Cowboy Under Siege. Gail Barrett
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blinked, shocked by his testy tone. Her father never lost his temper. He was the most even-keeled man she knew. But pain put everyone out of sorts.
She studied his craggy face, the deep lines testament to a lifetime spent working in the wind and sun. “Cole told me about the cattle getting shot,” she said, changing the subject. “And now the stream’s dammed up.”
Her father paused in midbite. His gaze shot to hers. “What stream?”
“Rock Creek. He just found out a little while ago. The cows couldn’t get any water. He doesn’t know how many head he might have lost.” She leaned forward. “You think it has something to do with his father? Cole said the problems started when the senator showed up.”
Her father paled. “I don’t know.”
“You must have an opinion. You’re here every day.”
“I said I don’t know.” Rusty’s voice turned defensive. He scowled and tugged his ear. “How would I when I’m stuck in here with a broken leg?”
He was lying. The realization barreled through her, stealing her breath. No one else would have noticed, but she’d played cards with her father for years—and that pull to the ear invariably gave him away.
But why would he lie? What could he possibly have to hide? Surely he wasn’t involved in the sabotage. He was the most honorable man she knew.
Still scowling, he got up, grabbed his crutches and hobbled away. Bethany slumped on the couch, stunned by his behavior, questions spinning through her mind. Her father would never harm an animal. And he would never hurt Cole. It was insane even to have doubts.
But then what was he hiding? Why hadn’t he told her the truth? Was he merely embarrassed about his accident or something more?
Her thoughts and emotions in turmoil, she rose and walked to the window and gazed out at the busy men. One thing was clear. Something bad was happening at the ranch. And her father might know more than he’d let on.
Cole stalked past on his way to the ranch house, his broad shoulders rigid with tension, anger quickening his stride. She hugged her arms, knowing she shouldn’t care. Cole and his ranch weren’t her business. She had her own problems to deal with—namely Mrs. Bolter’s death. She didn’t need to worry about Cole.
But as he passed, a sinking feeling settled inside her, her heart winning the war it waged with her head. She couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. Cole was in trouble, his ranch under attack. And no matter how badly their relationship had ended, it wasn’t in her nature to withhold her help.
She stepped away from the window, her mind made up. She’d settle her father down for a nap, then ride his horse to the stream. On the way, she could stop in the pasture where he’d had his accident and search for clues.
If her father was hiding something, she would find out.
Chapter 3
Bethany galloped across the field on her father’s mare an hour later, the brisk wind brushing her face, a heady sense of exhilaration flooding her veins. The brilliant blue sky soared above her. Wheat-colored grass carpeted the rolling rangeland on every side. Closer to the mountains, hills rose like gnarled fingers, their ancient, glacier-carved valleys shadowed with aspens and pines.
She slowed Red to a walk, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the scent of dried grass filling her lungs. The ever-present wind rustled in the silence—whispers from her ancestors, her father had said. She smiled at the fanciful thought. She’d always loved imagining her father’s people traveling through these foothills, hunting for buffalo. They’d seen the same, unchanging scenery that she did, felt the same, unending wind. Even now the sheer magnitude of the wild land awed her, the beauty a balm to her soul.
Pulling herself out of her musings, she angled her hat against the midday sun, then guided the mare toward the fence marking the perimeter of Cole’s ranch. She’d detoured on her way to the dammed-up stream, hoping to find the spot where her father’s accident had occurred. Although she doubted he had anything to do with Cole’s problems, he was lying about something—and she intended to find out what.
Keeping Red to a walk, she scanned the pasture. A gopher scurried by. The western wheat grass bobbed in the wind. She pushed up the sleeves of her long-sleeved T-shirt, growing warm in the sun. But in typical Montana fashion, a storm front was due to arrive any day now, dumping snow on the mountain peaks.
She continued riding along the fence line—past the circle of stones forming the old teepee ring, past a cluster of Black Angus cows. A dozen yards later, she spotted a churned-up section of ground and stopped. Hoof prints and tire tracks crisscrossed the dirt, but they didn’t tell her much. It rarely rained this side of the Rockies, so they could have been here for months.
She slowly circled the area, trying to envision how her father’s accident had played out—but there were no tree branches to spook the horse, nothing flapping in the wind. She brought Red to a halt with a sigh. She was wasting her time. She wasn’t going to miraculously figure this out. She might as well do something useful and go help the men with the cows.
She reined Red around, intending to do just that when something black in the grass caught her eye. “Whoa,” she told the mare and leaped down. She walked back and picked it up. It was a strip of leather, an inch wide, maybe fifteen inches long with a braided horsehair inset—a browband from a bridle, she’d guess. Not her father’s, though. He didn’t own any showy tack. He’d used the same plain, utilitarian bridles for forty years.
But even if it belonged to another cowboy, what did that prove? Anyone could have dropped it here.
Discouraged, she stuffed the browband into her pocket and mounted the horse. But even without any evidence, she couldn’t stifle her doubts. What if the browband did mean something? What if her father hadn’t come here alone? What if Red hadn’t spooked and dragged him? But then how had he broken his leg?
A cloud passed overhead, towing a giant shadow over the earth, and a sudden sense of foreboding chilled her heart. Unsettled, she clucked Red into motion, trying to subdue her unruly thoughts. She couldn’t jump to conclusions based solely on a leather scrap. And even if her father had lied to her, so what? He might not be hiding anything bad. He might have withheld the truth out of embarrassment or to keep her from worrying about him.
Moments later she reached Rock Creek, the clear glacial runoff that fed Cole’s wells in this part of the ranch. Determined to focus on reality instead of conjectures, she followed the drone of a machine downstream. She skirted a jumble of boulders, passed through the shade of some cottonwood trees, then rounded another bend. When she spotted Cole wrestling a calf to the ground, she brought her horse to a halt.
Dust billowed over the men. Cows bellowed behind them, their frantic cries filling the air. Cole dug his heels into the dirt, flipped the bleating calf to the ground, and Kenny Greene raced over to help him hold it down. A man she didn’t recognize crouched beside them, and began examining the suffering calf—Judd Walker, Maple Cove’s new veterinarian, no doubt.
Bethany peered through the blowing dust to the backhoe, then to the corrals where they’d penned the herd. The cows lunged and cried, desperate to break out and quench their thirst. But drinking water too fast would cause their brains to swell, killing even more of the herd.
She glanced farther downstream to the dead cows dotting the bank, and her throat closed at the sight. Who would want to hurt those innocent animals—and why? Cole didn’t have enemies that she knew. People liked him in Maple Cove. Sure, he came from a wealthy family, but he’d worked his heart out to buy this ranch—putting in longer hours than his men did, never shirking an unpleasant job. And people respected that.
Her gaze swung back to the busy cowboys. She recognized most of the faces—Bill, Earl Runningcrane, her old classmate Kenny Greene. But there were some new ones, too. The same hollow feeling she’d experienced in the restaurant swirled back,