To Megan Kerans, thanks for sending me the article about

       cattle rustling. Thanks to all my family and friends who help feed my writing habit with great new ideas.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      Wanted: Cowboy. Must be able to ride, rope and fence. Can’t be afraid of hard work and long hours. Most of all, must know how to handle a gun. Position considered dangerous. See M. Grainger at the Rancho Linda.

      The want ad sounded more like something out of the Wild West, not the new millennium. Who the hell advertised for a hired gun in this day and age? And how many nutcases would come out of the hills in response?

      Reed Bryson stared one last time at the crumpled paper before he stepped down from his truck. Jobs were scarce in Briscoe County. It wasn’t as if he had a lot of choices.

      For the second time this year he was interviewing for work. Although he’d gone thirteen years without riding a horse, he knew he’d have no trouble riding. Roping would come back, and moving cattle was as natural as breathing to him despite the time lapse. He met all the requirements of the job notice he’d picked up at Dee’s Diner. Even the last one. Twelve years on the Chicago police force had honed his ability to fire a gun and to know when.

      A shiny white dually stood next to his truck with Teague Oil & Gas printed on the doors. He’d seen the truck in Prairie Rock over the past couple months. Oil speculators were as thick as horseflies in the panhandle.

      He settled his Stetson on his head and strode to the two-story, white, wood frame house. It probably dated back to the nineteenth century, with its wide wraparound porches, tall windows and doors designed to catch the breeze. A place built for air movement back when air conditioners weren’t yet invented.

      The front door was open, with the screen door firmly in place to keep the pesky horseflies out.

      When Reed raised his hand and knocked, two men in tailored business suits appeared in the doorway.

      “We’ll be back tomorrow same time. Hopefully, Grainger can meet with us then.” They stepped through the screen, each running a narrow-eyed glance over Reed as they descended from the porch without so much as a howdy-do. They climbed into the pickup and drove off, leaving a trail of dust floating over the prairie grass.

      Footsteps echoed in the foyer and a short, plump Hispanic woman smiled a greeting. “Buenos días, señor.”

      “Habla inglés?”

      “Sí. I speak very good English. What can I do for you?” Her English was excellent and laced with a charming hint of Mexican accent. She opened the door and held it with her hip while she dried wet hands on her apron.

      “I’m here to see Mr. Grainger about the job.”

      The woman’s gaze followed the dually as it left. When the oilmen disappeared out of sight, she switched her perusal to him, her glance traveling from hat to boots before she spoke again. “Check with my husband down by the barn. He’ll know where to find the boss.”

      “Thank you, ma’am.”

      “De nada.”

      As Reed rounded the corner of the house, he could feel the woman’s gaze following him. He couldn’t blame her. After the oil speculators’ visit, he’d be cautious too, as he was with all salesmen.

      The barn stood two hundred yards from the house. As Reed approached, a dark-haired, dark-skinned man led a bay mare out of the building. The man stopped as he cleared the doorway and turned to adjust the saddle girth beneath the horse’s belly.

      “Excuse me.” Reed slowed as he approached.

      The man looked up and nodded, but continued tightening the strap.

      “I’m looking for Mr. Grainger. I’m here about the job.”

      The man’s brows rose up his forehead. “I’m going there now. Saddle up, you can come along.” He led Reed into the dark interior of the barn and stopped in front of the second stall. A black horse with a white star on his forehead leaned over the stall door. “You ride Diablo.”

      When Reed hesitated, the man smiled.

      “Don’t worry. His name is worse than his reputation.” A chuckle echoed through the interior of the big barn.

      “That’s good to know.”

      The man held out a hand. “I’m Fernando Garcia, the foreman.” His words rolled off his tongue with the natural ease of one who’d grown up speaking Spanish as his first language.

      “Reed Bryson.” He clasped the man’s hand in a firm handshake. Then he moved to the stall, holding out his fingers for the horse to sniff.

      “Careful, amigo, he may not be a devil to ride, but he’s been known to have a helluva bite.”

      Reed jerked his hand back and opened the stall door. He snagged the horse’s halter and led him out into the center aisle.

      Fernando tossed a blanket over the gelding’s back and followed with a saddle. Reed quickly cinched the saddle in place and slid a bridle over the horse’s head, slipping the bit between stubbornly clamped teeth.

      Fernando nodded. “I’ll wait outside. We need to hurry, it’s getting close to dark and I haven’t seen the boss in a couple hours.”

      Reed braced a boot in a stirrup and swung his right leg over the saddle. When he emerged into the waning sunlight, he blinked at the brightness after being in the dark interior of the barn.

      As soon as Reed exited the barn, Fernando took off.

      Reed pressed his heels into Diablo’s flanks and the beast took off at a gallop. As if it hadn’t been thirteen years since Reed had been on the back of a horse, he settled into the smooth rhythm. He urged his mount forward until he rode side by side with Fernando.

      Galloping wasn’t the best time to quiz the man, but Reed wanted to know more about the job before he committed to it—if the boss saw fit to hire him. “Has there been trouble on the ranch?”

      “Sí.” The foreman either was in a big hurry or he wasn’t sharing what kind of trouble. The older man nudged his horse faster, racing across the low range grasses of the Texas panhandle.

      Knowing he wasn’t getting any more information out of the man, Reed dropped back, content to follow. His questions would be answered soon enough by the ranch owner himself.

      Fernando topped a rise and dropped down behind it.

      When Reed reached the top of the slope, his heart leaped into his throat at the steep drop on the other side.

      As if anxious to catch the other horse, Diablo danced to the side, straining against the reins.

      “Okay,