Her knowing laughter was interrupted by the roar of a huge diesel pulling up in front of the house.
“Oh, my stars!” Bonnie sat bolt upright. “It’s Danny! He’s home early! Out the back window! I’ll toss you your clothes!”
Cursing, Ferg scrambled over the sill and dropped to the ground. The backyard was pitch dark, the unmowed grass flattened next to the house. No surprise. He wasn’t the first man to crawl out of Bonnie’s back window, and he wouldn’t be the last. All the same, he felt like a character in a slapstick comedy—and he didn’t like it. Respect was something he craved almost as much as he craved sex.
His boots and clothes landed next to him. While Bonnie welcomed her husband in the front room, Ferg dressed in the dark, climbed the fence, and cut through the block to where he’d left the ranch pickup.
Still swearing, he started up the truck, turned onto Main Street, and headed out of town. Until yesterday he’d been feeling pretty good about himself. As sole heir to the Prescott Ranch, he had family prestige and all the money he wanted to spend. He had expensive clothes and boots, a flashy car, and lots of pretty girls to ride in it—even if most of them were jailbait. He’d felt like the uncrowned king of Blanco Springs—until Virgil Tyler showed up.
Bull Tyler. The name burned like acid in his veins. Ferg had hated him for years. Now that he was back, Ferg hated him even more.
Unlike Ferg, Bull had no family, no money, no good clothes or expensive car. But he had something that Ferg, as the son of privilege, would never have. Call it an edge—that air of determination, hunger, and raw courage that had driven him away from Blanco Springs to take up one of the most dangerous sports in the world. Comparing himself to his former childhood friend, Ferg conceded, would be like comparing a big, pampered hound to a wild wolf.
Now the wolf had returned to claim the land Ferg’s father had wanted for years. Ferg knew about the condition of the Rimrock. He’d watched the place slide into ruin as Williston Tyler’s health and fortunes declined. Williston could have sold the land anytime, but he’d refused to the very end of his life.
Now the Rimrock had passed to Williston’s son. Any reasonable man would sell out for a fair price and be gone. But Bull was not a reasonable man. If he made up his mind to stay, it would be as if his feet were planted in stone.
But the Prescotts could be intractable, too. One way or another, they were determined to get the Rimrock. If Bull Tyler chose to stand against them, one thing was certain.
He would have a war on his hands.
* * *
Sunrise found Bull high on the platform of the windmill, replacing the broken and missing vanes, while Jasper fed and watered the stock. He’d hoped to do the job last night, but by the time they’d buried the dead calf, the light was fading. There’d been no time to start.
The windmill tower, which his father had built of scrap wood decades ago, was in dire need of replacement. Anchored to the ground with stakes, it quivered with every move Bull made. It was a wonder it hadn’t blown over in a heavy wind. But for now, it would have to do. Money was too scarce for a new metal one.
Getting more water out of the ground was at the top of the list he’d made. Fixing the windmill was more urgent, even, than seeing the place where his father had died.
As the morning light stole across the yard, he could hear the hungry bawling of the cows and calves in the pasture. Meadowlarks called from the grasslands. A golden eagle rose from a cedar clump and circled into the dawn sky. Mornings like this were the best thing he remembered about being home, the coolness of dawn, the sounds of nature, the sense of peace that was all the more precious because he knew it wouldn’t last.
From his perch on the high platform, Bull could see the land from horizon to horizon. The yellowed pastures were clogged with thickets of mesquite that would need to be chained down and cleared away. Prairie dog colonies, with burrows that could break the leg of a cow or horse, dotted the open spaces. Pasture fences sagged between rotted and broken posts. But the most urgent problem in this hot, rainless summer was water. Without it, the ranch would never support enough cattle to make a profit.
Digging more wells would be the ideal solution. But hiring the equipment to do the job would be expensive. Hell, everything was expensive. Restoring the ranch to working condition would take ten times what he had in the bank.
He wasn’t ready to give up—not by a long shot. But at times like this, all that he’d taken on seemed impossible.
Bull worked as he pondered, tightening the loose vanes and replacing the missing ones with pieces he’d found in the shed. There would still be a few gaps, but the windmill should turn faster than before. After that, all he could do was clean and lubricate the pump, replace the gaskets if he could find any spares, and hope for the best.
By the time he got the pump running efficiently, the morning sun was already getting hot. Strapping on his father’s old .44 Special single-action Colt and taking a canteen of water, he joined Jasper in the pickup. Dust plumed behind them as they drove across the scrubby flatland to the low hills at the base of the escarpment.
“We’ll have to hike from here,” Jasper said, pulling the truck to a stop. “The canyon where they found your dad is about a mile up. It’s not too far, but it’ll be steep going.”
When Bull climbed out of the truck, he could see the faint tire tracks and trampled scrub where the sheriff’s men must’ve parked and the barely visible trail they would have made through the foothills. A chilly premonition crept over him. “Is the place on Rimrock property?” he asked, already knowing the answer to his question.
Jasper nodded. “It butts right onto the line. The far side of it is Prescott land.”
“Let’s go.” Bull slung the canteen strap over his shoulder and headed up the trail. He knew with sickening certainty where they were going. It was to a place he’d buried in his memory—a place he’d never wanted to see again.
His index finger traced the thin scar that crossed the pad of his left thumb. Ferg Prescott had a similar scar, dating back to the summer afternoon when, years ago, the two boys had taken a blood oath never to speak of the ungodly thing they’d done or the lie they would tell to keep it secret. After that day, they’d never been friends again.
The two men walked in silence. The shadows deepened as they passed into the escarpment, a labyrinth of lofty sandstone cliffs, towering hoodoos, and meandering steep-sided canyons. Here, sheltered from wind, the tracks of the sheriff’s team were easy to follow. But Bull didn’t need them to find his way. He knew where to go.
The sound of trickling water drew him to an opening in the canyon at the foot of a high ledge. It was a spot of stunning beauty, the canyon floor carpeted in coral-colored sand, the sheer wall of the cliff decorated with Native American petroglyphs of horses—scores of horses, in all sizes. A spring seeped down one side of the cliff, nourishing clusters of green before it vanished into the rocks. Beyond the spring, a steeply winding trail led to the clifftop where the land sloped off toward the Prescott Ranch.
Blocking the dark memories from his mind, Bull gazed at the broken boulders that formed a layer at the foot of the cliff. Nobody could have survived a fall onto those sharp rocks. “You found him here?”
“Right here. Carlos and I were searching on horseback. We saw the buzzards and followed them to this place.” Jasper shook his head. “All we could do was lay a blanket over him to keep off the birds and flies while we went for the sheriff.”