Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

“Ham, you crazy fool!” Bull’s shout was drowned out by the bellowing cattle and the barking dogs, who were jumping and s

training at their tethers. He kept running, but he was too late, and too far away, to stop what happened next.

The front door opened. Rose stepped out onto the shadowed porch carrying the ten-gauge shotgun. Before Ham could react, she steadied the heavy barrel on the back of a chair, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The shotgun roared, blasting Ham backward as if he’d been kicked in the belly by a giant boot. He lay in the moonlit dust of the yard, legs twitching, one hand groping empty air.

Seconds after the shot was fired, Bull reached him. Ham lay in a pool of blood, eyes wild, teeth clenched against the pain. A straight shot would have killed him outright, but the blast of the heavy shotgun in Rose’s small hands had struck a few inches to the right, ripping into his shoulder and side but missing his heart. All the same, the awful wound was bound to be fatal. Ham was losing too much blood to survive. But he was a tough man. Something told Bull he wouldn’t die easy.

The dogs had retreated under the porch. Rose stood on the top step, pale as a ghost in the moonlight. The shotgun rested against her leg. “Is he dead?” she asked in a frozen voice.

“Not yet.” Still numb with shock, Bull leaned over the dying man. “Rose—”

“He killed my grandpa, and I’m not sorry,” she said. “If he doesn’t die, I’ll shoot him again.”

“Run in the house and get some sheets and towels,” Bull said. “Leave them on the steps and go back inside. I don’t want you out here.” When she hesitated, he snapped at her. “Go on! Move!”

She wheeled and darted into the house.

Bull stripped off his shirt and wadded it against the spot where the most blood seemed to be. It didn’t help much, but instinct compelled him to do what he could. From the pasture he could still hear the cattle bawling. Jasper and the boys wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. He was on his own.

Ham’s lips moved. “The little bitch . . . shot me . . .” he muttered.

“I can’t say I blame her.” Bull knew it was his last chance to ask the question that still tormented him. “My father. Tell me the truth, Ham. Who killed him?”

“Don’t know . . . but you’re barkin’ up the wrong damn tree, Bull. It wasn’t . . . us. Swear t’ God . . .” He closed his eyes, grimacing in pain.

Rose had left the linens on the step and gone back inside. Bull fetched them and used a couple of folded towels to pillow Ham’s head. With the rest, he made an effort, at least, to stanch the blood flow. He could’ve had Rose phone for an ambulance, but the hospital was an hour away in Lubbock—two hours round trip. Ham would never make it that far. And any call for help would also bring the police. What would they do when they found out Ham Prescott had been shot by a fourteen-year-old girl?

Sooner or later somebody would need to call the Prescott Ranch. Right now, all Bull could do was stay with Ham until somebody else showed up. After that, his first concern would be getting Rose out of harm’s way.

* * *

Ferg had fired at random into the cattle herd, wounding a few animals and scaring the rest until they were bawling fit to raise the dead. When he’d heard the Tyler men coming, he’d vanished into the shadows and cut around through the scrub to the road that connected the two ranches. His original intent had been to wait there for his father. But why risk being caught in the truck with Ham and the girl? If he was smart, he’d go back to the ranch, crawl into bed with Edith, and play the innocent. If there was any trouble, his wife would vouch for his having been there the whole time.

He’d turned and started back when he heard the shotgun blast.

Ferg’s first impulse was to keep going. But Ham hadn’t carried a shotgun or taken one in the truck. Someone from the Rimrock would have fired the shot—most likely at Ham. If his father was hurt, in trouble, or even dead, it wouldn’t do for him to bail out and leave. At least he needed to find out what was going on.

Keeping to the shadows, he circled back to where he could peer through the high brush. In the moonlight, he could see the black pickup parked at the edge of the yard. Closer to the house, Bull Tyler was bent over the sprawled figure of a man. On the man’s feet, Ferg recognized the hand-tooled Mexican boots Ham had worn that night.

So the old man had gotten himself shot. Whether he was dead or only wounded, Ferg’s actions now could make all the difference. After circling back, he came running down the road, out of breath.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded.

Bull rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Ferg, your dad was doing the wrong thing in the wrong place, and he got shot.”

“Is he alive?”

“Barely.”

Ferg stared down at his father. Ham’s eyes were closed, his breathing labored. Blood seeped from under the towels Bull had laid on his chest. “Lord, I don’t know what got into him. He was acting crazy at the house. I didn’t realize he’d headed over here until it was too late to stop him, so I just took off running. Who shot him?”

“Whoever it was, they were acting within their rights. Your father was walking up to the house with his gun drawn.”

“What gun?” Ferg glanced around. “I don’t see a gun.”

“He must’ve dropped it. We’ll find it later. Right now you need to get him home—or better yet, to a hospital if there’s time. I can help you load him in the truck.”