Three Cowboys

Chapter One

Things never changed.

At least here on the southern edge of Texas at the J-Bar-J ranch where Virgil “Bull” McCabe had grown up, they didn’t.

Before pulling through the arching stone gate that marked the ranch’s entrance, he slowed his black pickup on the dusty gravel road to take a good look at the sprawling landscape, dotted with cacti and scrub pines, where he’d grown up. Somehow he’d thought ten years and 1300 miles would make a difference. But they hadn’t.

His barrel-size chest expanded with a painful breath as he tapped on the brake and the memories came flooding back. All the hard work that he’d been a part of from boyhood to make an operation of this size a success—breaking and moving and birthing livestock, battling the elements, building and repairing fence lines. The connections he shared with his older brother, Morgan, and younger brother, Wyatt, the harsh criticisms and hurtful secrets that had forced them to stand as one. His mother’s tragic death.

His father.

That painful breath eased out on a wry laugh.

His father had been keeping a doozy of a secret this time. This wasn’t just another affair he’d had while married to their mother. Justice had fathered a daughter. A girl who was now a teenager. Another casualty from Justice McCabe’s selfish, womanizing ways. And, as usual, Bull and his brothers had been called on to put a bandage on the wounds Justice’s choices inflicted on those around him.

The gray limestone hills grew more rugged and rocky as they dropped off toward the Rio Grande River valley and its tributaries to the west. The land to the east, sectioned off by a network of irrigation canals, flattened out to succulent green pasture where hundreds of fat brown cattle and horses grazed. The gently sloping hills to the north led to a dammed-up reservoir and the neighboring Cobb ranch where he’d taken his horse on many rides to escape the arguments in the main house and stables. And behind him, about a mile to the south, was Mexico.

Pulling off his sunglasses, Bull scrubbed his hand across the dark brown stubble that peppered his square jaw and peered through the windshield. The barren landscape where he stood taller than almost any tree was a stark contrast to the crowded streets and steel high-rises of the Chicago neighborhood where he worked as a detective. He tucked his fingers beneath the unbuttoned collar of his damp, white shirt and wished for the snow and cold and biting lake wind he’d left up north. Even in mid-December with the A/C on in his truck, he could feel the sun beating down on him and heating his emotions.

This was a mistake. Why the hell had he let Wyatt talk him into this? He didn’t belong here anymore. Their father had made that painfully clear. The two of them had gotten into a shoving match out in the barn that day during spring break.

“You’re gonna learn to do things my way, Bull McCabe. And if you don’t like my rules, you don’t have to stay.”

He hadn’t.

But now he was back. He’d traveled down here from the northern edge of the country in just over twenty-four hours. His muscles were stiff and his neck ached. He was beat. But he needed to shift his truck into Drive and finish the last half mile of his journey. Someone needed him.

As Bull crossed through the gate, he recognized the familiar, two-story white house with its wraparound porch and pine-shingled roof. Framed by whitewashed barns and metal outbuildings, the house stood like a lonely beacon of civilization on the endless horizon of J-Bar-J land. This was Justice McCabe’s own little country, west of the Texas town of Serpentine.

And Bull had stopped being a citizen there ten years earlier.

He’d never envisioned himself coming back home to this place, to his father—he’d never wanted to.

But the phone call from his brother Wyatt had him handing off cases and leaving early for his holiday vacation. “Bring your gun and your badge, Bull,” Wyatt had said. “We need to save her.”

Bull didn’t intend to be here any longer than he had to be. Morgan, Virgil and Wyatt McCabe might have lost their beloved mother, Jeanne, to a traffic accident a decade ago, but she’d been dying inside long before that because of their father’s cheating. He’d be damned if he’d let another family member be hurt because of his father—even a sister he never knew they had.

“What the hell?” Bull pulled up behind a pair of departmental SUVs parked in the circular drive near the bottom of the front-porch steps. He recognized the dark-haired man in the blue jeans and cowboy hat, wearing a gun at his waist and a sheriff’s badge on his shirt pocket. That was his brother Wyatt. He could even guess the dark-haired woman arguing with him was some kind of law enforcement, judging by the brown-and-tan uniform she wore.

What he didn’t recognize was the evergreen garland, strewn with lights and red bows that draped around the porch railing and twisted up each post to another row of lights anchored to the gutter. And beyond the couple at the top of the steps, just to the right of the door, a tall pine tree, hung with ornaments and lights and an angel on top was framed in the front windows. What kind of game was this? There hadn’t been a Christmas celebrated at the J-Bar-J since their mother had died.

