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A sinister buzzing sound from the high grass chilled her blood. Her pulse lurched; but before she could act, the horse leaped straight up and twisted to one side, flinging her out of the saddle like a marble from a slingshot.
Tess hit the ground so hard that the wind whooshed out of her lungs. As she gasped for breath, struggling onto her side, she came almost eye to eye with the snake. The six-foot diamondback, its thick body coiling to strike, was only a few steps from her face. She could see its delicate forked tongue, testing the air. Testing her.
Terror fueled her reflexes. With no time to scramble to her feet or even get her breath, she tumbled backward and rolled like a log, letting her momentum carry her partway down the rough slope. Her back crushed something sharp. Pain shot through her ribs, but she didn’t stop until she was out of striking distance.
Shaken, scratched, and sore, she forced herself to sit up. Glancing back, she could see no sign of the rattler. As she hugged her knees and took deep, gasping breaths, she recalled the words of Ruben Diego, an elder of the Tohono O’odham tribe and the longtime foreman of the Alamo Canyon Ranch.
“The rattlesnake doesn’t want to kill you. He only wants to live. That is why he gives a warning. Let him go in peace.”
After testing her limbs, Tess pushed to her feet. The horse had bolted and was gone. She was feeling some pain, but as long as her legs worked, she should be able to walk back to the gate, where she’d told Brock to wait for her.
Her hat lay nearby. She picked it up and jammed it onto her head. Only then, as she looked around, did she realize that she had another problem.
The bulls had moved in closer. They were staring in her direction, snorting, lowing, and tossing their horns. The black brute, standing in front like the lead tough in a street gang, scraped the ground with his horn, tossing up clumps of dirt and grass. If the bulls were to charge, she wouldn’t have a chance.
Scarcely daring to breathe, Tess backed away a few steps. If she could duck out of sight behind a nearby sagebrush clump, the bulls might calm down—but the snake could be there, and there was nothing else close enough to serve as a hiding place.
“It’s all right, boys. I’m not here to make trouble.” As she inched backward, she spoke in a low tone—not so much to calm the bulls as to soothe her own nerves. Her heart was pounding. Bulls weren’t stupid animals. They could sense fear.
The black bull bellowed and lunged, then stopped—another threat, nothing more. But there was no way she could outrun a real charge. For now, all she could do was retreat, step by step, making no sudden moves.
A memory flickered in her mind—tales of the old-time cattle drives and the cowboy songs that would calm the herd when it was time for them to bed down. Driven by desperation, she began to sing.
“‘Down in the valley . . . the valley so low . . . Hang your head over . . . hear the wind blow . . .’”
Tess had never been a singer. Her untrained alto was off-key, her voice unsteady. The bulls didn’t seem to like her song. They continued to snort, blow, and follow her as she tried to widen the distance between them. She wasn’t making much progress. The pasture gate was still a long way off.
Coming out here alone had been a bad decision, made in a moment of pride—as if to show Brock she could manage without him. He’d probably been amused. He was probably laughing behind her back.
With her gaze fixed on the bulls, she started another stanza of the old song.
“‘If you don’t love me . . . love whom you please . . .’”
Step by step, her feet carried her backward over the uneven ground. A raven flapped out of the sky and perched on a stump, watching her with curious eyes. Even to the bird, she probably looked like a fool.
One more step, then another. Suddenly her boot heel caught in a tangled root. Stumbling backward, she lost her balance and went down hard on her rump.
That was when she heard a voice behind her—a deep voice, edged with amusement. Brock, on his big red horse, was perhaps a dozen yards behind her. “Don’t stop,” he said. “I was enjoying the entertainment.”
Blazing with humiliation, she scrambled to her feet. “How long have you been there?”
“Not that long. When your horse came back, I figured you might need some help. I was riding to your rescue, but when I saw the show you were putting on, I couldn’t resist watching. I should’ve known you could take care of yourself.”
The man was gloating. He didn’t care that she could’ve been snake-bitten or trampled. If he’d been within reach, Tess would’ve punched him.
As he looked her up and down, taking in her scratched, dirt-smeared face and hands, his sardonic smile faded. “Are you all right, Tess?”
“I’m fine. How’s the horse?”
“Just spooked. We need to put some salve on those scratches. Come on, I’ll take you back to the house. You can tell me what happened on the way.”
He leaned down from the saddle and offered a hand. Tess took it and let him swing her up behind the saddle. The bulls watched but made no more aggressive moves as Brock turned the big sorrel back toward the gate.
To keep from sliding off, Tess had to grip Brock’s waist. He was rock solid beneath the denim shirt he wore. The aromas of man sweat and sagebrush teased her senses, stirring tugs and tingles in forbidden places. Not good. She cleared her throat.
“You wanted me to tell you what happened. The horse spooked at a rattler. By the time I came to my senses, the snake was gone and so was the horse. The bulls kept moving toward me—maybe just curious, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“So you decided to serenade them. Good thinking.” He chuckled. Tess could feel the vibrations through her fingertips.
