Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

Ferg took a deep breath. “I’m in,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

* * *

Three nights later, they put the plan in motion. That afternoon, from a distance, Ferg had scouted the ranch with binoculars to make sure the girl was there. He’d seen her behind the house, feeding the chickens and gathering eggs. Everything looked calm, with no sign of trouble. There were two dogs with her, but they looked friendly enough. Even if they barked, it wouldn’t matter.

Now, at two in the morning, Ham started the black pickup truck. Driving with the lights out, and Ferg in the passenger seat, he cut the engine and coasted to a stop just short of the Rimrock. The plan was in motion.

Ferg was to go to the pasture on the far side of the barn and create a distraction by firing his pistol at the cattle—not aiming to kill but to wound and scare them, creating a commotion. When Bull and the ranch hands went charging out to investigate, the girl would be left alone in the house. Ham, still powerful at his age, would go into the house armed with a pistol, get her into the pickup, subdue her with a chloroform-soaked rag, and drive off. Ferg would either cut around and join him on the road or walk home in the dark.

Ferg didn’t think much of the plan. There were too many things that could go wrong. But he figured that by the time Bull and his men showed up at the pasture, he could make a clean getaway. Besides, there were worse things than having his father get caught and go to prison. With Ham out of the way, he would have free rein to run the ranch and go after Bull. All he had to do was stay out of sight and keep his nose clean.

When the truck stopped, Ferg climbed out, closed the door softly, and took off at a run for the pasture. Even at a distance, the sound, or perhaps the scent, had alerted the dogs. Ferg could hear them barking, but as the seconds passed, they didn’t seem to be coming closer. The big mutts were probably penned or tied.

Never mind, Ferg told himself. However it went down, odds were that tonight’s escapade would end in his favor.

* * *

Bull awakened to the sound of the dogs barking. It wasn’t unusual for a passing coyote or skunk to set them off, but tonight their clamor was louder and more urgent, as if they sensed danger. Bull pulled on his jeans, cocked his pistol, and walked outside to the porch.

“What is it, you rascals?” he demanded. The dogs whimpered and pulled at their tethers, wanting to get loose and chase whatever was out there. Since their epic roll in the swamp mud, he’d kept them tied at night. They were bound by long ropes to a support under the front porch. They didn’t like it, but it had to be done. Letting dogs run loose at night, especially in ranch country, was never a good idea.

By now the big mutts were getting used to the idea. They’d even taken to hiding their treasures—bones, sticks, and assorted dried animal parts—under the porch to amuse themselves when they were tied.

Bull’s voice and presence seemed to calm the animals. He spent a few moments peering across the moonlit yard. Seeing nothing amiss, he was about to go back inside when Rose came out onto the porch, wrapped in Williston’s old bathrobe.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. “They don’t usually bark so loud.”

“Everything seems fine,” Bull said. “Go on back to bed, Rose.”

The girl shook her head. “Something’s going on. I can feel it in my bones.”

“In your bones? Give me a break. I’ve never believed in that mumbo jumbo.”

“No, it’s real,” Rose said. “Some women in my family have a gift. My grandma could sense things. Sometimes I can, too. And right now I feel like something’s going to happen. Something bad.”

Bull willed himself to ignore the unease her words roused in him. “Let’s both go back to sleep,” he said. “It’ll be morning before you know it.”

After they’d settled the dogs and Rose had returned to her room, Bull stood at his bedroom window staring out into the night. A warm, dry wind was blowing. The full moon cast the waving mesquite clumps into long, eerie shadows.

What if the girl was right? What if the dogs had scented danger and were trying to warn him?

Too restless to lie down, he dressed in the dark. The loaded .44 lay next to his pillow. The ten-gauge shotgun, loaded with two shells, stood behind the front door. Jasper had his own pistol, the old Colt .45 Peacemaker he’d carried for as long as Bull had known him. At least if danger threatened, they’d be well armed.

He’d picked up the pistol and was walking toward the rear of the house to check the back door when he heard a gunshot. Not close—it had come from the direction of the pasture beyond the barn. A second shot followed, then another. The dogs were barking again, and now, over the din, Bull could hear the frantic bellowing of cattle. He swore out loud.

Jasper burst out of his room, pulling on his jeans and boots. “Sounds like some bastard is shootin’ our stock!” he muttered, barely awake. “We’d better get out there.”

Rose had appeared in the hallway. “Stay put,” Bull cautioned her. “Lock the doors. Keep down and keep the lights off.”

Two more shots rang through the darkness as he rushed out the front door and off the porch with Jasper on his heels. On the far side of the yard, Patrick and Chester came stumbling out of the bunkhouse, still pulling on their clothes. The hellish shrieks of the cattle filled the night—but the gunfire had stopped.

Bull had rounded the back corner of the barn when the realization hit him. He halted as if he’d run into a wall.

“What is it?” Jasper stopped beside him, breathing hard.

“This is a damned diversion.” Bull’s voice rasped in his throat. “It’s got to be. You and the boys see to the cattle. I’m going back. It’s Rose they’re after!”

Bull ran, his heart drumming in his ears. As he rounded the barn, the light of the full moon revealed Ham Prescott’s black pickup truck, lights out, pulling into the yard and stopping about thirty yards short of the house. The driver’s side door opened. Ham climbed to the ground, pistol drawn, and began walking swiftly toward the house.