Maybe some things did change. But the unexpected decorations only made him suspicious. What was Justice up to? Did he think a few imported greeneries and sparkly lights could convince Bull to make this emergency visit a permanent move home?

He pulled his gun from the glove compartment and slipped it into the shoulder holster he wore beneath his left arm before opening the truck door. The heated debate that was mostly one-sided felt more like the home he’d left behind than the brightly colored holiday decor did. Bull shook his head and reached back across the cab for his gray, Western-tailored blazer and shrugged into it, making sure his badge was visible on his belt before approaching his brother and the dark-haired woman with the sharp tongue.

“We don’t have time for family reunions and strategy meetings.” Her Latin heritage was evident in the lilting fire of her voice. “The Los Jaguares and Javier Calderón are dangerous men. We need to get on this case right now.”

“There’s no point to chasing after rumors and shadows. More people could get hurt.” Wyatt dipped his face toward hers and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Let me handle this.” Then he turned to Bull and hoofed it down the steps to greet him. “Hey, big man.”

“Pipsqueak.” Bull caught his brother’s outstretched hand and pulled him in for a hug that included slapping backs and nods acknowledging the years they’d been apart and the bond they’d forged long before that. Despite the four inches and fifty pounds he had on his younger brother, the storm-gray eyes that looked back at him were the same as when they separated. Trouble was brewing on the J-Bar-J. Or maybe just on the J-Bar-J’s front porch. Bull arched a curious eyebrow toward the woman pacing at the top of the steps. “You two need a room?” he teased. “To duke it out or, um, resolve your personal issues in some other way?”

“We do not have personal...” The woman silenced her protest just as quickly as she’d turned to make it. “We were having a professional difference of opinion, that’s all.”

Uh-huh.

“Give it a rest, Bull,” Wyatt warned. “Things have been pretty tense around here the past few days.”

“Is Morgan here?”

“Not yet.”

“Where the hell is he? Why doesn’t he have to deal with this latest McCabe family Christmas crisis?”

“He’s on a mission out of the country somewhere. I’ve called in every favor I can to try and track him down. But he’s off the grid for now. Once I get a hold of him, though, he’ll be here. I’m sure of it. You’re the one I was worried wouldn’t show up.”

“Yeah, well, just know I’m doing this as a favor to you. I’m not staying any longer than I have to.”

“I’ll take what I can get.” Wyatt motioned for Bull to follow him up the steps. “This is Elena Vargas, a local ICE agent. We serve together on the Border Security Task Force. My big brother, Bull McCabe. He’s the Chicago PD detective I told you about. He’s worked a lot of drug cases over the years. And nobody knows this land the way he does. If there’s any track to follow, any place to hide, he’ll find it.”

“A big-city cop?” The woman looked skeptical.

Bull looked down—way down—to meet the agent’s dark eyes. He hadn’t earned his nickname just from the rodeos he’d competed in back in high school and college. He was the biggest and brawniest of the three McCabe brothers, and he was impressed that Elena Vargas didn’t seem intimidated by that fact.

“Agent Vargas.” They shook hands. “Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Does that have something to do with the girl’s disappearance? Is she an illegal?”

“She’s blond-haired and has eyes the same color as you and your brother.” She propped her hands on her hips and challenged him. “Think you can find a girl like that around here with your tracking skills, detective?”

Bull ignored the sarcasm. “Things don’t change much around this part of the country, Agent Vargas. I remember it well.”

Wyatt backed him up. “There’s probably not an inch of this ranch Bull hasn’t covered on horseback, ATV or on foot. And he knows how these kind of people operate. We need his expertise.”

“You need it,” Elena insisted. “There’s no time for random searches through the countryside. Calderón and his Los Jaguares are dangerous men. I believe this kidnapping is related to a drug-smuggling operation I’ve been investigating. I’m willing to work with the sheriff’s department on this, Wyatt—to let you handle it personally to protect this foolish sister of yours. But I’m not willing to wait forever.”

“I haven’t even had a chance to talk to my brother Morgan. At least let me give Bull a briefing so he’s up to speed on what’s happening here. He could probably use some food and a few hours sleep, too.”

