CHAPTER 11

That night was one of those rare evenings when everything seemed right with the world. The setting sun had streaked the clouds with crimson and gold, casting a glow that deepened to violet and indigo as dusk crept across Rimrock land. Swallows darted through the twilight. The blooming honeysuckle that framed the porch steps perfumed every breath of air.

Sitting on the porch with Will, Jasper, and the dog, Beau experienced a rare sense of satisfaction. The swelling was down in Will’s leg, and despite some lingering pain, he was chafing to be back in the saddle. His recovery, along with Sky’s return, would leave Beau with more time to concentrate on the business and record-keeping facets of the ranch. He couldn’t claim to enjoy the job. But in the years since Bull’s injury, everything from ledgers to tax records to studbooks had deteriorated. As the only person on the ranch who’d ever held an actual desk job, the task of straightening out the mess had fallen to him. Knowing that the ranch’s long-term survival depended on good management, Beau had resolved to grin and forge ahead, maybe even call Lauren Prescott over to help.

Everyone seemed in a celebratory mood tonight. Maybe that was because Erin had arrived to spend the summer on the ranch. Today the whole ranch family had joined in the welcome. Bernice had made Erin’s favorite chocolate cake. Sky had supervised an hour of training with her foal, and Will had challenged her to a round of chess—a game she’d last played with her grandfather.

After lunch, Beau and Jasper had driven her out on the range to take turns plinking at tin cans with Bull’s boyhood .22. The pop of gunfire still awakened memories of Iraq, but Beau had entered into the fun, laughing when Erin teased him for missing a target.

Jasper had reached under the seat of his ATV, meaning to show her the 30.30 that Bull had given him years ago. To the old man’s distress, the rifle was missing. “It was there last week, and I haven’t touched it,” he said. “That gun means a lot to me. Bull even had my name engraved on the stock.”

“I’ll put the word out,” Beau had promised him. “It’s bound to turn up.” Puzzled, he’d written a notice to post in the bunkhouse and passed the message on to Sky. A theft on the ranch was cause for instant dismissal. It was hard to believe any of the hands would steal the old man’s prized rifle, especially a gun that could so easily be traced. It was the one shadow that had darkened an otherwise happy day.

Erin had begged to sleep in the barn with Tesoro, but Will had drawn the line at that. Tonight she was in the house, texting her friends and rearranging her old bedroom.

Beau had never spent much time around children. Struck by how much he’d enjoyed Will’s daughter today, he found himself wondering what it would be like to raise children of his own.

Beau was still lost in thought when Will dropped a bombshell.

“I got a call from Dad’s lawyer in Lubbock. He’ll be coming here tomorrow to read the will.”

“Dad left a will?” The announcement had startled Beau. “How long have you known about this?”

“A while.” Will leaned back in his rocker. “I’d have mentioned it sooner, but I didn’t want to cause a stir till it was time.”

That was like Will, keeping a firm hand on everybody’s strings, Beau thought. “And why some lawyer in Lubbock?” he asked. “Tori’s a lawyer. Why not just use her?”

“Would you hire your son’s ex-wife to make out your will? Dad liked to keep things private, even from me. Evidently the lawyer’s an old school friend. Dad called him and asked him out to the ranch a couple of weeks before he died. He must’ve sensed what was coming.”

“So you haven’t seen the will yourself?”

“Not a word of it.”

Beau scowled into the twilight. He’d never been fond of surprises, and he sensed there might be a few in store. “One more question. Why now? Why not sooner?”

“The lawyer wanted to wait till Sky was back. Evidently he’s to be included.”

“Interesting.” Beau glanced at Jasper, who hadn’t said a word. The old man knows more than he’s telling, he thought. He might have questioned him, but at that moment Jasper rose to his feet and stretched.

“Well it’s been a long day. Guess I’ll turn in. See you boys in the morning. Maybe that rifle will turn up tomorrow.” With that he hobbled off the porch and headed for his quarters, the Border collie tagging along after him.

Will rose, too. “Maybe I’ll catch the evening news,” he said. “Coming, Beau?”

Seized by a sudden restlessness, Beau shook his head. “Maybe I’ll drive into town.”

“Suit yourself. Just make sure you’re here tomorrow for the lawyer.” Will vanished inside. Beau hadn’t told him about his new relationship with Natalie, but it seemed his brother had figured things out on his own.

Beau found the truck keys and backed the vehicle out of the shed, deciding it wouldn’t hurt to swing by Natalie’s house, just to make sure she was safe. Switching on the radio, he swung the truck around and headed toward the highway.

