Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

Bull forced the image to the back of his mind. “Did the sheriff find anything besides the body?” he asked. “Was my dad wearing a gun?

”

“No gun, no watch, and his pockets were empty.”

“So, he could’ve been killed and robbed.”

“If he was robbed, it would’ve been up topside. There weren’t any tracks down here where we found him.”

“Any tracks at the top?”

“Nothin’ but rock up there. Come on. You might as well have a look. Maybe it’ll help settle things in your mind.”

Jasper started up the steep, narrow trail. Bull followed him, knowing he had to see the place. Old memories crowded in. He steeled himself against them. If he could stay on a bucking bull for eight seconds, with his cracked ribs wrapped in duct tape, he could stand anything.

The trail stopped at a level clearing below the clifftop. The loose scree that had fallen from above almost concealed a low cave that served as an entrance to a winter rattlesnake den. The snakes would be scattered now, but the smell of the den lingered, foul and pungent in the air. Forcing his gaze straight ahead, Bull continued climbing behind Jasper, over the rocks and up the back of the cliff.

The clifftop, not much bigger than a large dining table, was solid sandstone. Scoured by wind and weather, it was as flat as a griddle. Footsteps would leave no trace here; and if there’d been anything else to find, the sheriff’s team of deputies would have already picked it up.

“Nothing.” Bull mouthed a curse.

“I told you. But you had to see it for yourself.”

“Are they sure he was even up here? He could’ve been murdered and dumped at the bottom.”

Jasper shook his head. “Like I say, when Carlos and I found him, there was no tracks anywhere. There’s no way to tell if he was pushed or if he was just up there wanderin’ around alone and stumbled over the edge.”

“That doesn’t sound like something he’d do.”

Jasper took his time answering. “Maybe not to you. But your dad changed a lot after you left. When things got bad, he liked to go off and find a spot where he could just sit and think. Sometimes he’d take a bottle with him, sometimes not.”

By now the sun was nearing the peak of the sky. Jasper raised his hat and wiped his forehead with his bandanna. “Put this mess behind you, Bull. What’s done is done. You’ve got other things to worry about.”

Resting a hand on the butt of the .44, Bull gazed out over the foothills and beyond them to the dry flatland, dotted with brush and scarred with trails and gullies. Jasper was right, he told himself. He couldn’t afford to spend time investigating his father’s death when he had a ranch to save. For now, at least, he would need to put the tragedy behind him and move on.

From where he stood, he could see all the way to the heart of the ranch. The house and outbuildings were as drab as the earth beneath them. Closer, at the base of the foothills, he could see the pickup where they’d left it to climb the trail.

A half mile beyond, in a dry wash, something caught his attention. Bull tensed, shading his eyes against the blinding sun.

“What is it?” Jasper moved to stand beside him.

“That wash, the one just past that big clump of mesquite. Can you see anything down there?”

“Hard to tell.” Jasper squinted into the glare. “All I can see is a little bit of color. Might just be trash, but it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Let’s go.”

Bull had already started down the steep trail. Half an hour later they reached the spot where they’d left the pickup. Climbing inside, they headed across the rough, open land toward the wash.

As the truck pulled up and stopped, two ravens flapped off a gnarled, dead cedar on the edge of the wash. Bad sign, Bull thought as he swung to the ground. He could detect no odor yet, but odds were that something down there was either dead or dying.

The wash was about six feet deep and an easy stone toss from rim to rim. At first, when he looked down into it, Bull could see nothing but rocks, sand, and tumbleweeds. Then he saw it, sprawled facedown below the exposed tangle of cedar tree roots—the chunky figure of a man. Jeans-clad legs, faded, plaid flannel shirt, a thatch of silver hair—it was Carlos.

Half-leaping, half-sliding, with Jasper behind him, Bull crashed down the side of the wash. Dropping next to the old man, Bull laid a hand on his shoulder.

Carlos stirred and moaned. Incredibly, he was alive.

But he wouldn’t be alive for long, Bull realized as he and Jasper rolled the old man onto his back and saw the dirt-clogged wound below his ribs. Blood soaked the ground where he’d lain—more blood than a man could stand to lose. If blood loss didn’t kill him, the infection would.

Cupping the back of Carlos’s head in his hand, Bull tipped the canteen to the cook’s lips. The old man could barely swallow. With that wound, he had to be in terrible pain.