Cowboy Tough (26 page)

Cat pulled up at the top of the hill to survey the situation, motioning for the rest of the riders to stop. A rolling pasture spread out before them, cloaked in golden grass and dotted with rocky outcroppings.

The cattle were milling around outside a rickety wooden corral, lowing their distress. A livestock truck was backed up to a loading chute, and several mounted men hovered at the edge of the herd. She couldn't tell who was who at this distance, but she was sure Mack was down there.

If she had any sense, she'd round up her students and take them back to the ranch. She was sure foiling cattle rustlers was hardly an Art Treks–approved activity. This was probably the end of her new teaching career, but surprisingly, she didn't care. What mattered was the ranch. And Mack. Mack mattered most of all.

She'd wished for a chance to help him the way he'd helped her, and it looked like this was it. She was no cowgirl, but there had to be a way to keep those animals from getting on that truck. She'd gather the students together and work out a plan.

Ed pulled up beside her and she turned to speak to him, but he took one look at the situation and kicked Bucky into a gallop. She gripped her saddle horn and watched him careen down the slope, wondering not if, but when he'd tumble off the horse and break his neck. Then Emma passed her, and Abby and Charles. Only Maddie stopped.

“Where's Hank?” Cat asked.

Maddie glanced behind her. “He must be having trouble,” she said. “I don't know what's keeping him.”

“Go back and see. We need him, Maddie. If Viv can ride, maybe you can take her with you.”

Reluctantly, Maddie turned her horse and headed back. Cat set off after the rest of the class, wondering how she'd stop this sure disaster. If she could catch up and pass them, she could regain some control. But Rembrandt laid his ears back and flat-out refused to step up into a trot.

“Come on, buddy.” She nudged him again and rocked forward in the saddle. He turned and gave her a look that clearly said she wasn't the boss of him, then bent to crop the grass.

She pulled the reins and he jerked his head up.

“Don't make me kick you,” she said.

He took one step, then another. When she finally got to the gate, everyone was hushed, listening to Mack's conversation with a short, portly man with a bristling mustache she recognized from the hoedown. Sullivan.

“Ollie wasn't authorized to sell them,” Mack was saying. “I'm sorry. It's a misunderstanding.”

“That's something you'll have to work out with your father,” Sullivan said.

“He's not my father, and the sale's off.”

“Can't stop what's already happened.” The heavy man rested one arm on the saddle horn, then crossed the other on top. “They're my cattle. Bought and paid for.”

“We were never paid.”

“Your father was.”

Cat flinched, expecting the worst, but Mack simply stayed rigid in the saddle.

“Stepfather,” he said. Judging from his tone, the word was synonymous with
maggot
. “And again—not his cattle to sell. You got robbed, Sullivan.” His horse took a step toward Sullivan. “Now get off my land.”

Mack's eyes were fixed on Sullivan, so he hadn't seen the cowboys ease toward the herd. It wasn't until the cattle began to surge toward the truck and the first heifer clanged her hooves against the metal ramp that he looked up. Another followed it, and another. Mack had been right; they were Zen cattle. They strode up the ramp and into the hot, dark truck as placidly as they did everything else.

Cat urged Rembrandt through the gate. Despite what had happened with Trevor, she didn't think Mack solved every problem with his fists. But in this case, she wouldn't blame him.

There was a flurry of movement behind her, a quick rustle as the students drew closer. Ed, of course, wasn't satisfied with staying behind. He pulled up alongside her.

“They're taking the cattle,” Cat said.

“No they're not.” Ed narrowed his eyes, scanning the herd. Rising up to stand in his stirrups, he reached up and pressed his hat to his head. The pajamas were still bunched around his boot-tops as he pitched back into the saddle and kicked the horse—hard. His robe flapped behind him as he rocketed into the pasture with a whoop worthy of Geronimo.

“Git along,” he hollered. “Git along, you doggies, you.”

***

The slow ride home gave Maddie plenty of time to worry. Her granddaughter had barely been able to climb into the saddle, and it was obvious her knee was hurting her. Back in the pasture, Mack was arguing, perhaps fighting, with the Sullivans. The students were mixed up in the whole thing too, so the dude ranch project was now officially a bust. She'd won everybody over with her cooking, and they'd been a good-natured group. But now they were actually in danger. That couldn't be good.

