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Straightening, he turned away from the graves. From the hilltop, he could look out over the heart of the ranch—the house, which he’d finished in grand style for Susan, the barns and sheds, the bunkhouse for the hands, the hayfields and pastures, and the teeming paddocks where pregnant cows and heifers had been brought down for calving.

  In the thirteen years since he’d left the rodeo and come home to a run-down ranch, he’d nearly doubled the original acreage, adding enough land to run 4,000 head of cattle. He’d built a small duplex behind the house, half for Jasper Platt, the mentor and friend who was now his foreman, and the other half for guests.

  After Susan’s death, Jasper’s widowed sister, a plump, cheerful woman named Bernice, had come to keep house and look after the boys. She’d moved into Jasper’s old apartment in the rear of the house and had proven herself to be a treasure.

  Bull closed the gate on the sad little graveyard and moved down the hill. By now, Bernice would have fed the boys their supper and sent them off to do their homework. Bull’s own supper would be warming in the oven. He would eat it alone, or maybe with Jasper if they needed to talk. He didn’t see much of his sons; but then, he’d never had much use for children. When they were older, he would teach them to be men and to run the ranch. Right now the most vital thing he could do for them was to build and preserve their legacy.

  Family and land. In the end, nothing else counted.

  Jasper was waiting at the bottom of the hill, a lanky, scarecrow figure against the fading sky. Knowing that Bull liked to be alone here, he wouldn’t ordinarily have come this far. Not unless there was trouble.

  “What is it?” Bull sensed that the news wouldn’t be good.

  Jasper scuffed out the cigarette he’d been smoking. “Just got word from the boys coming in off the range. We’re short six head since last month. No sign of carcasses anywhere, not even bones.”

  Bull mouthed a curse. “Rustlers. Got to be.”

  “Rustlers—or maybe the Prescotts.” Jasper hated their powerful neighbors as much as Bull did.

  “It doesn’t make sense for the Prescotts to be stealing our cattle when they’ve got so damned many of their own,” Bull said.

  “That doesn’t mean Ferg wouldn’t do it just to rile you,” Jasper said. “He’s hated your guts ever since you stole his girl and married her.”

  “I’m aware of that. But rustling’s a serious crime. I can’t imagine Ferg would risk going to jail for a few cows.” Bull began walking back toward the house. “First thing in the morning, I’ll call the Special Rangers and have them get somebody out here pronto.”

  In his younger days, Bull might have enjoyed tracking down the rustlers himself. But the Special Rangers who worked for the Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association were hired to combat rustling and related crimes. They were sharp, tough professionals who knew how to handle dangerous thieves and deadly situations. This was their job, not his.

  Jasper nodded. “Good idea. I’ll go on ahead tomorrow and get the boys started on the branding and marking.” Jasper seemed about to say more, but he broke off suddenly, staring toward the headlights that were coming up the long, gravel drive from the main road. “Now who the devil could that be? You weren’t expectin’ a visit, were you?”

  “Not tonight.” Bull lengthened his stride, ignoring the twinge in his hip. Unexpected company tended to mean problems, unless maybe some lost traveler had taken a wrong turn.

  They reached the house as the vehicle was pulling into the yard. At the sight of it, Bull’s gut clenched. He knew that old Buick. He knew its history, and he knew who must be driving it. He swore under his breath. As if he didn’t have enough trouble on his hands.

  Lord help him.

  Rose was back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BULL GLANCED AT JASPER AS THE OLD BUICK PULLED INTO THE yard. Jasper was grinning, making no effort to hide his pleasure. “I’ll be damned!” he muttered. “Never thought I’d see the day!” He started forward, then checked himself, as if waiting to see what Bull would do.

  Bull wasn’t surprised that his foreman was happy. When Rose was here as a girl, Jasper had taken her under his wing. The two of them had been as thick as thieves. Jasper had even argued for her rights when Bull had altered the deed to her grandfather’s property and registered the thirty-acre parcel as Rimrock land.

  Rose would be wanting that land back—otherwise she wouldn’t have come here. And she’d be madder than a wet wildcat when she discovered what he’d done.