Behind the wheel of the company flatbed, Slade was sweating bullets. If the cops caught him driving, especially with a loaded gun in the vehicle, he’d be right back in jail. But he couldn’t pass up the chance to meet that bastard Beau Tyler and blow him to kingdom come.

He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t beat Beau in a fistfight. But he could sure as hell get the jump on him with the Smith & Wesson .38 he’d kept stashed in his desk—a gun the police had missed. After the way he’d moved in on Natalie, Beau Tyler didn’t deserve to live.

Slade had grown up in this country, and he knew all the back roads, including the ones on the Tyler place. He hadn’t killed Jess, but when Stella had given him orders to dump her body, he’d known better than to ask questions. The bog had been his choice—a gesture, like leaving a dead cat on the Tylers’ doorstep. It worried him that Beau had guessed what he’d done. Maybe the bastard was just taking stabs in the dark. In any case, unless he’d told others, whatever Beau believed wouldn’t be a problem much longer.

As he swung onto a narrow dirt road, Beau’s note crackled in his shirt pocket. Slade planned to be at the bog well ahead of his enemy. He was a crack shot. If he was already lying in wait when Beau appeared, all he’d have to do was aim and pull the trigger. He’d weighed that plan against the satisfaction of calling Beau out first. But the safer strategy had won out. Beau was a trained combat veteran. If he’d brought a weapon, too, things could go the wrong way.

The heavy pistol on the seat beside him was one he’d bought in Piedras Negras. It was unregistered in the U.S. and couldn’t be traced to him. After the shooting, he’d wipe it clean of prints and toss it in some ditch. No one could connect him to the crime, except maybe that little worm Lute. But Lute hated Beau, too, and even if he had proof, the kid would know enough to keep his mouth shut.

He slowed down as he neared the bog. The swampy area covered more than an acre, but the plan was to meet Beau where he’d dumped Jess’s body.

The moon was full tonight, casting a clear light over the rank cattails. Frogs croaked an eerie chorus in the shallows. Clouds of gnats hovered above the murk. Parking the truck out of sight in the tall mesquite, he picked up the pistol and stepped down from the high cab. Maybe when this was done, he should just take the truck and hightail it to Mexico. Good idea, except that he was going to need cash. If he could get to his secret bank account in Lubbock, maybe he could—

Slade’s last thought ended in blackness as a high-caliber bullet slammed into his skull.

 

It was 9:22 p.m. when Beau pulled up to the Blue Coyote. The parking lot was almost full. The sounds of the NBA basketball game on the big-screen TV blared from the high, open windows. Inside, there was no place to sit. Standing in the doorway, Beau surveyed the crowd. The harried young waitress was rushing between tables, balancing trays of drinks. Stella, looking frazzled, was tending bar. If she noticed Beau, she gave no sign of it. There was no sign of Nigel.

Thinking he might be in the restroom, Beau waited a few minutes. When the man didn’t show, he gave up and left. He would have to snap the photo another time.

His visit to Natalie’s place proved equally fruitless. The only response to the doorbell was the rapid-fire bark of a dog from the back of the clinic. A peek in the garage’s side window revealed that her SUV was gone. She was probably tending to a four-legged patient or spending some needed girl time with Tori.

She’d given him a spare key, but there was no reason to use it tonight. He sent her a brief text saying he’d stopped by the house, then climbed into his truck and headed for home. He’d make it an early night and maybe get some office work done before the lawyer showed up tomorrow. To say the least, the reading of Bull Tyler’s last will and testament should make for an interesting day.

 

On the way to the bog, Lute had pulled off the road, leaned out of his truck, and vomited into the barrow pit. He’d told himself he was strong enough to take a man’s life. But now, as he faced the moment of truth, he was sick with uncertainty. What if he froze and couldn’t pull the trigger? What if he fired and missed? What if Slade got the jump on him first?

Earlier that afternoon, he’d confided his plan to Stella. She’d praised him for his cleverness, but her unspoken message had been clear. If he couldn’t deliver the goods, he was finished. He had to do this.

Ahead, in the moonlight, he could see the dead white cottonwood tree reaching out of the bog, its limbs like skeletal fingers. Time to ditch the truck and go the rest of the way on foot. The luminous hands on his cheap watch showed the time as a quarter to ten. With luck, Slade wouldn’t be here yet. But he couldn’t count on that.

With the loaded rifle in hand, he eased out of the truck, leaving the dome light off and the door open. The night was eerily quiet. As he crept forward, Lute tried to imagine his Comanche ancestors sneaking up on the enemy. He was a warrior, too, he told himself, and this was his battle—the prize, victory over two men he hated, and the future he craved with a hunger that gnawed at his gut.