Don't borrow trouble
, she told herself. She'd always believed in following her instincts, doing her best, and letting the future sort itself out. Of course, that hadn't worked out too well for her. That attitude had let her ignore the niggling doubts that tickled the back of her mind when she'd pledged herself to Ollie. Maybe she needed to look ahead more often.

Looking ahead right now wasn't doing her any good. There was no sign of Hank on the long stretch of trail leading to the ranch, and the place looked deserted except for a few vehicles parked in the pullout. Mack's pickup, the International, the old Continental John had bought Maddie for trips to town, and one other car—or no, not a car. An SUV.

She squinted as they plodded closer. A silver SUV. Her stomach twisted. Trevor was back.

Viv saw it at the same instant. “That guy's back. The pervert.” She clicked to her horse and he broke into a swaying trot. Maddie could see the girl was clenching her teeth against the pain in her leg, but nothing would slow Viv down once she got a burr under her saddle. Maddie nudged her own horse up to speed and followed.

As they pulled up to the hitching rail, the late-afternoon sun slanted through the big double doors of the barn. Anyone else would have seen a tidy, well-kept stable, but Maddie noticed an open cooler, the sack of grain slashed open and spilling onto the floor, and a bottle of beer, smashed into pieces, lying in a pool of amber liquid. There was still no sign of Hank.

She ran for the house.

Crossing the porch in two steps, she ran inside. She swung the door closed softly and rested her back against it, catching her breath. The house was ominously silent.

She could wait for Mack. She could call the police. But then there was a sound from the kitchen, a clink of china like a teacup on a saucer. It was hardly a gunshot, but she was so tense it cut through the silence like a bullet.

Hank
. If something happened to him, that future she was planning would be bleak indeed. Her mind racing, she stood up on tiptoe and lifted her grandfather's Remington from its place of honor over the door. Tucking it under her arm, she edged over to the kitchen door and peered inside.

Hank had his back to her. She'd always liked the back view of a cowboy, the muscles they got from riding and roping, and she was beginning to appreciate Hank's muscles more than most. Right now his backside was wrapped up like a present, with her apron strings tied in a big old bow just above it.

He turned and she saw that he held a plate full of artfully arranged shortbread in one hand and a teapot in the other. The frilly apron around his waist was at odds with his rugged face and battered boots. He didn't notice her standing there with the gun; his eyes were fixed on the dining nook where Trevor sat sipping from a china cup.

“So,” he said in his gravelly, seldom-used voice. “Tell me about those supermodels.”

The crunch of gravel from out front made Maddie lower the gun and glance out the window. A dark State of Wyoming cruiser pulled into the drive, and Officer Brownfield stepped out. Maddie quietly returned to the door to let him in.

The state trooper's boots thudded on the floor, distracting Trevor from an elaborate story about Victoria's Secret Angels. His eyes widened when he saw the cop.

“Mr. Maines, you're under arrest.” Brownfield strode to the table and jerked the man out of his chair. “You have the right to remain silent…”

Trevor jerked in his grasp. “I told you, I didn't do anything. That girl ran away. You have no right to harass me this way. I'm calling my lawyer. I'm calling the governor.”

“You can call anybody you want.” Brownfield gave Trevor a jerk of his own. “We know you didn't take the girl. But Hank here called us when he found you here, messing around in the barn. There's a bag of rat poison in the barn and another one in your car. Poisoning livestock's serious business in this state, pilgrim.” He cleared his throat. “You have the right to remain silent…”

Maddie looked at Hank in wonder as the trooper droned on. “You kept him here. You served him tea.”

Hank nodded. “People will do just about anything for a taste of your shortbread, Maddie.” He looked down at the apron, a rueful grimace on his face. “And I'd do just about anything for you.”

***

Mack's mind was racing as he stared down Sullivan, who was mounted on a tall bay gelding decked out in a showy silver-mounted bridle. He wished this was the old West. He wished he had a peacemaker. Hell, if he'd been the gun-toting type this might never have happened. He'd have killed his stepfather before the man could touch his mother—shot him down like the varmint he was.

