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“Holy shit!” Shane whooped. “I know what that is! Brock just brought you a state-of-the-art bucking dummy. It’s a Sticky Ricky!”
Tess’s hand worked down through the packing material. She pulled out two long, curved pieces that appeared to serve as legs, along with some assorted hardware, an instruction manual, and a remote control wrapped in plastic. In the bottom was the strap and the weighted box that made the dummy work.
“Wow.” Stunned, she found her voice. “This will come in handy for training, especially with Quicksand. Thank you, Brock. I’m over whelmed.”
And she was—that he would remember a passing remark of hers and get her this lavish but useful gift had her head spinning—until she remembered that Brock never did anything without a purpose. He was a master of manipulation. What was he going to ask for next?
“So you like it, do you?” he asked.
“I think everyone here will like it.” One thing was certain. Any notion of rejecting his gift was out the window. Her family would never allow it.
“You must stay for supper, Brock.” Val gave him a dazzling, cinematic smile. “It won’t be anything fancy, just soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. But afterward, when it gets dark, we’re going to have that house-burning party we talked about. If you want a hot time, stick around, mister.” She spoke the last words in the voice of an old west saloon girl she’d played in a single TV series episode.
Brock chuckled. “With an invitation like that, how could I say no?”
“I know that Tess would love to keep you around.” Val was having fun now, stirring up a bit of mischief. “Wouldn’t you, Tess?”
Tess battled the urge to throttle her sister. “You know what?” she said. “While we’ve got some daylight left, I’d like to put that dummy together and try it out on a bull—one that hasn’t been bucked in a few days, maybe Rocket Man. What do you say?”
“Great idea!” Shane was already skimming through the instructions. “Come on, Brock. Give us a hand!”
* * *
The first tryout of the bucking dummy was a rousing success. Brock watched with the Alamo Canyon family as Rocket Man, a husky, tan bull, bucked and kicked his way across the pen with the dummy, dressed in old clothes, flopping back and forth like a real rider.
When Tess pressed the remote and the whole device flew into the air, everybody cheered. Brock was pleased that his gift had been so well received. But building good will with the Champions was secondary to his real purpose.
The whole time while the dummy was being assembled, the bull prepped and bucked, Brock’s eyes had remained on Tess, watching for any sign of guilt or evasion, any suspicious looks. But he’d noticed nothing except the way her cheek dimpled when she smiled and her habit of brushing her hair back from her face. All he had noticed was how beautiful she was, even in her mud-stained clothes, with her face bare of makeup. He’d even entertained a moment of fantasy—Tess in a clinging black silk nightgown, the dark cloud of her hair spilling over his pillow, her stormy eyes gazing up at him . . .
But damn it, how could she not be the one who was tormenting him? Everything fit, even the Tucson postmark on the envelope that had held the clipping. Only one piece didn’t fit the puzzle—the clipping itself. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t killed his bull. That clipping could’ve been sent by someone else who wanted to ruin him.
The journey from lot boy at a Missouri car dealership to one of the most powerful ranchers in Arizona hadn’t been easy. He’d made his share of enemies along the way. Tess was one of them. But was she out to get him? Was she working with a partner, or was she entirely innocent? He was still searching for answers.
* * *
By the time the bucking demonstration was over and the gear put away, the light was fading fast. The sun hung blood red above the horizon, silhouetting the giant saguaros that rose like sentinels along the ridgelines. Birds and animals, in hiding through the day, awakened to hunt and forage.
Supper was eaten hastily, with everyone eager to get to the business of burning the hated house—not everyone for the same reason. Lexie had nearly died in that house when Aaron Frye had caught her searching for evidence. Val looked on the burning as an excuse to have a good time. For Tess, the house was the last remaining vestige of the man who’d tried to destroy her family. She wanted it gone. But she was also aware that the fire could be dangerous. For that reason, she’d volunteered to stay on the far side of the house, away from the celebration, to make sure the fire didn’t spread in that direction. Brock had offered to go with her, but she’d turned him down, perhaps not trusting her own vulnerability. “You won’t want to miss the fun,” she’d told him. “Stay with the others.”
Earlier, Pedro had splashed an outside wall of the house with gasoline so the fire could be started from a distance by lighting a trail of oil-soaked straw litter. Lexie, who had the worst memories of the place, had been given the honor of lighting the straw.
How like excited teenagers they seemed, Tess mused as she took the Kubota four-wheeler up the road that joined the two properties, circled behind the house, and left the vehicle at a safe distance. The hose lay where she’d last left it, hooked up to the sprinkling system that watered the growing hay.
She could feel a light breeze on her face, blowing from the southwest, away from the ranch. So far, so good, as long as it didn’t change.
Taking a safe vantage point, she waited. From where she stood, she could hear the group counting down. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
CHAPTER EIGHT
BROCK COULD IMAGINE WHAT THE BURNING OF THE HOUSE MEANTto the people of the Alamo Canyon Ranch. The building was a worthless eyesore, to be sure. But it was also a constant reminder of the betrayal and murder that had violated their trust. If they needed a celebration to purge it from their lives, so be it.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried.
The moon had come up, flooding the landscape with light. Standing where the dirt road began, he measured the line of straw with his eyes. He estimated the distance to the house to be about thirty yards. Setting fire to the place should be safe enough if everybody stayed back, and if the house held no surprises.
But something could still go wrong.
The people around him were in a festive mood, drinking cider and feasting on glazed donuts carried from a table set up in the yard. No one was drinking alcohol, out of consideration for Val. But they could still miscalculate the danger—and two of the men, Casey and Shane, were in no condition to fight a spreading fire.
