Secluded with the Cowboy. Cassie Miles
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“Because that’s what he expects you to do.”
“I should back down.” He hated the idea, but it made sense. “Our advantage is in numbers. There are a lot of us and only one of him. We should go after him carefully. Make sure we cut off his escape.”
“You got it,” Burke said.
They approached the far edge of the field, close to Fiona Grant’s property. Not only had the barbed wire been cut, but the fencing was peeled back between two posts, allowing the cattle an easy exit.
Tomorrow morning, a portion of this herd was destined to be removed to the slaughterhouse in Delta, and these Black Angus cattle seemed to anticipate their fate. There was a lot of bawling, as if the animals were encouraging each other to make a break. More than fifty had already ambled through the gap in the fence and were moving down the road.
Dylan was surprised to see Jesse Longbridge helping his cowboys round up the cattle. Jesse was staying at Fiona’s house to protect her and her five-year-old daughter. He rode toward them and reined his horse. “What the hell are you doing out here, Dylan?”
“Ranching. This is my business.”
“My business is keeping you safe,” he said. “Don’t make my job harder. I’ll escort you back to the house.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Never in his life had Dylan run from a fight. “Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye on Fiona and her little girl?”
“One of my men is at her house, making sure that Nate doesn’t get close.”
Nate Miller had good reason to hate Jesse. It had been his skill at tracking and his insight that had led them to find Nicole and recover most of the ransom money.
“I’m not going home,” Dylan said.
“Fine.” Jesse exchanged a glance with Burke, then maneuvered his horse around.
Dylan was flanked by a federal agent on one side and a professional bodyguard on the other. Plus, he was wearing a bulletproof vest. “Good thing I’m not claustrophobic,” he said.
“This is how it’s going to be until we get you to safety.” Jesse drew his rifle and held it at the ready.
Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Are you any good with that?”
“I’m a former marine, a sharpshooter. Is that good enough for you?”
One of the escaped steers plodded toward them. A big, broad Angus—fifteen hundred pounds of premium, grass-fed beef on the hoof—stood in the middle of the road and glared at the men on horseback. He lifted his head and mooed.
“I think he wants us to move,” Burke said. “Moo-oooove.”
“You’ve been hanging around my sister too much,” Dylan said. “Cattle don’t talk.”
In the distance, he saw the headlights of an approaching vehicle. Whoever it was would have to be patient or take a different route.
When a second steer joined the first, Dylan’s horse, Orbison, shifted his weight. In his younger days, Orbison had competed in rodeos as a cutting horse. When he saw cattle running free, the horse’s instinct was to get them organized.
But there wasn’t much herding Dylan could do with these two men protecting him as though he was made of glass. And, to tell the truth, the other four ranch hands seemed to be doing a good job of moving the herd back into the field. “Might as well head back,” he grumbled.
As he wheeled around on Orbison, he heard the sharp crack of a rifle.
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