Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

“Is that how you eat in Savannah?” he asked Susan.

“Only at dinnertime.”

He shook his head. “Real cloth napkins and all those extra forks and spoons—is it some kind of test to see if I can get through the meal without making myself look like a west Texas bumpkin?”

“Silly!” She giggled. “It’s easy to figure out. You start with the ones on the outside and work your way toward the middle. If you’re not sure what to do, just watch me.” The little minx knew how to charm, but Bull wasn’t ready to forgive her. He couldn’t help wondering whether she’d told anybody about her foray into the neighbors’ pasture and the death of his registered bull. Probably not. The truth would have gotten her into a lot of trouble.

“Glad you could make it, Virgil.” Hamilton Prescott walked in from the hallway. A big-bellied, ruddy-faced man, he was dressed in a plaid Western shirt with a buffalo-horn bolo. The big silver buckle that fastened his belt gleamed in the light from the deer-antler chandelier that hung above the table.

The man who followed him into the room was tall and elegantly slim, with a pencil-fine mustache and a haughty gaze. Ferg had mentioned that Ham and Susan’s father were stepbrothers, so it wasn’t surprising that there was no family resemblance between them. Both men shook Bull’s hand. Ham’s hearty grip was almost painful in its power. Cliff Rutledge’s handshake was a gentleman’s, restrained, even cautious, as if he might be afraid of soiling his palm.

There were five places set at one end of the long table. Ham took his seat at the head, with Rutledge on his right and Ferg, who’d just walked in, on his left. Susan sat next to her father, leaving a place for Bull next to Ferg.

The Prescotts’ cook, a retired cowboy with a limp, had filled the glasses with ice and sweet tea. Now he carried a bowl of vegetable salad to the table. Susan raised her hands to signal what must’ve been a family ritual. Everyone joined hands around the table while she murmured a brief grace. The moment was awkward—Bull holding hands with Ferg on his right and reaching across the table to clasp Susan’s soft, slim fingers in his callus-roughened palm. At least the contact was short, ending in a sigh of relief around the table.

They made polite small talk through the salad and the main course of overcooked roast beef, carrots and potatoes—the weather, the price of beef, and the bird hunting Ham and Rutledge had done on the ranch. Bull followed Susan’s example and managed to get through the meal without any breaches in etiquette. Her eyes twinkled with secret amusement when he reached for the wrong utensil, then glanced at her and corrected himself. Why did the little scamp have to be so young, and so damned sure of her effect on him?

After a dessert of leathery apple pie, the cook cleared away the dishes and brought in a half-filled crystal decanter and some glasses. Susan was excused, although Bull had the feeling she’d like to stay. Ferg, too, wandered off as if he had better things to do. Bull was left alone at the table with the two older men.

He braced himself for whatever was to come next.

Ham poured three fingers of liquor into each glass. “Drink up,” he said. “Fine peach brandy all the way from Georgia. Nothing better.”

Bull took a sip from his glass, feeling the sweet burn all the way down his throat. He’d drunk his share of beer and whiskey, but this was his first taste of brandy. He liked it.

“I was sorry to hear about your father,” Ham said. “I stopped by to pay my respects, but your man didn’t have much to say to me.”

“No, he wouldn’t. I’ve been hoping to find out more about the way my father died. I don’t suppose you can give me any satisfaction.”

“I wish I could. All I know is what the sheriff concluded—that it was an accidental fall. I’m guessing Williston was drunk and just wandered off that ledge.” Ham swirled the brandy in his glass and took a swallow. “Sorry, I know that must pain you.”

“It does,” Bull said. “But I know you didn’t invite me here to talk about my father.”

Ham’s smile was cold. “No, I didn’t. I know Williston left the Rimrock in a pretty sorry state—the buildings and fences broken down, the equipment and cattle sold off . . .” He took another sip of his brandy. “You can’t be having an easy time of it.”

“I’m doing all right,” Bull lied.

“So what are your plans for the place?”

Bull shrugged. “Do what I can, when I can. It’s all going to take time. But I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“Hard work isn’t enough if you don’t have money. You know I made your father several offers to buy the Rimrock.”

“And he turned them all down. So will I. The Rimrock isn’t for sale.”

Ham exchanged glances with Rutledge, who’d been listening in silence. “I understand that, Virgil. That’s why Cliff and I are prepared to make you an offer that would resolve everything, for all of us.”

“I’m listening.” Bull willed his expression to remain uninterested. But he could feel the tightening, like a coiled spring in his gut.

Ham leaned closer. “What we’re proposing is a three-way partnership. You contribute the land. Cliff and I contribute the money to transform the Rimrock into a first-rate working ranch—everything new, even the house. You’d manage the ranch for a good salary. At the end of the season we’d split the profits.”

Stunned, Bull stared at the two men. What Ham was proposing sounded almost too good to be true—all the money he needed to rebuild the ranch, and enough to do well on after that. And he’d still be a one-third owner.

“Think about it, Virgil.” Rutledge spoke for the first time. “It would be a win for all three of us.”

“What about Ferg?” Bull asked.

“Ferg’s the heir to this ranch. But he wouldn’t be involved in the partnership,” Ham said. “Neither would Susan, for that matter. It would just be the three of us. We’d set up a trust with the partners as heirs. So what do you say?”