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Numb with shock, Brock ended the call. Ketamine was the drug used in tranquilizer guns to bring down an animal by inducing temporary nerve paralysis. Pentobarbital was the euthanasia drug that shut down the heart and brain. It was easy enough to picture what had happened, harder to block the awful image.
Lethal injection.
Some bastard had murdered his bull.
CHAPTER SIX
Four days later
ASTESS WATCHEDBROCK’S RIG ROUND EACH SWITCHBACK ON THEdownward road, she felt as excited as a child at Christmastime. Quicksand was coming home at last. In the days ahead she would discover whether her choice of this bull had been a stroke of intuitive genius or a complete disaster.
The ranch family had gathered to see the arrival. Lexie and Maria watched with the dog from the porch. Shane had moved his wheelchair to be near the gate when Quicksand was released into the pen that had been set up. Behind him, Val and Casey stood side by side, Casey leaning on his crutch. Ruben and Pedro looked on from the opposite side of the gate.
All of them had placed their trust in Tess to choose the new bull. Had she let them down? She was about to find out.
Brock had phoned her two days ago with the chilling news about the vet’s discovery. That someone would kill a fine animal so coldly and needlessly had left her shaken. But she’d been unable to offer anything more than sympathy. How the killer could get to the bull and do the job without being seen was still a mystery.
“You should call the police,” she’d urged him. But he’d turned down her suggestion.
“The police won’t care about a dead bull. And nothing they do will get Cannonball back. I can try to figure out who hated me enough to do such a thing, or I can forget it and move on. My choice.”
He’d sounded calm and resigned. But knowing Brock as she did, Tess knew that he wouldn’t rest until he’d caught the killer and found a way to make him pay. Involving the law would only create an impediment.
She hadn’t forgotten about his proposal to add the hayfields to the ranch. She’d discussed it with her family. They were open to the idea but had issues and questions. “No promises,” she told him. “But bring the paperwork, and we’ll talk.”
Now Brock was here, pulling into the yard with the trailer holding Quicksand behind him. She’d been so impressed with the black bull when she’d seen him at the Tolman Ranch. What if she saw him again and realized she’d made a mistake?
Stepping out into the yard, she raised her arms and began directing Brock to back the trailer up to the open gate of the pen. Anyone accustomed to hauling bulls could park a trailer on a dime, and Brock was no exception. He stopped with the back door of the trailer perfectly aligned with the gate.
After setting the brake, he climbed out of the truck. He was dressed in work clothes—a faded flannel shirt, well-worn jeans, dusty boots, and a Stetson molded to his head by rain and sun. Tess liked the look better than the dress-to-impress clothes he usually wore to bull riding events. Not that it mattered.
Today his usual cocksure attitude was missing. He looked gaunt and weary, as if he hadn’t slept well or eaten sensibly in the past few days. But he managed a smile as he walked around to the trailer door.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he said. “Once this black bastard’s in the pen, he’s all yours.”
From the inside of the trailer came the sound of thumping and banging. Brock unlatched the overhead door at the base and raised it upward. Then, stepping back to safety, he used a rope to pull open the gate inside.
For the space of a breath there was dead silence. Then, snorting like a steam locomotive, Quicksand barreled out into the fenced enclosure.
The pen, its walls six feet high and fashioned of steel rails, was not much bigger than an average-size bedroom. Quicksand galloped into it, then wheeled to face his captors, his dark eyes fiery with defiance.
Shane was first to speak. “Ugly big bugger, isn’t he?” he drawled.
“He’s no beauty.” Tess sprang to the defense of her bull. “But just wait till you see him buck.”
“That’s assuming we can get him into the bucking chute and get the dummy on him,” Casey said.
Ruben had studied the bull in silence. “Let’s leave him alone for now,” he said. “He’s got food and water. He just needs time to settle down.”
Brock pulled the trailer away while Pedro closed the gate and latched it securely. Quicksand eyed the strangers, snorting and raking the grass with his single horn.
“Go on inside,” Ruben said. “I’ll watch him and make sure he’s all right.”
“Come on,” Tess said. “Maria’s made us some tamales for lunch. The table’s all set. After we eat, we can talk about that proposal for the hayfields.”
They trooped up to the porch, leaving Ruben to watch the bull.
They were about to go into the house, with Shane maneuvering his chair up the ramp, when the dog left the porch and trotted out for a closer look at the new bull. The young shepherd mix was an easygoing dog, accustomed to cattle. There was nothing menacing in his approach. But at the sight—or scent—of him, Quicksand flew into a bucking, snorting, kicking frenzy, slamming against the steel rails in what appeared to be blind rage.
