Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

Ramón Ortega was seated at his usual table, playing cards with his friends. Catching sight of Bull, he rose with a welcoming smile. “My friend! It’s been two years! What brings you to Rio Seco?”

Bull motioned him out of the cantina to where they could talk. After an exchange of pleasantries, Bull gave Ramón a brief account of Rose’s situation. “She shot an evil man, an important man,” he concluded. “If she stays in the U.S., she could be arrested by the police or even killed by the man’s son. She’s a good girl, a good worker, but she’s been through a bad time. Can you take her in and keep her safe? I’ll be glad to pay for her keep.”

Ramón glanced toward the truck, where Rose was looking nervously out the window. “But of course,” he said. “I must ask my wife, but I know she’ll say yes. Carlos’s sons are working on a sheep ranch near Zacatecas. You taught them well, my friend. They are sending good money home, but our little house is lonely without them. And Maria would love a girl. Wait here. I will go home and ask her to make sure.”

He climbed into the Buick and turned down a side street. His house was nearby, Bull recalled, but maybe his lameness was worse—or maybe he just enjoyed driving his late brother’s beautiful car, even for short distances.

He was back in a few minutes. “Maria would love to take the girl,” he said. “You can follow me to the house in your truck.”

At the house, Bull opened the passenger door and helped Rose to the ground. Ramón’s wife rushed out the front door and, speaking in rapid Spanish, enfolded the girl in a motherly abrazo. For an instant Rose looked almost terrified. Then, to Bull’s surprise, her eyes flooded with tears.

“What is she saying?” she asked Ramón.

Ramón smiled. “Maria is saying that you are already her daughter.”

Bull unloaded the truck, giving Ramón the shotgun for safekeeping. The box of snacks, rare in a place like Rio Seco, he presented to Maria. Rose took her things into the spare bedroom that was to be hers.

Maria insisted that Bull stay for supper before driving back. The meal of black beans, rice, and corn tortillas fresh off the comal was simple but delicious.

The Ortega house was built in the traditional Spanish style, with rooms around a central patio. They had just finished eating, and Rose was helping Maria clear the table, when something seemed to catch her attention. She froze, as if listening. Then, setting down the dish she was holding, she rushed out the screen door to the patio. Moments later she was back, her eyes alight.

“Chickens!” she exclaimed. “They’ve got chickens! And a goat!”

That was when Bull began to believe she would be all right here.

* * *

After recharging on black coffee, giving Ramón the eighty-four dollars left in his wallet, and cautioning Rose not to reveal her location by sending letters to him or to Jasper, Bull set out for home. He was bone weary, but the thought of what awaited him back at the ranch kept him too worried to nod off.

If Ham was dead—as he no doubt would be—Ferg would be on the warpath. True, there’d been no love lost between Ferg and his father. Rose had probably done Ferg a favor by killing the old man. But retaliation would give Ferg an excuse to hit the Rimrock with every dirty trick at his disposal.

Then there

was the law. Ham had been conscious and talking when Ferg took him away. He would have told Ferg who’d shot him, and Ferg would no doubt involve Sheriff Mossberg.

It could be argued that Rose had fired in self-defense and run away out of fear. But Bull was the only witness to that, and he knew how the law could be twisted. With Rose nowhere to be found, he could try to clear her in absentia. But given the Prescotts’ access to high-priced lawyers, that might be a losing battle.

He’d done the right thing, taking her to Mexico, Bull told himself. She would be secure and well cared for with the Ortegas, maybe even happy.

But the odds were, she would never be able to set a safe foot in the United States again.

* * *

The blinding rim of the sun rose over the eastern plains, shocking Bull to full alertness. He fumbled for the visor and pulled it down. For the past few hours, he’d been driving with his brain on autopilot, not really asleep but not really awake. Never a good idea, he told himself. But he’d needed to get home, and he was almost there.

He glanced at the gas gauge. The tank was low, but he’d run it almost empty before without a problem. He hadn’t bought gas, or anything else on the way home, because he’d given all his cash to Ramón, and he didn’t want to use his credit card on the chance that it could be traced. His belly was growling, his nerves screaming for a jolt of coffee. But never mind. He was in familiar country, and he knew that he’d be home in twenty minutes.

One hand raked his sweaty hair back from his face. He’d been dreaming about Susan, the taste of her sexy mouth, the way her lovely, naked body felt in his arms. He wanted her like a drowning man wants air. But she was better off in Savannah, where the evil that had drifted like a miasma over the ranch couldn’t touch her.

She was bound to hear about Ham’s death, and she’d probably be expected to come with her parents to the funeral. But even if she did, he couldn’t involve her in this mess—he loved her, and cherished their future, too much for that. He could only hope she’d be understanding enough to keep her distance until everything was sorted out and the danger was over.

By the time he passed Blanco Springs and took the turnoff to the ranch, Bull’s head was aching, along with every muscle and joint in his arena-battered body. The idea of a hot shower, warm food in his belly, and eight solid hours between the sheets struck him as pure heaven. Unless some new crisis had reared its ugly head, he planned to enjoy every minute of the rest he’d earned. He could wade into the ongoing problems with renewed energy when he woke up.

As he sighted the house, a curse escaped Bull’s lips. Sheriff Mossberg’s big tan Jeep was parked next to the porch. He and Mossberg had rubbed each other the wrong way ever since their first encounter, when the sheriff had refused to look into Carlos’s murder. Today, one thing was sure. This was no friendly visit. With luck, the ex-military lawman was only here to look at the crime scene and ask a few questions. But when Bull drove closer and saw Ferg and a deputy standing next to Jasper, he sensed trouble.

Pulling up next to the sheriff’s Jeep, he turned off the engine, opened the door, and dragged his aching body out of the driver’s seat. “Sheriff?” It was both a greeting and a question. “What can I do for you?”

Mossberg wasn’t smiling. “We’ve been waiting for you, Virgil,” he said. “Turn around.”