A buzzing sound, a stone’s toss away, sent a jolt of fear through his body. Rattler. He gauged the location and eased to a greater distance. Safe. But his nerves were jumping.

Twenty yards ahead, the lacy outline of the mesquite was broken by a big, blocky shape. Lute recognized the flatbed from the trucking lot. So Slade was already here waiting for Beau Tyler. No doubt Slade had a gun, but where the hell was he? If he heard Lute coming, he could easily shoot him by mistake.

Change of plans, Lute decided. He could call out, identify himself and tell Slade that Beau wasn’t coming. When the man lowered his guard and stepped into sight, Lute could pull the trigger.

He was getting dangerously close to the truck. “Slade,” he hissed. “It’s me, Lute. Where are you?”

No answer.

“Slade, it’s all right.” He spoke louder this time. “I saw Beau Tyler in town. He’s not coming.”

No answer. A chill crawled over Lute’s skin. Maybe he should’ve kept quiet. He wasn’t even supposed to know Slade was here.

“Where the hell are you, Slade?”

Still no answer. The door of the truck hung open. Lute could see that the cab was empty. As he inched closer, his boot toe stubbed something soft. He looked down.

Slade lay faceup in the brush a few paces from the truck. A single, neat bullet hole was drilled with almost surgical precision through the center of his forehead. The spatters of blood, what few there were, were still wet.

Lute’s knees refused to hold him. He sank to the ground next to the body, swearing to bolster his courage. Some bastard had beaten him to the job. It had to be Tyler. He’d been a sniper in Iraq. But how the hell had he known Slade would be here?

Stella seemed to like Beau. Could she have warned him?

No time to think about that, Lute told himself. He needed to salvage the situation to make himself look good. And then he had to get out of here.

He’d stolen the rifle from the ranch to frame Beau Tyler. The plan was to kill Slade with the weapon, then toss it where it could be easily found. The bullets in Slade’s body would be a match for the old man’s gun, which Beau could have easily taken. The note Slade had stuffed in his pocket, along with the testimony of witnesses who’d seen the fight in the bar, would seal the evidence. Case closed.

He could still make it work, Lute reasoned, especially since he’d be laying a trail to the real killer.

Standing, he laid the rifle’s muzzle on the hole in Slade’s forehead, trying to match the angle of the first bullet. With a shaking finger, he pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked like lightning in the darkness.

Lute stared down at the damage. Firing the gun hadn’t been such a big deal after all. Better yet, the bullet had made an ugly wound, pretty much obliterating the first one. Giddy with triumph, Lute pumped three more shots into Slade’s still-warm body—for Jess, he told himself. Bang, bang, bang. So easy. He forced himself to stop before it became fun. He’d done enough.

There were plenty of shoe and tire tracks around the bog, left over from the earlier investigation. Still, to be safe, he found a broken mesquite branch and brushed out his tracks as he backed away from the scene. He hadn’t forgotten the rattler. He gave it a wide berth, hoping there weren’t more around.

Reaching his truck, he took a moment to wipe the gun with the damp cloth he’d brought along. On the way back to town, he would use the cloth to throw the gun into the long grass that grew along the roadside. No fingerprints. A clean getaway—and a clear conscience.

Stella would be pleased when he told her he’d done his job. But he planned to leave out one detail. Why bother to tell her he’d fired four bullets into a corpse?

 

The lawyer, J. Bob Tucker, had arrived precisely at 10:00 a.m., driving a black Lincoln Town Car and wearing a charcoal suit with a bolo tie and a Stetson. Tall and thin with a hooked nose and sparse gray hair, he was in his mid-sixties, the same age as Bull had been.

Since Tucker had requested a desk for the reading, Will had carried the dining room chairs into the ranch office, arranged them in a semicircle, and shifted the computer onto a side table. Bernice had offered to do the simple task, but he was through being a damned invalid. That morning, before first light, he’d gone out to the stable, saddled his horse, and ridden down to the lower pasture. His leg still ached, but not so much that he couldn’t stand it. Pain or no pain, the old Will Tyler was back. But he would never take his body for granted again.

Now Will glanced down the row of chairs that faced the desk. Just six people were present for the reading of his father’s will—Beau, Jasper, Bernice, Sky, Erin, and himself. Will was a trifle disappointed that Tori hadn’t been included. But he should have known better. To Bull the three things that counted were blood, land, and loyalty. It was no surprise that, given the divorce, he’d excluded her from the family.