With an impatient huff, Elena marched past both men down to her ICE vehicle. She didn’t stop until she opened the door to her SUV and turned to give them an ultimatum. “I’ll give you one hour, Wyatt. I hope the reinforcements you’ve called in can help us. But Calderón and his criminales won’t wait. The task force needs to move on this. So one hour. Call me.”

Wyatt was still staring as the dark-haired beauty drove away in a plume of dust.

Bull glanced over at the steely clench of his brother’s jaw. He could see that Agent Vargas had wormed her way beneath Wyatt’s cool, calm and collected facade. And that, apparently, wasn’t a good thing. “Are you running this show, Sheriff, or is she?”

Wyatt flashed him a snarky glance before hiding his face beneath the brim of his hat. “Come on inside. I’ll explain everything I know about the kidnapping and...Brittany.”

Bull followed him to the door. “What’s to explain? The old man never could keep it in his pants. Broke Mom’s heart more than once. You’re probably too young to remember much of that.”

“I remember enough. But you can’t hold a grudge forever, Bull,” Wyatt explained. “Brittany’s in the kind of trouble that supersedes family secrets and the bad history you share with Dad.” Wyatt opened the door and halted before stepping inside. “She needs us. She needs the kind of help that you, Morgan and I can give her.”

“Not the kind of help that Agent Vargas can?”

“Protecting Brittany and getting her safely home isn’t Elena’s priority.”

“But it has to be ours, right?”

Wyatt’s shoulders lifted and he looked Bull square in the eye. “Brittany’s a good kid. But she’s got nobody but us. This family is fractured enough as it is. I intend to protect whatever we have left. Are you in?”

Bull nodded, impressed with how the pipsqueak had grown up, even if his ideology was a little too rose-colored-glasses for Bull’s taste. “I’m in.”

Catching the door, Bull followed his brother into the front entryway. But his purposeful stride slowed as another wave of memories washed over him. The pungent scent of fresh pine tickled his nose. The tree he’d seen through the front window must be freshly cut. It matched another garland of greenery and lights that looped through a peg board running along the foyer wall that held hats and keys and jackets.

Bull’s breath lodged in his chest. Other than the new decorations, this place was like a museum frozen in time. A black Stetson, wide-brimmed and shaped to fit his own head, hung from a wooden peg. Wyatt disappeared around the corner into the main room, calling for their father while Bull reached out to brush his fingertips over the soft crease in the Stetson’s crown. He’d left the hat hanging there that last day he’d stormed out and driven off to his dorm in College Station without any intention of ever returning.

He knocked a layer of dust off the crown and then wiped his fingers on the leg of his jeans as his attention turned to the other keepsakes on display in the entryway. There was Morgan’s state fair ribbon on the wall beside some academic thing Wyatt had won. And on the front table, nestled among family portraits and more greenery, stood a glassed-in shadow box on a small easel. His silver high-school rodeo champion belt buckle was mounted inside. A slow smile spread across Bull’s mouth as he remembered the pride he’d felt the day he’d outlasted that giant Brahma and earned that championship. For a few days after that, he’d been on top of the world, invincible. For a few days, his dad had been proud of him.

Bull glanced around to take it all in. These were the good memories he had of growing up here. Their mother had proudly framed and shown off each of her sons’ accomplishments. Automatically, Bull’s gaze went to the image of the petite dynamo who had raised them. He touched his fingertip to the glass over her smiling face. “Miss you, Mom.”

The one anomaly in the collection of family artifacts drew his attention to a lump of yellow clay, crudely molded with several stubby extensions protruding in various directions. Bull picked up the tiny sculpture and frowned. Unlike the other keepsakes on the front table, it was free of dust, clearly a new addition. Where had it come from? And who besides their mother had ever cared to put a piece of a child’s art on display?

He heard the footsteps on the stairs and tensed.

“Welcome home, son.”

Squeezing both sentimentality and curiosity from his veins, Bull turned to greet the man coming down the stairs. Other than the silvering hair and knees bent from too many years and too many injuries that shortened his height, Bull was every inch his father’s son.

“Justice.”

The older man bristled for a moment at the use of his given name by his middle son. But he curbed whatever he’d been tempted to say and smiled instead. “That’s a horse. Don’t worry, I had to ask what it was, too.”

Was his father really joking around as though broken promises and ultimatums hadn’t kept them apart for ten years?

“I’m glad Wyatt got ahold of you.” Justice McCabe stretched his arm out, and for a split second Bull thought he was making an attempt to shake his hand. Instead, the older man plucked the lumpy representation of a horse from his fingers and set it down beside the photograph Bull had just touched. “Brittany helped Cody make that.”

