Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

When he pulled up to the ranch house, Jasper was in the yard, hauling hay to the stock. He dropped the pitchfork and strode over to the truck as Bull climbed to the ground.

“You told me you’d be right back,” he said. “What the hell took you so long? I was getting worried.” He looked Bull up and down. “How’d it go?”

“Fine. Just more complicated than I’d figured.” He pulled the crumpled wad of cash out of his hip pocket. Jasper’s eyes widened as Raul and Joaquin spilled out of the pickup bed with their packs.

“What the devil have you been up to, Bull Tyler?” Jasper sputtered.

Bull gave him a quick rundown of what had happened. “These two men are Carlos’s boys. They’ll be working for us while they look for the men who killed their father.”

“And what about the money?”

Bull told him about the other men. “There’s more where that came from. If I can make a run over the border every week or two, it could make the difference between saving the ranch and having to sell.”

Jasper swore. “It might sound like good, fast money, but you won’t get rich runnin’ Mexicans, you young fool. The border patrol’s been playin’ those games a lot longer than you have, and they know all the tricks. You were lucky this time. But keep doin’ it and they’ll nab you for sure. Then you’ll be in for a long stretch behind bars—and believe me, this ranch won’t be here when you get out. Think about that while you get these boys settled in the bunkhouse. I s’pose we owe it to Carlos to take ’em in. But if anybody comes around, you’d damn well better keep ’em out of sight.”

Jasper stalked off and went back to work. Bull set Raul and Joaquin to cleaning out the bunkhouse while he made bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee for breakfast. He was starved. The boys would be hungry, too.

He’d been pretty much set on making more trips over the border. But Jasper’s advice gave him pause. He had some serious thinking to do. Meanwhile, at least he had workers to mend the fences and maybe help shore up the barn roof. And he had a little cash for feed and supplies and to get the phone service back. For now, he would concentrate on getting some work done. The bigger decisions could wait until later—or at least until the money ran low.

* * *

Two weeks after Bull’s return from Mexico, the weather was still bone dry. On the Prescott Ranch, the grass was turning brown. Cattle clustered in the shade or crowded around the watering tanks. Even the nights brought little relief from the dry wind. People grew tired and irritable. Tempers flared.

Susan had fled the house after a shouting match between Hamilton Prescott and Ferg, who’d crept in after one of his late-night visits to town. When Ferg had found his father waiting up for him in the living room, the confrontation had exploded, growing louder and louder until the two were practically screaming at each other.

“I’m not a baby, Dad! I’m a grown man, and a man’s got his needs! What I do at night is none of your damn business!”

“Hell, boy, it was my business when you were fifteen and got a preacher’s daughter pregnant! It cost me a bundle to hush up her family! And you had to go and pick a girl who wouldn’t get an abortion! I’m still sending them money to support the little bastard, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to saddle me with any more of them! If you’ve got needs, for Christ’s sake get married and be done with it!”

Susan had buried her head in the pillow and done her best to ignore the raging quarrel, as her father was likely doing. But after fifteen minutes she’d given up. She’d rolled out of bed, pulled on her clothes and sneakers, and arranged the pillows in her bed. With her hair twisted under her cap, she’d pocketed her miniature flashlight and slipped out the back door.

Clouds drifted across the night sky, blown by the dry wind that never seemed to stop. Needing to stretch her limbs, Susan set out on foot. Maybe if she walked far enough and fast enough, she could forget what she’d heard. She didn’t want to be privy to the Prescotts’ dirty secrets. All she wanted was peace and quiet.

The neighboring ranch, the Rimrock, was a mile from the Prescott house by way of a dusty, rutted road. She knew whose land it was. Hamilton Prescott had told her one night over dinner about the penniless, alcoholic Williston Tyler, who’d owned the two-thousand-acre ranch and refused to sell so much as a pebble of it. Since the man’s mysterious death, the Rimrock had passed to his son, Bull Tyler, the rugged, blue-eyed ex–rodeo rider whom Susan had met that day in the Burger Shack. Hamilton had expressed hope that the young Tyler would have the good sense to sell out. But after meeting the Rimrock’s new owner, Susan had the feeling that getting his ranch wouldn’t be as easy as her uncle expected.

Before tonight, she’d limited her wanderings to Prescott land. But now she craved escape, and she was still highly curious about Bull Tyler. She felt a prickle of naughty excitement at the thought of seeing his house and imagining him sprawled in sleep behind its walls.

The heart of the Rimrock was no more than a fifteen- or twenty-minute walk. Stepping out with a long-legged stride, she left the Prescotts’ yard, switched on her flashlight, and found the road across the scrubby sage flat. Soon she caught sight of a distant windmill, turning against the stars. Beyond that lay the low, sprawling house.

Switching off the flashlight, she crept closer. Seen by moonlight, the house, like the bunkhouse across the yard, had a ramshackle look to it. Its curtainless windows were dark. Except for the battered pickup parked next to the house and the subtle stirring of horses in the nearby paddock, the place might have been deserted.

Mildly disappointed, Susan had just stolen past the front of the house when she heard the creak of the screen door opening and closing. Bull Tyler came out onto the porch.

Had he heard her? Heart slamming, Susan flattened herself against the side of the house. Peeking around the corner, she could see him standing at the rail, clad in jeans, boots, and a singlet that displayed his sculpted torso in the moonlight. One hand held a heavy pistol.

Now what? She needed to get ho

me soon. But if she cut back across the yard, the way she’d come, he was almost sure to see her. Even if he didn’t shoot her, she’d feel like a fool to be caught sneaking around his house.

She glanced west, toward the fenced pasture and the moonlit escarpment beyond. Maybe she could cut behind the barn, make a wide circle through the pasture, and come back partway down the road, out of sight. It might involve climbing a fence or two, but she had long legs and it was nothing she hadn’t done before. Besides, it would be an adventure.

When Bull Tyler showed no inclination to leave, she ducked into the shadows and headed for the far side of the barn.

* * *

A faint sound in the dark had awakened Bull and sent him bolting out of bed, grabbing for his clothes and his pistol. The sound had amounted to nothing, but now he was too restless to sleep. Pistol cocked, he stood on the front porch, gazing out over the yard. It was well past midnight, the sky showing only a few drifting clouds that would bring no rain to the parched land. Even the night wind was warm, sucking the moisture from everything that grew. From somewhere beyond the shadows, a lone coyote raised its yipping wail. There was no answer.

In the two weeks that had passed since Bull’s return from Mexico, Raul and Joaquin had proven to be hard workers, cheerful and eager to learn whatever they didn’t know how to do. The bunkhouse was now livable, including the bathroom and small kitchen, and much of the fence line had been mended using the old wire and the truckload of rough cedar posts that Bull had bought in town. The cattle and horses were strong enough to be moved to pastures where the grazing was better. But because of the drought they continued to get extra feed. The barn roof still needed repair, and the money for hay, food, and other supplies was flowing out like blood from a death wound.