Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

“We’ve got to get you to the hospital,” Bull said.

Carlos’s lips moved. “No . . . no hospital, por diós. Don’t let me die there. Take me home . . . to Rio Seco. Bury me with Rosita . . . mi esposa . . .”

His voice trailed off. His head sagged. But then he seemed to recover a little. With surprising strength, he seized Bull’s arm, holding it like a vise. “Promise . . .” he rasped. “Promise to take me.”

Bull’s gaze met Jasper’s. Jasper gave a slight nod of agreement. Carlos was too far gone to make it to the hospital, an hour away in Lubbock. If he died in the truck on the way to his village, at least he’d know that he was going home.

Bull lifted the crucifix out of his pocket and slipped the silver cross with its broken chain into the old man’s hand. “All right, Carlos,” he promised. “If that’s what you want, we’ll take you to Rio Seco.”

Bull pulled off his shirt and singlet. After wadding the singlet into a ball, he pressed it over the wound and bound it tightly in place using the long-sleeved shirt. There was a moment’s deliberation while they figured out how to move Carlos. Jasper used the tool kit to unbolt the pickup’s tailgate and lift it off. They worked the old man onto it and found a sloping spot to carry him out of the wash. Bull helped slide the tailgate into the pickup bed and stayed back there with Carlos while Jasper drove.

The drive back to the house was hot, dusty, and bumpy. Bull used his hat to shield the old man’s face, gave him a little more water, and used his bare arms to cushion Carlos’s body against the jarring. The ride had to be agonizing, but no whimper escaped Carlos’s tightly pressed lips.

“Carlos.” Bull spoke close to his ear. “Who did this to you? Was it the Prescotts?”

“Didn’t . . . know them. Two men. Mexican. One with a bad scar. They . . . take my car, drive me to that wash . . . I run . . . they shoot . . .”

Every word cost the old man. Bull gave him another sip of water. “It’s all right, Carlos,” he said. “Don’t try to talk. Just rest.”

At the house, they lowered Carlos to the ground while they lined the truck bed with a mattress from the bunkhouse and added a blanket and the shell that fit like a roof over it. Jasper came up with some nonprescription pain pills and helped Carlos swallow three of them before they eased him back into the truck bed and reattached the tailgate. Even if they’d had the skill for it, cleaning and dressing the bullet wound would only have wasted precious time, and there was no way to give him blood. All they could do was keep their promise and get the old man home.

“The trip to Rio Seco is about six hours each way,” Jasper said. “One of us will need to stay here and keep an eye on the ranch. Shall we flip a coin?”

“I’ll go,” Bull said. “I had a tenth-grade Spanish class and picked up a little more on the rodeo circuit. It might come in handy.”

“Fine. The map I marked is in the truck, along with the rest of those pills. You shouldn’t have any trouble at the border. Now you better get goin’.”

“Keep a sharp eye out,” Bull said. “There could be more trouble headed our way.”

Jasper patted the heavy Colt that hung at his hip. “Don’t worry. If anybody shows up, I’ll be ready for ’em.”

Bull climbed into the truck, put it in gear, and drove slowly down the rutted lane toward the highway. He was careful going over the bumps and hollows. Any jarring would cause excruciating pain to Carlos.

A cold anger rose in him as he drove. Anybody who’d shoot a harmless old man and leave him to die in agony deserved the worst. Whatever it took, he would see that they paid the price.

Carlos’s description hadn’t told him much, except that there’d been two Mexicans, and at least one of them would’ve known about the wash. That didn’t mean they had any connection to the Prescotts. But it did mean they were armed and ruthless. The sheriff had already washed his hands of the matter. That left Bull—and Jasper, if he felt the same—to see that justice was done.

By the time he turned onto the main highway, the sun was low in the sky. Bull checked the map, glanced back at Carlos, and kept driving south toward the Mexican border.

CHAPTER 4

SUSAN RUTLEDGE SAT ALONE ON THE FRONT STEPS OF THE TWO-STORY frame house—the sort of house that passed for a mansion in rural Texas but would be nothing more than a rental in Savannah. At this late hour, almost midnight, no one else was stirring. At last she could be alone. At last she could breathe.

Striking a match on the heel of her boot, she lit the cigarette she’d pilfered from the gold-plated case on Hamilton Prescott’s desk. Inhaling the bitter smoke, she coughed, then tried it again. Maybe if she smoked enough, she’d get to like it. Meanwhile, at least it gave her the rush of doing something forbidden.

She blew a puff of smoke into the darkness, trying to make a ring like she’d seen some people do. She and her father had been here for two weeks, with at least three more weeks to go. The days were long and hot and endlessly boring. She could have stayed in Savannah with her mother, but Vivian Rutledge’s world of shopping, cocktails, and beauty treatments was even more depressing than being in Texas with her father and uncle—and with Ferg, who practically had to be bribed to entertain her.

At least the nights were pretty here, the stars big and bright, just like in the song. A crescent moon was rising in the east, above the rolling Texas hill country. Wind rustled the dry grass. Faint insect and animal sounds, few of which she could identify, drifted out of the night. If she closed her eyes, she could a

lmost imagine being in some wild, exotic place, stalking like a lioness through the thorn bush.

In the distance, she could see headlights leaving the highway and turning up the long gravel lane toward the house. Even from here, she recognized the ranch’s pickup truck. That would be Ferg, coming back from one of his late-night visits to town. The fact that he hadn’t taken his convertible told her he didn’t want to be noticed. He was probably seeing a woman—maybe that pretty, older waitress at the burger place who’d been paying him a lot of attention yesterday. At least she had been until that rough-looking cowboy had come in and joined them.

Bull Tyler. Susan had been intrigued by him—even though he’d called her a baby. There’d been something tough and raw about him. Something forbidden—like smoking, only more exciting and dangerous. Last night, lying in bed, she’d fantasized about kissing him. He would never kiss her for real, of course. But she could imagine anything she wanted to.

The pickup was getting closer. Not wanting Ferg to find her on the porch, she hurried down the steps, stubbed out the cigarette, and slipped around behind the house.

Shortly after her arrival in Texas, she’d discovered the delicious pleasure of disguising her bed with pillows, sneaking out at night, and wandering the open land. Mostly she went on foot. But sometimes, if the moon was up, she’d saddle a docile mare in the stable and go for a ride. Her father would have a stroke if he were to find out. He would ground her for the rest of their visit, or even put her on a plane and send her home early. But so far she’d been both careful and lucky.