Bull tensed. Was a new grandchild part of the family now, too? “Who’s Cody?”

The screen door in the kitchen at the back of the house slammed. Justice glanced toward the sounds of laughter and running feet and a woman’s voice calling out. “Cody? Come back here. Wipe your feet.”

“I think you’re about to find out.”

“Juh-tis!” A little boy, wearing dusty cowboy boots about a size too big for his feet, bolted from the kitchen and ran up to the two men. “I counted tree horses!”

To Bull’s surprise, his father scooped up the thigh-high youngster and bounced him on his hip. “Three?”

“Yep.” A stubby little finger shot up with each number. “One. Two. Tree.”

“That’s right.” Bull felt like he’d stepped into an alternate universe. His father was playing with the boy, practically beaming. “And how old are you?”

The same fingers went up again. “Tree!”

Bull looked from the sandy-haired child up to the man he barely recognized. Surely this wasn’t another offspring from one of Justice’s more recent dalliances. “And Cody would be...?”

The child answered first by tapping his chest. “I’m Cody. I can count to tree. One. Two. Tree.”

“Good job, buddy.” It was impossible not to be charmed by the little boy’s enthusiasm—or to stop the smile relaxing his own face. Bull held up three big fingers and the boy tapped each one, repeating his numbers again. “I’m Bull.”

Cody’s sweet round face squinched up in a frown. “I can’t go where the bull is. He’s very mean.”

“It’s the four-legged kind that’s mean.” He tweaked the boy’s nose and winked. “I’m the two-legged Bull. I won’t hurt ya.”

The boy’s confusion vanished in an instant and he counted off his fingers again. “One leg. Two—”

“I’m sorry, Justice.” A tall, willowy blonde with a chic ponytail and an exasperated expression walked in from the kitchen. “He got away from me. I need to run these tax forms into town before the post office closes. I thought the cook might still be here to watch him.”

She reached out to take the child from Justice’s arms. But with a smiling insistence Bull scarcely remembered from his own childhood, his father shifted the boy onto the other hip. “I sent Maria home early today. You run along. I can take care of him for a little while.”

The blonde straightened the sealed manila envelope she’d tucked beneath her arm and purse. “I know you have other priorities right now. I don’t want to be an imposition.”

“Nonsense. I said I’d do it and I’ll do it. Dakota, do you remember my son Bull?” The momentary sharpness of his tone eased to make the polite introduction. “This is Dakota Dayton and her son, Cody. She does all the accounting for me and the ranch now. Lives in old LeRoy’s cabin out back. It’s not the same homesteader’s cabin you remember. We’ve completely redone the inside and updated everything—even put a studio apartment on the top floor.”

“Of course, Bull, I remember you.”

The memory of a woman much younger and less frazzled finally registered. The last name was different, but several years back, she’d gone out on a few dates with his brother Morgan. “Dakota. It’s been a while. You’re looking well.”

“You’re a good liar, but thanks.” Her handshake was as smoothly professional as her smile. But the cool tone wavered a bit when she turned her gaze up to Justice. “Are you sure about watching Cody? I can take him with me if I have to.”

“I don’t mind. Hey, did you ever pick up that S-A-N-T-A gift I ordered for the boy?” The no had barely formed on her lips before Justice shooed her back to the kitchen. “Get out of here, then. You can pick that up after you run by the post office.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She planted a kiss on Cody’s cheek before tossing Bull a wave and hurrying out the back door. “Good to see you again.”

“Let’s move this to my office.” Justice carried Cody through the main room and past the decorated tree before setting the boy down inside the room where Justice ran both the ranching and business ventures that had made him a wealthy man. “Down you go, son.”

Bull noted the box of toys that had been added to the bookshelves and leather furniture that lined the room. After watching the three-year-old dump out a pile of building blocks to begin construction on a tiny ranch of his own, Bull followed his father to the hand-carved walnut desk where Wyatt was pulling a sheet out of the computer printer.

“I got a copy of the transcription you asked for, Dad.”

The little boy pulled a plastic horse from the toy box and knocked over the blocks with a toddler-size roar. Then, laughing with delight, he set the horse down and began reconstructing his buildings all over again. He looked so at home playing in the corner of Justice’s office, like he had no doubt he belonged here.

“Is Cody yours, too?” Bull asked bluntly.

Wyatt groaned. “And here we go.”

