He shakes his head. “Ever since the museum deal and the trouble at the Reyes Ranch, the government’s been extra busy. Looking for any excuse to seize land.”
His last words cut through me like a knife. The one thing that can’t happen, that I won’t allow.
Frank levels his gaze on me. “Between this and the field…” he shakes his head, looking at his feet.
“Please,” I say too quickly. “Don’t mentionthat.”
His jaw tenses beneath a thick felting of stubble. “Your parents already gave too much for this place. Can’t watch you do the same.”
“That’s my choice to make, not yours,” I hiss.
“Secret’s safe with me,” he grunts, nodding toward two men in well-tailored black suits and Sheriff Cullen. “Like every other damned secret I grew up telling about this godforsaken place.”
The suited men step forward, offering their cards in turn. Agent Clooney and Murphy.
“This your bull?” Clooney asks, lifting his black Ray-Bans and showing narrowed eyes.
Murphy kneels down, doing an immediate inspection of the missing parts. Like he’s seen this a thousand times.
“Wasmy bull,” I whisper.
Frank stands firm with his hands on his hips. “Whoever did this doesn’t walk away from it.”
The words surprise even me until I see the way Sheriff Cullen’s shoulders relax.
“Copycat perp,” he says too fast.
The suited men don’t look convinced.
“We’ll handle matters from here,” Clooney says.
I shift my weight restlessly, words hanging on the tip of my tongue. I get it. As a lifelong resident of Raven’s Ridge… some things, some people are best left unnamed and undiscussed.
“But—” I start.
Frank grabs my upper arm, shaking his head when I startle and look in his direction.
“Mind if we head back to the ranch house now?” he asks. “Miss Eliza’s been out in the heat too long. She could use a cool drink and a cooler head.”
I exhale sharply, mind still swirling.
What if this happens again? How do I keep my cattle safe?
I open my mouth, but he pulls me toward the horses. “Come on,” he growls. “We’re more than done here.”
Sheriff Cullen’s face is ambivalent, his stare locked on the carcass. Then he nods. “Better that way. After I help these gentlemen, I’ll head up to the house to get a statement.”
“Much obliged,” Frank says, the curled corners of his mustache bobbing.
Back in the saddle and halfway across the ranch, the sun beats down on us. Relentless. Searing.
“We never speak of this again,” Frank grunts. “Not here. Not to anyone.”
Our eyes meet.
His blues go steely-gray and determined. “Understand?”
I sigh long and low, staring up at the periwinkle sky that sizzles. “But what do we do?”