Sky had shown surprise at being asked to attend the reading. As far as Will knew, the man had never aspired to own anything but his truck, his clothes, his saddle, and his guns. His paychecks—and he was fairly paid—went directly to the bank. Unless he had some secret vice, he must have accumulated a tidy sum over the years, but he never spoke of it. Sky was as private as a lone cougar. Today, dressed in faded jeans and a denim work shirt with his dusty Stetson balanced on one knee, he appeared anxious to get this bother out of the way and go back to shoring up the paddock.

Erin edged closer to her father. Will encircled her shoulders with a comforting arm as the lawyer shuffled his papers on the desk. He could have spared his daughter this serious adult business, but she was growing up. It was time she understood her place in the family.

Tucker cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and began to read. “I, Virgil Tyler, being of sound mind . . .”

His voice droned on. Will and Beau were to be given equal shares in the ranch as long as both of them were involved in its management. If Beau chose to stay away, his share would be twenty-five percent. Clearly Bull had wanted both his sons on the land. Jasper and Bernice were to be given a modest income for life and a place to live for as long as they wished to stay. A trust fund, set aside for Erin, would pay for her college education. That left only Sky.

The lawyer cleared his throat again and moved on to the second page of the will.

“To Sky Fletcher, in recognition of his service to the ranch, I leave the contents of this envelope, to be opened in private, at his discretion.” The lawyer slid a sealed, plain manila envelope across the desk, toward Sky. “Here you are, Mr. Fletcher. The envelope was given to me by Mr. Tyler, in this condition.” Tucker scooped a few stray papers into his briefcase and closed it with a click. “Unless you have questions, that concludes my business here.”

The envelope was thin, as if it contained no more than a few sheets of paper. Without taking time to inspect it, Sky folded it and slid it into an inner pocket of his vest. He was one of the most self-contained men Will had ever known. If he was surprised, or even curious, he hid it well.

The lawyer stood to leave, and everyone else rose with him. Beau turned to Sky. “I hope you’re going to tell us what’s in that envelope,” he said. “When are you going to open it?”

Sky shook his dark head. “Not just yet. I’ll know when the time is right.”

Will glanced past him. Jasper had paused in the doorway. His pale eyes appeared to be studying the three men, taking their measure in some secret way. As his gaze met Will’s, he raised a grizzled eyebrow. Then he turned away, leaving Will to wonder what the old man had been thinking.

 

Sky walked back down the slope toward the paddock, where two of the men had been helping him build a new section of fence. His senses were acutely aware of everything around him—the smells of grass and manure, the whinny of a mare to her foal, the echoing ring of two hammers, striking almost in unison. Through the well-worn soles of his boots he could feel every rock and pebble, every rise and fall of ground. The sun beat down on the felted crown of his Stetson, warming his thick, black hair. Everything was much the same as it had been for years, yet not the same. Whatever was inside the mysterious envelope, he sensed it could have the power to change his life.

He remembered the windy November morning when he’d first wandered onto the ranch, a fifteen-year-old runaway, filthy and shivering in his thin denim jacket, his stomach a gnawing pit of hunger. The name Blanco Springs had been mentioned by his mother, so long ago that he no longer remembered the context, but it had to be a better place than where he’d come from. Maybe she even had folks there. He’d hitched rides from Oklahoma, stopping at farms and ranches on the way to chop wood or shovel out barns in exchange for a meal. The last ride, a truck delivering winter feed, had let him off here, and here he had found a home.

A plump, kind-looking woman had answered his knock at the back door. Too proud to beg, he’d asked for work. She’d taken one look and hauled him into the kitchen. “Go wash up,” she’d directed him. “I’ll fix you some breakfast. Then you can talk to the boss about earning it.”

He’d devoured his way through three platefuls of bacon and eggs, two cups of coffee, and a small mountain of pancakes when a man walked into the kitchen—a terrifying man who looked as big as a barn door, with a bristling mustache and the fiercest, bluest eyes Sky had ever seen.

Sky had possessed the presence of mind to stand.

The man had looked him up and down. “Good. I like a boy with manners,” he’d boomed. “Bernice here says you’re asking for a job. But you look too scrawny to do a man’s work. How old are you, boy?”

“I’m fifteen, sir.” Sky had felt his knees shaking as he answered. “I’m stronger than I look. I’ll work hard for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Sit. Finish your breakfast.” The man had taken a seat on the opposite side of the table. Even sitting down, he’d loomed like John Wayne on steroids. “The name’s Bull Tyler. Mr. Tyler to you. And I’m willing to give you a try at mucking stables—but only a try, mind you. First time I catch you slacking, you’re done, hear?”