Justice swung around and thumped a finger in the middle of Bull’s chest. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

Ignoring the taunt, Bull dropped down to pick up a block that had tumbled beneath one of the leather couches and handed it back to the boy. “But I’m supposed to pretend enjoying this kid’s company is normal behavior for you? And decorating the house? Who are you trying to impress?”

“Understand this, Virgil McCabe. Mrs. Dayton works for me. It’s good business to hire someone with her qualifications. Accommodations in the cabin for her and her son are part of her salary, nothing more.”

Bull straightened to his full height. “Virgil? You’re going to start calling me Virgil now? That honor was reserved for Mom.”

“I don’t have to impress anyone. The decorations are for the boy. Every child should have the chance to celebrate Christmas.”

“Would you two stop going at it like rival stallions and focus on the more pertinent problem?” Wyatt got between them and thrust the printout into Bull’s hands. “Brittany Means is seventeen years old and being held hostage by a Mexican drug lord who promises to kill her on Christmas Day if we don’t give him what he wants or we can’t find her first. That’s a transcript of the ransom message he left on Dad’s phone.” He stuck a second printout into his hands. “That’s her picture. Take a good look at her, Bull. She’s the reason you’re here.”

Tearing his combative gaze from his father, Bull glanced down at the image in his hand. Brittany Means must have gotten her blond, wavy hair from her mother. But the dark gray eyes and strong jawline were uncomfortably similar to the angles he looked at in the mirror each day. The family resemblance was unmistakable.

Wyatt was smarter than Bull had given him credit for. He’d put a face to the problem at hand. This wasn’t about Justice betraying their mother. This wasn’t about some mistake he’d hidden from his sons for seventeen years.

Bull had a sister.

He had a baby sister.

And she needed him.

Bull ran his hand over the top of his short brown hair. Damn the pipsqueak, anyway, for making him care. It was easier to be angry. But when had Bull McCabe ever done anything the easy way? “I’m sorry if I insinuated anything about Dakota or Cody. Old habits are hard to forget.”

“Old hurts, too,” Justice conceded.

With a temporary truce in place, Bull smoothed out the paper he’d crumpled in his fist, dutifully adjusting his focus. He swore as he read the concisely worded threat. “Why didn’t you ever tell us about this sister sooner?”

“Margaret—her mother—never wanted me to be a part of Brittany’s life, and I respected that. She thought it’d be harder for Brittany if gossip got around that she’d slept with a married man and gotten pregnant. And she knew I wouldn’t leave your mama.” His father looked suddenly like a much older man as he sank down into the chair behind the desk. “Margaret was smart enough to know I wasn’t good father material. I tried to do right by her, though. As long as I kept it anonymous, she let me help out financially. I even paid her medical expenses when she got so sick at the end.” Pain deepened the lines of his face. “It was her decision to finally tell Brittany the truth. And then, when she was gone and there was nowhere else for the girl to go... I promised I’d take care of her. Look how well I’ve done so far.”

Wyatt reached over to squeeze their father’s shoulder. “You’re not the same man who raised us, Dad. We’ll get her back. And you’ll have the chance to make things right with her.”

Justice patted Wyatt’s hand, then looked across the desk to include Bull. “What about you boys? Will I ever have the chance to make things right with you?”

Bull wanted to believe there was a chance at reconciliation. He might have believed it if he didn’t have thirty years of life experience to remind him that Justice McCabe lied. Wyatt had apparently bought into their father’s reformed ways. But Bull had come here braced to do battle. Maybe he had gone on the defensive far too quickly. The aging man sitting across the desk from him, the man who played with a little boy, wasn’t the father he remembered.

A knock on the door curtailed the internal debate. “Mr. McCabe?”

Rusty Fisher, a longtime ranch hand at the J-Bar-J, stepped into the room. The deferential hat in his hand went by the wayside when he spotted Bull. A big, gap-toothed smile lifted the corners of his handlebar mustache. “Well, look who’s come back home. Bull, how are ya?” He slapped his hand into Bull’s for a hearty shake before stepping back. “Hear you’re a big-city boy now. Other than being a little pale, you look as fit and ready to work as ever.”

“Rusty, good to see you.” The snakeskin belt was new, but the prized mustache and friendly welcome were the same as they’d always been. “There’s not much call for herding cattle up in Chicago these days.”

“Still roundin’ up those bad guys?”

Bull pulled back the front of his jacket to let him see his badge. “I made detective a couple years ago.”

