Martin’s face writhes as he catches sight of me. “Hate to say it. But all of this.” He motions with his hands. “All of this is her fault!” he screams.
Arlo’s fists ball, face hard as iron as he steps closer.
“Funny,” Christian intercedes first, cool and steady. "Because we found your fuel can.”
“B-b-but,” Martin stammers. “You can’t possibly mean… This is what happens when a woman tries to run cattle country.”
“That why I caught your men trying to wrangle Ms. Wichester’s calves?”
“But those aremycalves. Just trying to get them out of harm’s way.”
“On Ms. Winchester’s land?” Christian counters, eyes drilling into him.
“Yes.” His voice waivers. He pauses for a moment, like he’s looking for the right words. “Bred bymybull,” he counters, angry and blubbering, overweight face slicked in a sheen of perspiration.
Christian looks at me, face solid as granite.
“No, they were not,” I counter. “Had a bull up from Sierraville. I can provide papers.”
“Genetic test that one,” Martin commands, pointing toward the newborn, blinking wide-eyed toward the engulfed barn.
My blood boils as I realize how deep his plan runs. “That was your fault. You broke down my fences… to graze your herd on my land, to water them at my springs, and apparently, to muddy paternity foryoursteal!”
He snorts. “Tough case to prove. After all, the calves aren’t branded.”
“That’s because my ranch hand walked out before winter branding,” I fire back, stepping forward. “You knew I don’t brand alone. You were counting on that. I planned to finish once I had help. Funny how everything escalated after Clyde left to join your crew. Funny how he isn’t standing by your side now.”
Christian snaps, jumping down from his mount and shoving a finger in Martin’s face. “You’ve got about ten seconds to tell me the truth. Then, he turns toward me. “I imagine Clyde will be back around before all of this is finished. Likely talking a blue streak. Never struck me as the most loyal.”
“He’ll tell you the same thing I’m telling you. Those unbranded calves are mine.”
Arlo steps forward, face red, crossing his arms over his chest. “Or that he left before branding the calves to create the perfect situation to steal from Leonora and push her off this land and water?”
“It should be mine,” Martin rages. “Mine. Can’t run a cattle operation up here without her springs.”
“Sounds like a confession,” Arlo growls.
“And premeditation on top of cattle rustling, trespassing, arson. The list goes on and on,” Christian says in low tones, reaching for his handcuffs.
Martin panics, hands sliding beneath the waistband of his belt to his revolver.
Arlo lunges forward, dragging him to the ground.
Not flashy. Efficient. Military fast.
Christian grimaces. “For God’s sake, I didn’t have enough charges for you? Now, you’ve got to add resisting arrest to the mix? Dumb bastard.”
Arlo rolls him over, catching the cuffs Christian throws him and clicking them into place. Too fast. Too expert. Now I see where this man belongs.
My stomach knots.
My throat tightens.
“Good job, Deputy,” Christian adds.
Arlo’s head comes up. A new fire burns inside, ready to explode. His eyes find me. I glare back, registering how recognition and regret swirl beneath the green.
He stands, sauntering toward me, Christian following. When the big man reaches me, he says for the second time tonight, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