The cloud of dust he'd raised when he approached Sullivan was clearing, drifting away in the hot summer air. He could feel his future floating away with it, scattering like dust, settling over the hallowed ground of his fathers to mix with the soil and be forgotten.

Sullivan's jaw was set, and his men were jostling the herd forward. One stubborn heifer had paused at the bottom of the ramp, spooked by some shadow or maybe just distracted by a glint of sun. In any case, the bottleneck at the front of the chute was jammed, and the other cattle were beginning to mill and low. A few turned back and Sullivan's riders slapped their hats on their thighs to urge them back on track. One man let out a shrill yip.

Mack scanned the herd. If Viv were still here, the two of them could probably drive the cattle away from the truck, at least for a while. But he couldn't take his eyes off Sullivan. Holding eye contact seemed essential, somehow, as if nothing could happen as long as he held the other man's gaze. The moment drew out, the sun heated, and Mack felt sweat dampening the back of his neck.

A sudden flurry of hooves sounded behind him. He snapped his head up to see five horses burst into the valley, galloping at top speed, charting a crazy, zigzag course for the very center of the herd. In the lead was Ed, clad in baggy pants and a loose striped shirt. Some kind of white cape was billowing out behind him, and his horse seemed to be trying to outrun this mystery pursuer. The other students were strung out behind him, controlling their mounts with varying degrees of success.

“Git along, you doggies!”

Ed plowed past Sullivan's men and exploded into the center of the herd, his horse rearing up on his hind legs and screaming out a protest at the unexpected excitement. Mack clutched his chest as Ed grappled with the saddle horn, then stood in his stirrups and waved his hat. Hell, he was wearing
pajamas
. And that was the old man's bathrobe billowing behind him, a waving white flag that meant anything but surrender.

The cattle were panicked, lowing in terror, the whites of their eyes showing as they grimaced with fear. They began to circle, mill, and spin with Ed at their center. Bucky's front hooves hit the ground once, then twice, before he reared up again and Ed slipped backward. The old man hauled on the reins and the horse ducked his head against the bit, then toppled sideways. Horse and man disappeared in the center of the circling herd.

“Git along,” hollered another voice. Abby. She was heading toward her father at a dead run. She must think she could drive the cattle away, but she'd only make things worse. Mack saw Ed's horse rise and run off, but he couldn't see the old man through the milling herd of cattle.

Mack nudged Spanky into action, trying to work his way to Ed as Dora passed him, with Emma and Abby close behind. The little girl was bent over her horse's neck like a jockey. Everyone and everything seemed to be going ninety miles an hour. Emma's horse was out of control. Charles was clinging to his saddle horn as if he was prepared for an impromptu bronc ride.

But Rembrandt, with Cat on board, picked his way sedately through the cattle and made his way to Ed, unmoved by the chaos around him.

As the dust cleared, Mack saw Ed crouching on the ground, clutching his hat with both hands as if it could somehow save him. Mack sucked in his breath as Cat steered Rembrandt toward him.

For a second, Mack thought the mule was going to walk right over the old man, but he stepped carefully over him and planted his feet, standing firm as the herd broke in two and flowed around him. A chunky little heifer ran into him from behind, but the big mule laid his ears back and let out a bray of protest, holding his ground. As soon as the herd passed, Cat swung from the saddle, letting the reins dangle as she knelt beside Ed.

Wiping sweat from his forehead, Mack blinked twice, then swung into action. Circling to the back of the herd, he positioned himself in the flight zone and urged them forward with a wave of his hat. As he headed for Cat, she waved him away.

“Ed's okay,” she hollered. “He's all right.”

“Go get them sons-a-bitches,” the old man quavered. He was clutching his hat to his stomach. “I'll be there in a minute.”

Mack whirled his horse and took off after the herd. He could count on Rembrandt and he could count on Cat. That left him free to get the cattle away from Sullivan's riders and out of reach. Cat was right; possession was nine-tenths of the law, and he wasn't going to let even one more animal into that trailer.