“Well, don’t that beat all.”

“Rusty.” Justice stood up, propping his fists on the desktop. “I’m having a meeting with my sons. Is there a reason for this interruption?”

Quickly remembering who was boss around here, Rusty glanced over at Cody. “I ran into Mrs. Dayton out back. She said her boy was in here, but that you needed to conduct some business. I can take him out to the stable with me for a bit. I know he likes looking at Missy’s colt.”

“Horsie!” Cody piped up.

Justice’s stern face softened with a smile. “Good idea, Rusty. Thanks.”

“Come on, little man.” Cody eagerly latched on to Rusty’s hand and headed out the door with him.

“Don’t you take your eyes off him,” Justice warned.

“I won’t.” Rusty tipped his hat to say goodbye, then hurried his pace to keep up with the excited child.

Instead of going back to the unsettling idea that his father’s desire to make amends was sincere, Bull concentrated on the reason he was here—and summoned the investigative skills Wyatt had asked for. “Is this all we know so far?” He read aloud the ransom message in his hand. “You have a deadline. By midnight Christmas Eve, you sign over usage rights to the river valley on the western expanse of your ranch to Javier Calderón, or your daughter will die.”

Wyatt added his report. “We know that she left school three days ago. One of her friends saw her get into a rusty old farm truck with a flatbed, and she hasn’t been seen anywhere in town since.”

“Any description of the driver?”

“Hispanic male was all I got. He wore a hat that shadowed his face. They didn’t recognize the truck and nobody wrote down a license number.”

That description was next to useless in this part of the country. “Does she have a boyfriend? Any other place in town or on one of the nearby ranches where she’d go to get away from things?”

“She’s not old enough to date,” Justice insisted. “Besides, she’s been kidnapped. She hasn’t run off with some boy.”

Bull had to guess it was more wishful thinking than naïveté that made his father think a teenage girl wouldn’t be interested in a boy. He turned to Wyatt for a more levelheaded answer. “Who does she trust enough to get into a vehicle with?”

“I’ve talked to some of her friends.” His brother shook his head. “None of them say she’s been seeing anyone.”

“The friend or boyfriend might not be from here.” Bull remembered the argument on the front porch when he’d first arrived. “Is that why you asked Agent Vargas to get involved? Does she have contacts over the border?”

“Something like that.”

Justice wouldn’t be left out of the conversation. “I own every inch of this land—from the Mexican border to the Cobb’s spread up north and west to the river.” He crossed to the map painting on the wall behind his desk, outlining the ranch and surrounding lands. “Calderón says he wants to use it as a shipping shortcut for his alpaca farm in Mexico. Alpacas, my ass. He wants to bring drugs into the country over J-Bar-J land. I make a lot of deals when it comes to running a successful business, but I won’t help a criminal. I won’t let that happen.”

Bull narrowed his gaze. “Something tells me he’s approached you before.”

“He offered me money to transport his livestock and I told him no. His men slashed my tires in town and threatened that other accidents would happen if I didn’t cooperate. That’s when I knew this was about the drugs.”

“And now he has your daughter,” Bull said evenly. “Are you going to rethink saying no to him?”

“There has to be a way to rescue her and keep the Los Jaguares off my land.”

“Not to mention keeping his drugs out of the country. Were there any other threats between the slashed tires and the abduction?” Ah, hell. That stony silence meant there had been. “Your stubbornness let the trouble escalate to this?”

“I thought I could handle it. I made it clear to Calderón that I wouldn’t condone or be a part of what he does.”

“So he found a way to bend the mighty Justice McCabe to his will.”

“Here we go again,” Wyatt muttered.

Justice pushed back his chair and stood. “What is that crack supposed to mean? You think this is my fault?”

“You almost had me there, with Wyatt throwing his sweet talk in on the argument. No wonder Morgan hasn’t shown up yet. He’s smart enough to keep his distance.” Bull folded the printouts and stuffed them inside his jacket pocket. “You hurt everything you touch. All to save your land or your pride and reputation.” He tapped his heart, where Brittany’s image lay inside his jacket. “And now this girl is paying the price for being a part of your life.”

Justice came around the table. “Still so angry? Holding on to hate like that wears a man down, son. I made mistakes—said and did things I deeply regret. I asked you boys to be men before you were ready to handle that responsibility, and then I cut you down when you couldn’t live up to my impossible demands. But I’m trying to live a better life now. For Brittany. To honor your mother’s memory. I’ve learned to ask forgiveness and move on.”