“Yes, Mr. Tyler. But I’m no slacker. And I get on with horses. You’ll see.”

“Fine. What’s your name, boy?”

“Sky. Sky Fletcher.”

The big man’s expression had frozen, but only for an instant. “What about your folks? Can I expect them to show up looking for you?”

“No, sir. My mother died when I was three. Her brother’s family in Oklahoma raised me. But I . . .” He’d paused, still feeling the sting of the welts on his back. “I don’t belong there anymore.”

“And your father?”

He’d shrugged. “I never knew him—or anything about him except that he was white and no good.”

“Why no good?”

“Because he didn’t give a damn about my mother or me. A good man would have taken care of us.”

“And what was your mother’s name?”

“Marie. Marie Joslyn Fletcher.”

He rose. “Bernice, we should have some outgrown clothes from the boys. Get those rags off the lad and burn them. Then get him a bath and a toothbrush. When he’s cleaned up, send him out to Jasper.” Without another word, he turned away and strode out of the kitchen.

Bernice had cried out when she saw the welts on Sky’s back. “One thing I can promise,” she’d declared. “Wherever you came from, you’re not going back!”

And so he never had, Sky reflected now. He’d stayed in touch with his cousins and even tried to help Lute, as he’d been helped. But he had no desire ever to see his uncle or aunt again.

Bull had been a fair employer over the years, even insisting that Sky take time off to finish high school. But he’d shown Sky no special attention or favoritism, let alone affection. Whatever place Sky held within the ranch family was the place he’d earned.

Which was why any sort of legacy was so unexpected. In recognition of his service to the ranch . . .

The thin envelope felt like a leaden weight inside his vest. Whatever it held, Sky hoped it wasn’t money. He had money of his own, saved over the years. Not that he had any desire to spend it. Everything he needed was right here on the ranch.

Perhaps he’d be better off not knowing what was in the envelope. Maybe he’d be smart to simply burn it and walk away.

But Sky knew better than to act rashly. Sometimes the wisest course of action was to do nothing. For now he would let the matter rest. The first group of the new colts would be arriving tomorrow. He would have his hands full all summer with their care and training. Whatever was in the envelope had waited this long. It could wait longer.

Glancing back toward the house, Sky saw that Jasper had come out to sit on the porch with the dog. Jasper had spent the past forty years on the ranch. He was as rich in secrets as the silent stone buttes and turrets below the caprock—and he hid those secrets almost as deeply.

He’d shown no curiosity about the contents of the envelope, almost as if he already knew what might be inside.

Checking the impulse to go and talk with him, Sky kept on walking. He would sit with the old man another day. Right now he had more pressing things to do.

 

The first of Sky’s pupils had arrived. Beau stood with Erin and Jasper outside the fence, watching as twenty-two splendid young horses—yearlings and two-year-olds—thundered out of the long trailers and into the freedom of the grassy paddock.

“Look at that black . . . and, oh, that red one . . .” Erin was beside herself with excitement. Sky had given her the task of naming the new horses, and she took her job seriously. She’d brought a clipboard from the office and was already taking notes. Too bad Will wasn’t here to share this with her, Beau reflected. But Will had driven up to the summer pasture above the caprock to spend the day checking on the cattle herds. He relished being back in action.

Beau knew enough about horseflesh to appreciate Sky’s choices. All fillies and geldings, they were on the small side, solid, compact, and agile. Their eyes shone with alertness and intelligence. When word got around that Sky was training them, interest would be high among ranchers all over the state. Hopefully, when they came to auction, the bidding would be over the top.

Sky, on horseback, seemed to be everywhere at once. He sat his blue roan gelding as if he were part of the animal, guiding the horse more with his knees than with his hands. Back in the day, the Comanche had been the finest horsemen on the plains. Something in that ancient blood had trickled through the generations to pool richly into Sky Fletcher. There was no more logical explanation for his rare gift.

Leaning on the top rail of the fence, Beau watched the milling of bodies and colors—bay and roan, black, silver, paint, and buckskin, dun and claybank, in a kaleidoscope of grace and motion.

His cell phone rang. Seeing Natalie’s name on the display, Beau walked away from the fence to take the call.

“What’s up, gorgeous?” He was in high spirits today.

“Beau, are you alone?” She sounded like a terrified child.

“What is it?” he asked, alarmed. “Is it Slade? Has he threatened you again?”

“Yes . . . no . . . Listen to me, Beau! The sheriff and his deputy just left here. Slade’s dead. Murdered on your ranch. And they’re on their way to question you.”