Coming Home To Texas. Allie Pleiter
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playing here. These here are American bison, anyways, so don’t you be calling them buffalo in front of Gunner Buckton.”
Buckton? Wasn’t that the name from the traffic stop last night? “Bison not buffalo—got it.” The leap from LAPD to this local County Sheriff Department seemed to grow longer and wider with each new day.
And stranger. Nash was still getting accustomed to his deputy position in this small town and its rural surroundings. Don was about as down-home cowboy as anyone Nash had ever seen, right down to the boots and y’alls. For a city cop used to dealing with gangs and criminals, this was new territory.
“Why are we here again?”
“Buckton thinks someone may be taking shots at his animals.” Don pulled up to the ranch’s large entrance gate. Nash tried to calculate the distance from this place to where he’d stopped Ellen Buckton last night—the geography just about fit. “He’s worried there may be some foul play involved,” Don continued. “I figured your background might be useful while we take a look-see.”
“Has Buckton got enemies?” Nash surveyed the rolling pasture, spying a few of the large brown animals milling about. Tall green grass, wide blue sky, livestock roaming—the whole thing looked like something out of a travel brochure. If this was the home Ellen was running to, Nash had to agree it looked like a good, big place to hide. After all, the sprawling space of the region had drawn him for much the reason.
“Enemies? He’s got ’em. Most men do. The family’s been around for ages—everybody knows the Bucktons—but they got in a row with a big real estate developer last year. Could be someone’s not too happy about the spiffy condo development that got stalled on account of it. Of course, could be just stupid kids. Not likely rustlers, though—they would’ve taken the animals, not tried to scare ’em.” Don punched the button on the gate’s intercom. “Howdy, y’all. It’s Don from the sheriff’s office.”
A far cry from standing in a Kevlar vest yelling “LAPD! Open up!” Texas really was its own world. And now—at least for now—it was Nash’s, too. He looked down at his steel-toed shoes and wondered what his feet would look like in fancy cowboy boots like Don wore. Or whether Don’s wide hat would suit him. He couldn’t mesh the images in his mind. Did you have to be a cowboy if you lived in Texas? Austin was a world-class metropolitan city, admittedly a bit of a quirky one, but parts of LA were downright strange, so that was no clue.
“Well, hello there, Don,” a female voice drawled over the crackly intercom speaker. “Gunner’s in the barn, so pull right on up. I’ll put some coffee on for afterward. And there’s blueberry pie.”
Don smiled. “Blueberry pie. Miss Adele, you do know how to make a man’s day.” Don waggled an eyebrow at Nash. “That’d be Miss Adele, Gunner’s grandma. Was a time she and her husband ran this place.” Then he added, “Anybody ever feed you pie back in California?”
Nash thought about the offer of cookies late last night. This had to be the place. If he saw Ellen Buckton, this morning would get a whole lot more interesting. “No.”
“Well, then, you ought to be glad you’re in Texas, Larson. A sheriff eats good in Martins Gap.”
The gate rolled open to let the cruiser head up the curving lane. The gravel road bent through the tall grasses to end at a cluster of buildings. Large low barns surrounded a sprawling stone ranch house with a wide front porch. A sizable fenced-in corral off one barn held a pair of bison, one large, one smaller. “Nice folks, the Bucktons,” Don went on. “Been on this land for ages. Miss Adele’s husband and son raised cattle. Gunner Jr.—that’s who you’ll meet today—turned the operation over to bison a few years back, right after his dad died. Good people.” Don turned to Nash. “But even good people can collect some bad enemies, ain’t that the truth.”
“It is.” Nash could easily agree, having been a good cop who had made nasty enemies by putting away a gang lord or two in LA. After several months on high alert as the top target of two gang hit lists, his rehabilitation for a pair of close-call gunshot wounds had been enough to make him want to get out of that city. A friend had passed along the opening here in the sheriff’s department, and Nash had felt as if God had opened up the escape hatch for which he’d been praying.
As they got out of the cruiser, an elderly woman with a cane made her way down the porch steps. The resemblance was enough to confirm Nash’s guess—this was where Ellen had been heading.
Don smiled and waved. “One of these days we’ve got to meet up for good reasons, Miss Adele.”
“I hear you, Don. Let’s have you and Linda out for dinner one of these days.” Miss Adele raised a gray eyebrow at Nash. “So this is your new deputy?”
“Nash Larson,” Don introduced. “Brought him on all the way from California last month.”
She walked over, extending a friendly hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Nash. Welcome to Martins Gap. How are you liking it so far?”
The screen door opened behind Miss Adele and out walked Ellen Buckton, eyes startled wide and mouth open. “It’s you.”
She was much prettier in the daylight—in fact, she looked almost nothing like the tearful mess of a woman who’d offered him biscotti last night. “Good afternoon, Miss Buckton. Glad to see you made it safe and sound.”
Don looked at Nash while Miss Adele looked at her granddaughter. Nash kept silent—the explanation ought to be Ellen’s territory, given the circumstances.
“Ellie?” Miss Adele clearly wasn’t going to wait.
Ellie. That suited her much more than Ellen, Nash thought. Her tawny blond hair—pulled up into a mess on the top of her head last night—hung in loose curves over her shoulders. The eyes—remarkably blue last night—were breathtaking in the full light of day.
Only right now they looked mortified. “Um...well...” She thrust her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and shifted her weight. “I got pulled over for speeding last night, Gran. I guess I was in too much of a hurry to get here.”
Don shot Nash a surprised look. Nash hadn’t entered the stop in his official records. He just shrugged, unsure what he was supposed to do or say.
Miss Adele moved over to wrap an arm around Ellie. “Of course you were, sweetheart, but a speeding ticket? Really?”
“No ticket, ma’am,” Nash offered. “I could see how upset she was, so I just let her off with a warning and her promise to take it slower the rest of the way here.”
“Thanks for that again, really,” Ellie offered with a small smile. “You were the only good spot in a horrible day.”
That set a small glow in Nash’s stomach. Law enforcement didn’t offer a man a lot of reasons to be the good part of someone’s day—more often just the opposite. A large part of him hoped that balance would change out here. “Glad to help.”
“Well—” Don pulled a notebook from his shirt pocket “—now that we’re all friendly like, how about you tell me what’s been going on?”
“Here comes my brother now,” Ellie said, nodding at a tall man with the same tawny hair walking toward them, wiping his hands on a bright blue bandanna. “He can fill you in better than Gran or I.”
Nash and Don spent the next half hour listening to Gunner Buckton’s account of finding fences messed with, hearing rifle fire near the animals and the general edginess of the herd.
“Any idea why someone would want to scare or harm your herd?” Nash asked as Gunner showed photographs he’d printed from his smartphone of clipped fence wires.
“That’s what has me stumped, frankly.” Gunner pushed his hat back on his head, revealing the brilliant blue eyes Nash had now realized were a family trait. “Bison aren’t people-friendly. And an agitated cow or bull can be downright dangerous. Whoever’s doing this is really brave, really quick or