He stares but says nothing.
Jett brings me Seven, and I tie one end of Jett's rope to the saddle horn. The other end is already around the man's wrists.
"You can walk," I tell him, swinging up into the saddle, "or you can be dragged. Your choice."
He walks until we’re back at the truck, and then I shove him in the back seat and drive. It would be in silence if Jett stopped whistling.
Behind the equipment shed, past the round pen, in a corner of Sterling Ranch that doesn't appear on any map, we have the pen.
Fifty-foot steel-walled enclosure. Originally it was built for breaking wild horses. Dad repurposed it fifteen years ago for a different kind of breaking.
Inside is Brutus.
Twenty-three hundred pounds of black Brahma cross. Horns wide as my arm span. A temperament that makes the rankest rodeo bull in the country look like a pet. We keep him because he throws calves that sell for six figures, and because, occasionally, we need something in a pen that makes men reconsider their commitment to silence.
If I’m feeling like I need proper training, I jump on his back and see if I can hang on for my life. If I can ride this beast, I can ride any.
We shove the guy through the outer gate and into the holding chute. Steel walls on both sides. A gate at the far end that opens into Brutus's territory.
He can hear the bull. That heavy, wet breathing. The scrape of hooves.
The man's eyes go wide. Point proven. Not a cowboy.
"You hear that?" I crouch to his level. He's on his knees, hands bound, blood starting to dry on his face. "That's Brutus. Mean as hell. Hasn't been fed today; that's not related. He's just always angry. Terrible personality."
Jett leans on the fence, chewing a piece of straw. "Bit like you."
"Shut up, Jett."
I turn back. "Here's how this works. I ask questions. You answer. Every time you don't, that gate opens wider, and Brutus gets closer."
Colten slides the gate open. Enough for the man to see into the pen. The man starts talking in what sounds like Greek.
"English. Or the gate opens." I say.
He swallows. "I am security. Paid. I am paid to guard."
"Guard what? You're on a cattle ranch in Arizona. What the fuck are you guarding?"
Nothing. His jaw locks.
Colten slides the gate open another six inches. Brutus steps forward. The ground shakes around us.
"Who. Is. Paying. You."
"Nikos Kourakos," he chokes out.
The Greeks. Of course, it’s those fucking Greeks. We can’t seem to get rid of these fuckers.
"Why are you on Ranch 42?" I ask.
“Nikos bought into the Ranch."
I scoff. We know the Greeks want Sterling Ranch, so why the fuck are they buying neighboring land unless they want a fuckin’ war?
"What's in Arizona that your boss wants? Because I’m sure as shit they don’t want to come after us again."
He shakes his head. "I don't know. I swear. I am not told the plan. I am told to watch. To shoot. That is all."
