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Before breakfast, with the help of Ruben and Pedro, Tess bucked Quicksand with the new dummy. The bull did well enough that she decided to try him this coming weekend at a town rodeo in nearby Gila Bend. The arena was outdoors, and the crowd would be small. Hopefully the situation would be less fearful for Quicksand than the big indoor arena where he’d frozen in the chute.
The Alamo Canyon Ranch would be bringing four bulls to the event. Quicksand seemed to get along with other bulls, but Brock had warned her about loading him in the trailer. Ruben and Pedro would work on that problem between now and the weekend.
Meanwhile, Tess had other concerns. The fire had left a mess. Brock had promised a crew to clean up the remains of the house, but ashes and debris were scattered over the pastures and ranch yard. The trash would need to be picked up and the ash hosed into the ground before it could harm grazing cattle. The Kubota was torched, so they would have to use the older pickup and throw trash into the back. The dirty job would start after breakfast.
Casey’s truck was gone, Tess noticed. She could only hope that Val had left with him. But no—almost as if the thought had summoned her, Val ambled onto the porch sipping coffee. She looked frayed. Something must’ve happened between her and Casey. But never mind, it would take all able hands to clean up the mess. Val would be helping. Only Shane, Lexie, and Maria would be excused.
There was silence around the breakfast table. Val gazed morosely into her coffee cup. Shane and Lexie kept glancing at each other as if they were keeping a secret—a secret that was as plain as if they’d written it on matching T-shirts.
They’d decided to throw in their lot with Brock.
Tess couldn’t blame them. Why be poor when you could be rich? Why worry about your family’s future when they could be heirs to a ranch worth millions?
They had made the only sensible choice. Now it was just a question of timing.
Tess lowered her gaze and focused on finishing her eggs and beans. A day of grubby, backbreaking work lay ahead. For now, she would concentrate on cleaning up the fire mess and getting her new bull ready for competition. And she would try to forget that her family was breaking up, and that the person responsible was the man she had kissed.
CHAPTER NINE
BROCK HAD ARRIVED HOME WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT. TIRED AS HEwas, he’d taken time to check the mail that Cyrus had left on his desk. There was nothing from the mystery sender—just some junk, a ranching magazine, and a couple of bills. He didn’t know whether to be frustrated or relieved. Maybe there wouldn’t be another clipping or mailed message. Maybe one had been enough.
The next morning, he was up early, determined to get to the bottom of what was happening. In addition to Cyrus, there were five cowhands and a cook on his payroll. They lived in a modern bunkhouse on the far side of the stable. All of them, except young Jim, who’d signed on nine months ago, were longtime employees. Each of them had earned his trust—or so Brock told himself. He couldn’t imagine any of them would have the knowledge, the skill, or the resources to find and send the clipping or kill the bull. But he had to start somewhere. Maybe one of them had seen something out of place at the ranch.
Without revealing his real concerns, he planned to make up an excuse to question each one. He would start with Mack, the cook, who’d be alone in the bunkhouse making breakfast at this hour.
Mack, short and burly with a dark beard, had been a cook in the army. He’d mastered the art of making cost- and time-efficient meals to satisfy hungry men. When he wasn’t cooking, he did a good job of keeping the bunkhouse presentable. Brock found him in the kitchen, frying bacon in a big, cast-iron skillet. “Hungry for some real food, Boss?” He grinned as he turned over the sizzling slabs of meat.
“Another time,” Brock said. “I’m just putting folks on alert. When I was in Cave Creek, I heard rumors of some wingnut protestors vandalizing ranches that raise rodeo stock. They may have even killed that good bull we lost. I don’t suppose you’ve seen any sign of them around here, have you? Like maybe tracks you don’t recognize or supplies missing, or somebody sneaking around at night?”
“Can’t say as I have. But I’ll keep my eyes open and make sure the alarms are set at night.”
Brock thanked him and moved on. The next three cowhands, Williams, Curtis, and Morton, gave similar answers. They hadn’t noticed anything unusual, but they’d stay alert.
Brock was most interested in talking with Jim and Rusty because they’d been with him at Cave Creek when Cannonball had died. They’d also been the ones who’d found the live rattlesnake in the trailer.
Jim Carson was barely twenty, a young man who’d shown up wanting to work hard and learn to cowboy. Brock had taken him in partly because he remembered another youngster who’d grown into manhood on the ranch—Shane Tully. Jim was milder in his manner, without Shane’s drive. But he’d proven responsible, quick to learn, and cheerfully did whatever he was asked.
“I got up and checked on your bulls twice that night,” he said. “I never saw a thing until I came out in the morning and found Cannonball dead. I’m sorry. If I’d seen anybody sneaking around, I’d have raised a ruckus.”
“How about the snake in the trailer. Do you know anybody on the ranch who might’ve done it? Somebody with an ax to grind or just wanting to make a little mischief?”
Jim shook his head.
“No talk around the table? No complaints or bragging?”
“No, sir. Only thing I can figure is the snake was hiding in the straw and got forked in, or he crawled into that trailer by himself. But if you think there might be trouble afoot, sir, believe me, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”
Silver-haired Rusty McGill, Brock’s senior cowhand, gave much the same answer. “I can vouch for the men,” he said. “If any one of them was up to deviltry, I’d know it. But yes, I’ll keep an eye out all the same.”
“So did you see any sign of trouble the night Cannonball was killed?”
Rusty shook his head. “You know me, Boss. I sleep like a log and snore fit to wake the dead. I gave Jim the job of checking on the bulls. If he says he did, you can believe him. He’s a good kid. I’ve never known him to lie.”
Brock walked back to the house and sat down to coffee at the kitchen table. At least he’d gone through the motions of talking to the men. If he’d been hoping for a clue, he hadn’t found it. But then, he hadn’t expected to. He was just covering his bases.
“I don’t suppose you’ve noticed anything suspicious around here, have you?” he asked as Cyrus set a plate of bacon, sausage, and fluffy scrambled eggs in front of him.