  The driver’s door opened on the far side of the car. Catching the remembered scent, the two dogs bounded toward her. Rose paused long enough to scratch their shaggy ears and send them off. Then she walked around the car, into full sight.

  In his thoughts, Bull had always pictured her as the scrappy runt of a girl he’d driven to Mexico twelve years ago.

  The girl who’d been tough enough to blast the life out of Hamilton Prescott with a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun.the same dis-She turned to face him from a distance—about the same distance as she’d been from Ham when she shot him. The toughness was still there. But this Rose wasn’t a girl anymore. She was a woman in her midtwenties.

  Even grown to womanhood, she couldn’t have stood much over five-foot two. Dressed in ragged jeans, a Mexican serape, and cowboy boots that had long since molded to her feet, she had the look of someone from another time and place—or maybe a character from an old Sergio Leone western.

  A mane of sun-streaked, tawny brown hair framed chiseled features etched with shadows of grief and hardship. The port-wine birthmark Bull remembered blazed like a banner of defiance down the left border of her face. A more typical woman might have arranged her hair to cover such a blemish. But Rose wore hers like war paint.

  She was formidable.

  “Rose.” Jasper spoke her name. She turned and saw him. He opened his arms. “Damn it, girl, come here.”

  She hesitated, but only for an instant, before she ran to him. He hugged her close. “Welcome home, darlin’,” he said.

  Bull caught the glint of a tear on Jasper’s cheek. Rose had been like a daughter to him—or maybe a kid sister, given their age difference. In the conflict over the land that was bound to come, Bull knew he could expect no help from his oldest friend.

  After a moment, Rose broke away from Jasper and turned toward Bull. In the security light that flooded the yard, the striking eyes she fixed on him were the color of strong, dark coffee, framed by indecently long lashes and crowned by thick, dark brows. “Hello, Bull,” she said.

  “Hello, Rose.” There were no embraces. He wasn’t glad to see her, and she couldn’t help but know it. After all this time, he’d hoped that maybe she’d found a man and settled down somewhere. But he should’ve known better.

  “You must be hungry and tired,” he said. “Come on in. I’ll have Bernice rustle you up some supper.”

  “Bernice?” She looked crestfallen. “I was hoping you’d married Susan. I was looking forward to seeing her again.”

  Bull’s throat tightened. He glanced at Jasper for help.

  “Susan passed away six years ago, Rose,” Jasper said. “Bernice is my sister. She came to take care of their two boys.”

  “Oh—oh no, I’m so sorry.” Caught off guard, Rose showed a flash of vulnerability. She’d known Susan for only a short time, but Bull recalled that there’d been an instant connection between them.

  “Those two boys would make any man proud,” Jasper put in, breaking the awkward silence. “Are your bags in the trunk, Rose? I’ll carry them inside for you.”

  “The key’s still in the car,” Rose said. “Just bring the duffel, thanks. Everything else can stay.”

  “Take her bag to the duplex. That’ll give her some peace and quiet,” Bull said, thinking it would also give him some peace and quiet. He needed time to come up with a plan to keep that thirty-acre parcel of land with its vital access to water.

  Bull saw Rose hesitate, as if uncertain whether to fo
llow Jasper or stay. He jerked his head toward the house.

  “Come on in and eat before you turn in, Rose. Jasper, you come, too. We’ve all got some catching up to do.”

  * * *

  Rose sat at the long table, thinking how much grander the place was than when she’d stayed here twelve years ago, cooking and helping with chores to earn her keep. There was matching china on the table and leather furniture in the parlor. A beautiful portrait of Susan in a blue dress and pearls hung on one wall.

  By now, Rose had met Bernice, a chatty woman who already seemed to know a great deal about her. And Bull’s sons had come out of their room long enough to say hello. The two were as different as brothers could be. Nine-year-old Will was cast in the image of his father—dark hair, a sturdy frame, and a resolute look about him. Seven-year-old Beau was his mother’s child—fair and slender, a natural charmer with an easy smile.

  Rose felt herself drawn to the motherless boys. But caution warned her back. A lot of things had changed in her absence, and there was no way of knowing whether the stern man who faced her across the table would turn out to be her friend or her enemy.

