The cowboys came up with some really creative pranks when they set their minds to it. Short-sheeting each other’s beds. Filling the salt shaker with sugar. Moving a sleeping cowboy outside on the ground and leaving him there until he woke. Setting off firecrackers in the bunkhouse in the middle of the night. And, worst of all, cleaning several tubs of worms and sneaking them into someone’s bed with the lights out when the unsuspecting victim went to bed. John had even done it to Odalie when both were younger. Of course, she’d avenged herself by filling his bed full of frogs...
John had been both victim and perpetrator in those outbursts of fun. When he and Odalie were kids, the two of them liked to carry John’s huge albino python out to the bunkhouse to liven things up. Most of the men were terrified of snakes. But sadly, nobody had been afraid of Charlie—the python—except the family’s blacksmith, who was kept on retainer because he was always needed to fix things around the ranch. Poor Manolospent a lot of time hiding when he saw the kids coming out of the house with Charlie in a big sack.
Once Cole realized what his two kids were doing, he put a stop to it. John shook his head. He and Odalie had done a lot of wild stuff as kids, without realizing how much trouble they were making for their dad. Legendary for his temper and impatience, Cole was the soul of patience with his three children. He never raged at them or hit them, preferring reason and taking away video games as punishment. John said once that he’d much rather have had a paddle on his backside than lose access to his favorite online games. And, of course, Cole knew that.
Now Tanner and Stasia were happily married and expecting their first child. Odalie planned a career at the Met, although nobody knew how terrified she was to go on stage, or how physical that fear had become. Despite attempts by therapists to help assuage the very real terror, she finally realized that she couldn’t face daily doses of it, regardless of her exquisite singing voice. But she’d told only John. Nobody else.
And here was John, still on the Big Spur, and his only love was in a pillowcase on the seat beside him, zooming down a dirt road in a pickup truck that had the ranch logo and enough perks to qualify as a spaceship. It had everything, including a killer stereo system. John punched in his favorite music—which was Debussy’sLa Mer, of all things—and drove on. Precious stretched out as much as the borrowed pillowcase would allow.
“There,” John mused as he glanced at the confined animal. “I knew you’d like classical music.”
He turned the truck down the dirt road toward a stand of very green trees, a good indication of water. It was almost winter, but things hadn’t frozen. Not yet, at least.
The truck ran across an ancient wooden bridge over the stream, which only ran certain times of the year. This time, it ran following a torrential downpour that had lasted three days.Farmers and ranchers in the area had gone wild with joy, because it hadn’t even been predicted. It had brought an ongoing drought to a temporary end and filled all the tanks, or cattle ponds, in the area.
There was a small lot of purebred yearling bulls destined for a private treaty sale before Christmas, in a pasture just up the small rise to a stand of oak trees. John pulled the truck over on the wide dirt road.
“I’ll just be a minute, old fellow, so don’t go nuts, okay? I’ll leave the music and the heat on,” he added as he got out and closed the door, because even in north Texas, it was cold in November.
As he approached the fence, he scowled. He smelled something sweet, and it wasn’t natural. In his childhood, one of their ranch hands had been a Native American tracker. He’d taught young John a number of skills; not only how to recognize various tracks, but also how not to draw attention on the run.
And here was the first lesson he’d learned. If you’re running for your life, make sure you aren’t wearing a scent, like perfume or cologne. Whoever was in that pasture wasn’t one of his bulls. More than likely it was a rustler.
John wore a Colt .45 in a holster on his hip, under his leather jacket, for any rabid animals or dangers that could be found in any natural setting. His hand went to the butt.
Not that he usually needed anything but his fists. John was big and husky, and it was all muscle. He’d done bull riding in rodeos and bull wrestling; in fact, he still did it from time to time. He was a champion in both. Most rustlers didn’t like to get dirty. They were mostly interested in herding cattle into semi trucks and getting paid.
He moved quietly, careful not to walk in a rhythmic pattern. The truck would divert whoever was in with his bulls, since he’d left the engine running. He went under the highest strandof barbed wire and moved stealthily toward the tree where the young bulls were resting.
Odd, they weren’t spooked by whoever was in there with them.
He moved closer. Then he spotted the intruder. Medium height, short, wavy reddish-gold hair, pretty figure. Definitely female.
He blinked. Female. And in the rustling business? He stood very still for a minute, but she didn’t turn in his direction.
She was talking to one of the bull calves. “Now, I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” she was cooing at it. “But I’m really hungry—” she drew out the wordhungry “—and a thick juicy steak is what I want most of all...!”
“Not off one of my prize damned bulls, you don’t,” John interrupted.
She whirled, but he already had the pistol out and aimed right at her. She threw up her hands, green eyes wide and frightened in a face that was pleasant, although not really pretty. Her mouth was like a bow, perfect, and she had a lovely complexion, though; and her figure left nothing to be denied, even dressed in rough denim pants and an oddly thick belt over a black shell under a long-sleeved green flannel shirt.
“I’m just hungry,” she blurted out.
“You don’t eat a prize-winning bull,” he pointed out. “You go to a restaurant and order a steak.”
She was staring at the gun. “If you’re going to shoot me, not much point in trying to find a restaurant.”
He cocked his head. His pale blue, silvery eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
She swallowed, hard. “Josie Blake,” she said.
He lifted an eyebrow. “And what are you doing in my pasture, Josie Blake?” he added as he holstered the gun.
She put her hands down very slowly and suddenly her handwent to a cross-draw holster under the loose shirt and there was a 9 mm handgun in her own hand. It was pointing straight at John.
She smiled. “Never put up a gun until you’re certain that your adversary doesn’t have one as well,” she said sweetly.
He sighed. “Go ahead and shoot,” he said. “My girl married somebody else. I don’t really have a reason to keep living except Precious, and he’s old.”
