Neither of them looked back at Bull to say good-bye.

From behind the counter, Bonnie watched them go. Her mouth was fixed in a smile, but even from where he sat, Bull could see the troubled look in her brown eyes.

Bull finished his burger and fries. By the time he left, she was busy with other customers.

* * *

Returning to the county building, Bull spotted the sheriff’s Jeep in its usual place. He parked the truck and went back inside. In the outer office, Mildred Patterson glanced up from her romance novel. “The sheriff is expecting you, Virgil,” she said. “Go on in.”

Sheriff Vern Mossberg rose from behind his massive oaken desk. He looked to be nearing fifty, square jaw, square shoulders and chest, ramrod spine, close-clipped hair, and an immaculately pressed uniform. Retired military, Bull guessed. Army, or marines. He had that look about him.

“Mr. Tyler.” He acknowledged Bull with a curt nod. “Please have a seat.”

Bull lowered himself onto a straight-backed metal chair that faced the desk. Mossberg took his seat, fixing him with a steely gaze. “Now, what can I do for you?”

he demanded.

“Two things,” Bull said. “First, I want to report a missing man and the theft of his car.”

“The man’s name?” Mossberg picked up a pen and slid a yellow pad to the front of the desk.

“His name is Carlos Ortega. He’s our ranch cook, and he was gone when we—”

“Ortega, you say?” the sheriff interrupted. “He’s Mexican?”

“Yes. He’s worked for us about ten years. He—”

“Is he here legally? Does he have citizenship, or maybe a green card?”

“I never thought to ask.” Bull’s frustration seethed. “Look, the man’s missing, along with his car. I found the crucifix he always wore. It was broken, like it had been ripped off him. All I’m asking is that you put an alert out for his car—it’s a restored Buick, easy to spot. I can give you the plate number.”

Mossberg shook his head. “Mr. Tyler, my policy is not to waste time chasing after illegal Mexicans or their vehicles. If you have proof that he’s legal, bring it in. Otherwise, if you want to track him down, I suggest you contact the border patrol.”

“Listen, Sheriff,” Bull argued. “Carlos isn’t a criminal. He’s a harmless old man. He could be hurt somewhere, or dead.”