  “How are things in Río Seco, Rose?” Bull buttered a slice of crusty sourdough bread. His tone was casual enough, but Rose could sense that she was being grilled.

  “Things are bad,” Rose said. “A drug cartel’s taken over the town. Ramón and María are dead. Shot.”

  A shadow seemed to pass across Bull’s rugged face. Ramón had always spoken well of him, as if they were friends. “And the boys, Raul and Joaquin?” he asked.

  “No word from them in months, not since the last time they went off to work on that sheep ranch. I don’t know if they’re dead, too, or if they’ve gone over to the cartel.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bull said. “I remember them well. They were good boys.”

  “Yes, they were.” Ramón’s two nephews had been like older brothers to Rose, laughing and teasing, teaching her to ride, throw a rope, and herd sheep. But they were no longer boys and had gone their own way. She tried not to wonder what had become of them.

  “So you can understand why I had to leave,” she said, knowing better than to mention what had happened last night in Río Seco.

  “Sounds like you’ve been through a hell of a time, girl,” Jasper said. “But don’t worry. You’ve always got a home here, with us.”

  Dear Jasper. Kind and loyal to the bone. He never changed. But Rose didn’t want to make a home on the Rimrock. She wanted to build a cabin on her own land and run some stock, or find some other way to support herself. Tonight, however, was no time to bring that up.

  Instead she helped herself to another slice of pot roast, added a squirt of mustard, and folded it into a slice of bread to make a sandwich. “I can barely remember the last time I had beef,” she said. “Most of the time, if we had meat in Río Seco, it was mutton, or pork when we could afford it. Compared to beans and tortillas, this is a meal fit for royalty. And this house is a palace. It appears you’ve done well here, Bull.”

  “We’ve managed, with a lot of work.” Bull fell silent. Rose sensed that he was waiting for her to bring up the secret that hung between them—the secret that must come to light if she was to stay.

  Telling herself it was time, she asked the question that had gnawed at her all the way from Río Seco. “What happened here after you took me to Mexico, Bull? Can I still be arrested for shooting Ham Prescott?”

  Bull exchanged glances with Jasper. “What happened is a story for another time,” he said. “But no, you’re not likely to be arrested. The shooting was ruled self-defense.”

  “Which is exactly what it was,” Jasper added.

  “And Ferg Prescott? When he learns I’m back, will he come after me?”

  Again, Bull glanced at Jasper, then shook his head. “You did Ferg a favor. He hated his old man and wanted him out of the way. If he was set on revenge, he’d have taken it long before now. The story’s old news, Rose. As long as you keep your head down and don’t make a fuss about it, you should be fine.”

  “I understand,” Rose said. But in truth, she didn’t understand at all. Large pieces were missing from the picture, and Bull didn’t seem inclined to fill them in. Maybe later, when she got the chance to talk with Jasper alone, she could ask him for the full story.

  For now, the evening’s conversation seemed to be over. Bull rose from his place at the table and massaged the invisible kinks in his lower back. “Roundup time in the morning,” he said. “Unless you’re up before first light, you won’t see us for breakfast, Rose. But Bernice will be here in case you need anything.”

  “Didn’t you say you were going to call the Rangers?” Jasper reminded him.

  “Oh—that’s right. You’ll have to get the men started without me. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve talked to them.”

  “No problem,” Jasper said. “Coming, Rose? I’ll show you to your side of the duplex.”

  “Thanks,” Rose said. “Just leave it open. I’ll be along after I’ve cleaned up here.”

  After the men had gone, Rose put the leftover food in the fridge, rinsed the dishes, and loaded them in the dishwasher. She could hear the muffled sound of the TV from Bernice’s apartment off the kitchen. She hoped Bernice would appreciate not having to clean up after the late supper. The woman had been friendly to her. Rose would do her best to keep things that way.

