Vivian had begun to weep, tears streaking mascara down her cheeks. “I can’t go back inside looking like this, Cliff,” she said. “Let’s just go.” She might have hugged her daughter one last time, but her husband drew her away and led her down the steps toward their rental car.
Susan stood on the porch, her throat tight, her hands gripping the rail as she watched them drive away. Would her parents forgive her later, especially if she had children? But that couldn’t be allowed to matter. She’d made her choice. So had they.
She didn’t feel like staying, but she couldn’t pass up the chance to talk with Ferg. After what he’d done to her, the thought of facing him sent a shudder through her body. But she was doing t
his for Bull, she reminded herself. That made all the difference.
She was turning to go back inside when Ferg came out onto the porch. He was alone, one hand holding a glass with two fingers of liquor in it. The smirk on his face made her want to turn and flee down the steps, but she willed herself to be strong.
“Hello, beautiful. I’ve been wantin’ to get you alone.” Sounding more than a little drunk, he held up the glass. “Peach brandy. Want some? I can get more. Along with my other inherited duties, I’m now master of the key to the sacred liquor cabinet.”
“No thanks. I’ve got something.” She picked up the Tab he’d set on the coffee table. The can had already lost its chill. “I’m sorry about your father,” she said.
“Me too, I guess.” He raised the glass. “Cheers, old man. Rot in hell.” He raised the glass, downed the rest of the brandy, and set the glass on the table. “So take a look at the big boss of the Prescott Ranch!”
“I suppose it’s too soon to congratulate you,” Susan said.
“Oh, never too soon.” His eyes roamed her body, lingering on her slim waist and flat belly. “You’re lookin’ good, girl. I take it I didn’t get you preggers.”
“No.” Susan forced a tight smile. “But from what I hear, you had better luck with somebody else.”
“Yeah. Got me a ready-made family. Edith’s okay. But I always hoped it would be you.”
“Well, it’s too late for that now.”
His mouth widened in a leering grin. “Maybe not. Will you be around long? Maybe we can get together.”
“Sorry, my parents booked a flight out tonight.” Susan sipped her lukewarm Tab, masking her disgust. If Ferg assumed she’d flown in with her parents, then he wouldn’t likely know about her involvement with Bull. All to the good if she could put his mistaken assumptions to use.
“I hear it was Bull Tyler who shot your father. Is that true?” she asked.
“That’s what my old man said with his last breath, when he passed away in my arms. A man’s dyin’ word is as good as you can get. And now I’ve got Bull Tyler by the balls. If the bastard gets the electric chair, believe you me, I’ll be front and center to watch.”
How can you hate him so much? Susan wanted to ask. But that wasn’t why she was here.
“My father wants Bull punished as badly as you do,” she says. “But according to him, Bull’s insisting that Ham had a gun when he was shot. Do you know anything about that?”
“A gun?” Ferg shook his head. “Why the hell would he be packin’ a gun on a nice, friendly visit—especially when Bull had called and asked him to come over?”
“So if there was no gun, why would Bull shoot Ham in the first place, knowing he’d be caught and arrested?”
“Who knows? Maybe it was just because they didn’t like each other.” Ferg leaned close to Susan’s ear, his hand sliding around the small of her back. “How about a quickie in the stable?” he whispered. “Nobody’ll miss us that long. C’mon, I got a powerful yen . . .”
She twisted away, fighting the panic that would have sent her flying at him, scratching and clawing. “That’s over and done with, Ferg. You’ve got a wife and family now. So behave yourself before I punch you in the eye!”
He reached for her again. This time she was rescued at the last moment by one of Ham’s old friends, opening the front door. “C’mon, Ferg!” the man said. “We’re drinkin’ toasts to your pa. You’ll want to break out the good whiskey.”
Susan was left quivering on the porch. Suffering Ferg’s drunken abuse had been bad enough. But worse was knowing she’d gone through it for nothing. Ferg hadn’t told her anything she didn’t already know. It was time to leave.
She’d turned to go down the steps when she noticed the empty glass on the table. The glass would have Ferg’s prints on it. If they matched the prints on the brass casings, that could place Ferg at the pasture, shooting cattle, before his father’s death. It was a long shot but well worth a try.
Using the clean handkerchief from her purse, she wrapped the glass, tucked it out of sight, and hurried to her car.
She’d already planned to drop off the casings at Ned Purvis’s place. Now she had more evidence. Maybe she could even talk Purvis into getting her name on the jail’s visitor list so she could see Bull more often.
Purvis was watering his rosebushes when she pulled up to his house. Inviting Susan to follow him, he took the glass and the casings to his office and slipped them carefully into the evidence bags he had on hand.
“The fellow who runs the lab owes me a few favors,” he said. “If I push him, we could have the results back tomorrow. No promises, mind you, but if we get a match, it would suggest that Ferg and Ham were on the Rimrock for no good reason. That would take first-degree murder off the table for Bull. But a jury could still go for second degree or manslaughter, so don’t get your hopes up.”