Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

Jasper’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to show up, you know. That’d send the old bastard a message for sure.”

“Maybe.” Bull spat his chew in the dust. “But it won’t hurt to know what he’s thinking.” And if the talk gets around to it, maybe I can learn more about the way my father died. Bull didn’t voice that last thought. He knew Jasper had discouraged him from trying to blame Williston’s death on the Prescotts. What he didn’t understand was why.

“Any luck finding a replacement for Jupiter?” Jasper asked, changing the subject.

“Not yet.” Bull shook his head. After Jupiter’s death he’d weighed his alternatives—none of them good. This summer, with the troubles on the ranch and the cows in such poor condition, Jupiter had yet to be turned out for breeding. His male calves, the few that remained, were set to be castrated in the fall. If allowed to grow into bulls, they wouldn’t be old enough to breed for another year, or ideally for two years. That would mean, if the ranch had to depend on them, there’d be no calves born on the ranch for at least two years. The fee for the loan of a breeding bull, along with transport and upkeep, was prohibitive. And buying a new registered bull, like Jupiter, was out of the question.

He’d even called a couple of breeders he knew from the rodeo to check on the chance of getting an animal that was unfit for the arena due to age or injury. They’d taken his number and said they’d call him if one became available. So far, he’d heard nothing.

He’d read about artificial insemination and knew it was commonly done, especially by the big breeders. But so far he lacked the equipment and the know-how to set it up here. Susan Rutledge’s little escapade had turned into a calamity. The cows were doing better now, with a number of them showing signs of estrus, but if he didn’t find a solution soon, there would be no new calves next spring.

“I guess we could always buy a bunch of calves on the cheap and raise them here.”

“Maybe. If we had the money, even for cheap.” At times like this, Bull was sorely tempted to throw up his hands, sell out, and walk away with the cash in his pocket. Jasper, he knew, would be dead set against the idea. But with Hamilton Prescott’s invitation in hand, he couldn’t pass up the chance to learn what the man had in mind.

At a time like this, he’d be a fool not to keep all his options on the table.

* * *

Showered, freshly shaved, and dressed in clean jeans and a plaid shirt, Bull drove the pickup over the bumpy road to the Prescott Ranch. He hadn’t been inside the house since his boyhood, when he and Ferg were still friends. Things had changed a lot since then. But whatever he was facing tonight, Bull was determined not to let it rattle him. He was a man, he owned his own land and livestock, and he could hold his own with anybody, even the high-and-mighty Prescotts.

He parked the car out front, walked up the path to the front porch, and knocked on the door. He heard a rush of light, quick footsteps. The knob turned. The door swung open. He found himself face-to-face with Miss Susan Rutledge.

She was wearing a periwinkle blue sundress with thin straps and a nipped-in waist that made the most of her slender figure. The color brought out silvery glints in her gray eyes and heightened the pink in her cheeks. Her long blond hair was brushed to a sheen and caught back from her face with a blue ribbon, giving her the look of Alice in Wonderland. Innocent—except for those satiny, sensual lips that stirred forbidden questions in his mind. He had to remind himself that she was young enough to get a man arrested.

“Hello, Susan.” He didn’t smile.

Her lower lip quivered slightly. “How’s your leg? I was worried that you might not have had a tetanus shot.”

“It’s fine, and I had the shot last year.” Bull was still angry enough to turn the little brat over his knee, but since he was a guest here, it behooved him to be civil.

She stepped back, away from the door, giving him room to come in. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” Her voice was breathy, with a little nervous catch. “I’m under orders to keep you entertained until Dad and Uncle Hamilton come down.”

“What about Ferg? Won’t he be here?” He followed her into the parlor that adjoined the dining room. The long table was set with matching china and silver. The smell of roast beef drifted from the kitchen.

“Ferg just came in. He’s washing up, I think.” Her silvery eyes studied Bull’s face. “You and Ferg don’t like each other much, do you?”

He managed a wry chuckle. “What gave you that idea?”

“I’ve got eyes and ears. That day in the Burger Shack, I could tell something was going on.”

“Ferg and I go back a long way. As the old saying goes, it’s water under the bridge.” Bull studied the array of framed family photographs on the wall. His eyes came to rest on a professional portrait, taken perhaps a dozen years ago, of a younger Ham Prescott with his family. Bull recognized Ham’s wife, who’d recently passed away. Next to her was a robust, confident Ferg who, even then, had looked like—and had been—a schoolyard bully. Seated on his father’s knee was a younger boy with a shock of white-blond hair and vacant blue eyes that looked too large for his delicate face.

Bull tore his gaze away from the picture. But Susan had noticed him looking at it.

“The boy in that photo is Ferg’s little brother, Cooper,” she said. “He was kidnapped and never found. Can you imagine that?”

Bull didn’t answer.

“I was told that some Mexicans took him. He was out playing cowboys with Ferg and his friend when—” She broke off, staring in dismay at Bull’s rigid expression. “Oh, no! Was that friend you? It was, wasn’t it?”

“We don’t talk about that anymore, Susan.” Bull’s reply was curt. In the awkward silence that followed, he turned back toward the dining room. “That’s the fanciest table setting I’ve ever seen,” he said.

“Thank you.” Her smile lit her face. “I did it all myself—even though Uncle Hamilton said it wasn’t worth the bother for having a Tyler to dinner.”

Susan had spoken in

nocently, but Bull could imagine Ham Prescott’s contemptuous voice saying exactly that. This was no social occasion. Ham would nail him to the wall if he could.