  She left by the kitchen door, stepping out into the cool spring night. A stone’s toss from the back steps was the chicken coop she and Jasper had built together, its wire mesh sides anchored securely in the ground to keep out marauding coyotes, snakes, and weasels. The chickens had gone to their nest boxes. From the deep shadows, Rose could hear their soft clucking, like the muted conversation of old women at a quilting bee. The comforting sound gave her a sense of home. Were these chickens descendants of the ones she’d rescued from her grandpa’s place and left behind when Bull had rushed her off to Mexico? Maybe Jasper would know.

  At the far edge of the backyard, she could see the blocky outline of the duplex. A glowing red dot and the faint aroma of burning tobacco told her Jasper was waiting for her on the porch.

  She could see him now, leaning back in the old cane rocker she remembered from the past, with his boots on the porch rail and the dogs sprawled nearby. He put his feet down and gave her a grin as she mounted the steps.

  “It’s early yet. I know you’re tuckered out from driving, but I was hoping you might want to sit and visit a spell.” He nodded toward the empty chair beside him.

  “Thanks. I’d like that.” Rose came up onto the porch and sank onto the chair.

  “Can I offer you a cold beer, now that you’re legal to drink it?” He held out a bottle of Dos Equis, streaming with condensation. Rose took it from him and popped the cap. The first sip was icy on her tongue—a delicious shock.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Nothing ever got this cold in Río Seco.”

  He let her drink in silence for a few moments. Clouds drifted across the sky. An owl called in the darkness.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  There was a world of concern in Jasper’s question, but Rose wasn’t ready to tell anyone about what had finally driven her out of Mexico. “I’m as well as could be expected,” she said. “But the whole time I listened to Bull tonight, I was trying to fill in what he wasn’t telling me.”

  Jasper tossed the butt of his hand-rolled cigarette over the rail into the dirt below. “I take it you’re asking me for the whole story.”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind. To start with, what happened after Bull took me away? All I remember is that Ham was lying there, bleeding on the ground. Then Ferg showed up and hauled him to his truck, and Bull was yelling at me to get my things.”

  Jasper took his time, as if piecing the story together. “When Bull took you away from here, he was acting in your best interest. In fact, he may have saved your life.”

  “I understand,” Rose said. “That�
��s what I’ve always believed.”

  “Ham was hurt beyond savin’, but as you know, he didn’t die right away. He was still conscious and talking when Ferg drove off with him.”

  “So he could’ve told Ferg that I shot him.”

  “Maybe, but only one person knows for sure what Ham said, and that’s Ferg.”

  “So then what?”

  “When Bull got back from Mexico a couple days later, Ferg was waitin’ for him with the sheriff to arrest Bull for Ham’s murder. Ferg claimed that Ham had named Bull as his killer.”

  Rose stifled a gasp. “But why would Ham lie about that, especially when he was dying?”

  Jasper shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t lie. Or maybe he never said a damned thing. But as long as nobody knew for sure, Ferg could pin Bull to the wall, like he’s always wanted to do.”

  “But why wouldn’t Bull just tell the truth? I was out of the country, where the law couldn’t reach me.”

  Jasper rolled another cigarette from the makings in his shirt pocket. “This is where it gets complicated. Bull lucked onto a sharp lawyer, an old geezer named Ned Purvis. Ned advised Bull to take the blame and plead self-defense.”

  “But why? Bull didn’t shoot Ham Prescott. I did.”

  “I know. But by Purvis’s reckoning, no jury would’ve believed that a fourteen-year-old girl, who was gone without a trace, had pulled the trigger. And he was right. It took some doin’ to prove that Ham had drawn his gun, but when the pistol finally turned up at the scene, Bull was acquitted. Self-defense. Pure and simple. And you’re in the clear.”

  “So it’s over.”

  “Dead and buried, just like old Ham.”

  “How many people know the truth?”

  “Ned Purvis passed away five years ago. Susan would’ve known, but she’s gone, too. That leaves just you, me, and Bull.”

  “What about Ferg?”

  Jasper lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “Let’s say, just to speculate, that Ham told him the truth. For Ferg to accuse you now would be to admit he lied eleven years ago. Besides, Ferg’s hands weren’t exactly clean that night. We know enough to smear his reputation, even if it’s too late to send him to jail.”