Bull squared off against him. “Are you going to ask for my forgiveness, Justice?”

“When you’re ready.”

“Don’t hold your breath, old man. You promised this place would be mine one day and then you threw me out.”

“I was angry at the world. I was devastated by your mother’s death.”

“So was I. We all were. In the end I didn’t care about the damn ranch. What I needed was my family. And all I had was you, smacking me around.”

The weathered skin went pale. “I thought you could take it.”

“I couldn’t.” Before any other emotion—guilt, regret, anger, love, pain—could blindside him, Bull stormed out of the office. “I need some air.”

“Bull!”

The Christmas tree was a colorful blur as he headed back to the hallway. The faint hope that things might have changed on the J-Bar-J was blurring, too.

“Hold up, big man.” Wyatt closed the office door and chased Bull into the hallway, falling into stride beside him. “You two are just alike. You know that, don’t you?”

“Like that helps.” On impulse, Bull grabbed the black hat, brushing the dust off on his pant leg as he headed out the door. If he was still a teen, right about now is when he’d be marching off to the stables to escape the latest conflict on a long ride into the countryside. Today, he’d settle for a fast drive in his pickup.

His brother’s booted feet followed him down the steps and across the gravel to his truck. “You’re tired. Your nerves are on edge. The old man hasn’t slept much in the last couple of days, either—”

“Enough, Wyatt. You’re not working any miracles here.” Bull tossed his hat into the open window of his truck and spun around. “Alike or not, that man and I are never going to make peace. If I can’t get past the resentment he stirs up in me, I’m not going to be any good to you. Or Brittany.”

His glance back at the house took his gaze farther north across the rugged landscape. He remembered losing himself in the rocks and dust. He remembered finding solace there.

“If you’re looking for Tracy Cobb, she doesn’t live at her parents’ ranch anymore.”

“What?” Bull squinted into the rosy sunset and dragged his gaze back to Wyatt.

“I know how you and Dad would get into it, and then you’d go off to find her. The two of you would talk until the sun went down.” The pipsqueak grinned. “Or came up. You know, she hasn’t married.”

His brother was matchmaking now? “Tracy Cobb and I were never more than neighbors. Friends. Classmates.”

“You’re tellin’ me that all those times you rode over to the Cobb ranch you never once made a play for Tomboy Tracy?” What Bull and Tracy had done on their long rides together was nobody’s business but theirs. And if anyone thought something had happened...it hadn’t. They’d talked. They’d listened. They’d been each other’s adolescent salvation. But it rankled to hear that his brother—or anyone else—believed Tracy had been anything more, or less, than his best friend. “Well, if you’re looking for an old classmate to reconnect with, she lives in town now. Her apartment’s a few blocks from where I live.”

Bull opened the truck door and climbed in behind the wheel. “I’m not staying, Wyatt. I’m not reconnecting. All I need is a drink and some space to clear my head. Where do I go to find a cold beer around here?”

“I don’t want to hear that one of my deputies pulled you over for a DUI.”

“You won’t.” He closed the door and started the engine. “Let me know if you hear from Morgan. In the meantime, I’ll call my contacts to see what I can uncover about Calderón’s operation. I’ll find you later tonight to compare notes.” He held up his wrist and tapped his watch. He could do the innuendo thing, too. “Isn’t it about time you checked in with Agent Vargas?”

“I recommend Margarita’s over on Acuna Street,” Wyatt advised, cleverly avoiding the question and backing away as Bull shifted the truck into gear.

Between Justice and the kidnapping, the memories he wanted to forget and the ones he wished he could hold on to, he definitely needed that drink.

* * *

THE SUN HAD SET BY THE TIME Bull found a parking space on Acuna Street. And while things hadn’t changed all that much out at the J-Bar-J, the scenery here in Serpentine had. Apparently, lots of folks were getting a jump start on their holiday celebration this weekend. For a town of only 35,000, the downtown area was jumping.

The growing population of locals, immigrants and military personnel from the nearby air force base was reflected in the explosion of bars and restaurants here. Bull adjusted the black Stetson he’d reclaimed on top of his head before strolling down the sidewalk. The cop in him liked the idea of blending in with the other pedestrians and partiers, giving him the opportunity to take note of his surroundings without calling attention to himself any more than the Illinois license plate on his truck already did.

The temperature hadn’t cooled all that much, but he left his blazer on to mask the gun he wore, and quickly sized up the hot spots. A saloon-styled bar dubiously named Shifty’s had a line waiting outside to get in. Frankie’s Cantina seemed to have a corner on the military clientele while a rare sighting of men and women in suits and business attire were smoking their cigarettes outside a sit-down restaurant called Miguel’s.

Bull politely averted his head from the make-out session inside one of the cars parked on the street, and wondered if the trio of young Hispanic men claiming the right-of-way by walking side by side on the opposite side of the street were up to anything they shouldn’t be, or if their boisterous conversation and flirty catcalls to every woman they passed just meant they’d started their drinking sooner than the rest of the crowd. It was good to get a feeling for the town again, see what he recognized, identify what was less familiar, so he wouldn’t be at a disadvantage asking questions and looking for leads into Brittany’s kidnapping.

The tension he’d felt at the ranch eased a little more with every step. He tipped the brim of his hat to a pair of raven-haired hotties who smiled up at him. And the mix of country music and Latin rhythms pouring out of Margarita’s bar at the end of the street was calling to him like the thirst for something tangy and cold to drink.

The crowd thinned and the music grew louder as he neared the end of the block. His eye was drawn to a woman pacing near the alleyway next to Margarita’s. Shooting darting glances at every man who passed, and underdressed for the town’s nightlife in plain jeans and a blouse, she stood out like a wallflower at a junior high dance.

Still, there was something about her that kept distracting him from the street life he wanted to survey. Her hair wasn’t just a brown ponytail hanging down her back. The shining neon from the bar’s entrance reflected red highlights, giving the curling waves a sorrel sheen. And plain clothes didn’t matter. There was plenty to admire in the rear view of her jeans when she turned and moved away.

Bull’s blood warmed with the possibility of unwinding with something more than a cold beer. He meant what he’d told Wyatt—he wasn’t back in Serpentine to make any lasting connections with anyone. But maybe he could persuade that sweet backside to go for a two-step spin around the dance floor with him.

“Or not.”

Wasn’t that just the way this trip back home had been going for him? The woman’s entire posture changed from restless waiting to an eager greeting when a tall, black-haired Hispanic man walked out of Margarita’s. Although dressed a little warmly for the night in a black leather jacket, he flashed a smile when she waved and he hurried over to join her. Miss Sweet Jeans was taken.

Bull’s own pace slowed as he watched the couple’s greeting unfold. Sweet Jeans straightened her shoulders and tipped her chin as the man approached. She was bracing for the encounter, not welcoming him. She reached into the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out a roll of money.

Seriously? A drug buy? He’d been lusting after a user?

A suspicious beat of alarm in his pulse pushed aside his disappointment as the man in black leather slapped his hand over her fist and pulled the money down out of sight between them. Bull lengthened his steps into a jog. Where was the dope? Where was the smooth handoff? Dealers didn’t linger with their customers like this guy.

“Walk away, lady,” Bull urged on a tight breath.

He recognized the signs of a drug buy going south. The dealer clamped his free hand around the woman’s arm and pulled her into the alley with him. Sweet Jeans was in trouble.

Bull’s interest morphed into concern. With a quick check for traffic, he bolted across the street and ducked into the shadows at the edge of the alley. All it took was a peek around the corner to see the woman yank her arm from the man’s grasp and to see the gun holstered beneath the leather jacket.

“Well?” she demanded, rubbing her arm. “I brought the money.”

With one hand, the bum stuffed the cash wad into his jacket pocket. With the other, he reached out and stroked the woman’s cheek. She jerked away from his touch and he laughed. “What else do you have for me, chica?”

“You said—”

“Ma’am? Are you all right?” Spotting a second bulge at the man’s ankle where another gun or knife was hidden, Bull stepped out of the shadows and made his presence known.

Startled, she whirled around, her eyes catching the light from the street. For a split second, Bull was struck by the blueness of her irises and just how pretty they were. Then the rest of her face registered.

Oh, no. There was a wholesome maturity to the dusting of freckles across her cheeks that hadn’t been there a decade ago. Breasts and a butt softened the coltish figure he remembered.

One thing had definitely changed in Serpentine, Texas.

“Tracy?” Tomboy Tracy? The girl next door all grown up into this pretty woman? Buying drugs? “Tracy Cobb?”

“Bull?” She threw up her hands, gasped something distinctly unladylike, then pointed toward him. “Duck!”