“Caro, let’s get our horses and go meet Whit.”
Well, he’d used her name again, and she hadn’t slapped him, so maybe not all of the progress was gone.
“Ranger Hart, I realize it’s not my duty.” She said the last word as if it were bitter on her tongue. “But I suggest we investigate the area where the shooter was sitting before the trail grows cold.”
“If you call me Chisholm, we have a deal.”
“Then, let’s get moving—” She paused. “Chisholm.”
He liked the sound of his name on her lips. He blinked. Had he been staring at her lips? Good heavens. If he was attracted to Caro Cardova, only one thing was for sure: He’d been away from womenfolk way too long.
Caro stomped her foot. She was a woman, not a child. Why had Chisholm changed his mind about seeking out the shooter as soon as they’d met Whit on the road?
“It’s for your own good.” Chisholm glanced at Whit, hoping he’d add his opinion, but Whit remained silent. “The more I think about it, the more I’m sure we should come back after we see you home.”
“You’re not familiar with the trails around here. You need my help.” And if she didn’t help them, the dimpled Texas Ranger would be around forever. “Besides, you said that you believe whoever shot at you is long gone.”
He scowled. “They shot at us, not just me.”
“Look at this dress.” She held out the sides of her yellow skirt. “If they were shooting at me and missed, then they are a very poor shot. I’m an easy target.”
“She’s right, and it will go faster if you let her help, Chisholm. Remember, you need to get on with that other job.”
Chisholm’s brows drew together. “Other job?”
“The one your dad gave you.” Whit chuckled.
He shot a glare in his friend’s direction, and then climbed on his horse, silent for the first time all day. Apparently, the Texas Ranger didn’t like to lose an argument. That was fine. Neither did Caro.
Caro listened as the two men discussed their findings. Whit reported that Slade McCord said his wranglers had completed 90 percent of their roundup. He had no idea why the two ranches were targeted or where the stolen cattle could be hidden. His men, Whit said, seemed deeply loyal to Slade McCord.
“But I wasn’t impressed with Mr. McCord. He’s a hard man, and I had the feeling he’d do anything necessary to get ahead.” Whit turned to Caro. “And he sure believes Ricardo is behind this.”
“Slade McCord is a fool.” Caro steeled her shoulders and pointed to the trail ahead. “I think the shooter would have taken this path.”
Conversation ceased as they made their way along the narrow trail. When they neared the shooter’s possible perch, Caro watched the two men dismount and examine the area on foot. Her stomach knotted every time they appeared to find something of interest. What were they looking at? As much as she insisted Ricardo was innocent, she wasn’t absolutely certain. He was an excellent shot. Would they discover something that linked him to the cattle rustling, or worse, to the shooting?
Caro joined the Rangers. “How do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Chisholm is a great tracker. It’s what got him into the Rangers.” Whit stood. “The rest of his brothers were on a cattle drive, but they left him home to keep an eye on the ranch. A Texas Ranger came looking for a murderer, so Chisholm used his tracking skills to hunt the man down and helped the Ranger capture him.”
“How did you learn to be a tracker?”
Chisholm walked over to stand with them. “Pa found a wounded young Kiowa when I was a boy. He stayed at the ranch until he was better. I spent a lot of time with him and taught him enough English so that we could talk. We became friends, and he taught me to see things that most people miss.”
“Such as?”
“Come here. I’ll show you.” He returned to the area he’d been examining. Squatting, he pointed to a set of prints. “Tracking is like a story that’s being written and unwritten every day. You have to look for the parts and put the pieces together. You can’t learn it overnight. It’s like learning to read. You start with the ABCs, the easy stuff, like where the suspect was heading, then you work up to the hard stuff with hidden meanings, the suspect’s mind-set or intent.”
She knelt beside him. “You can tell all that from a footprint?”
“Not just one, but yes, you can from a set of prints.” He bent low and pointed to an area. “You see this grass? See how the animal, in this case a person, pressed it down and now the shiny side of the grass catches the sunlight? That shininess disappears in about two hours, and the grass will return to normal in a day, so that means someone has been here in the last two hours. Our shooter most likely made this track.” He stood and held out his hand to assist her. They walked over to another set of prints. “See how far apart the prints are here? Our shooter was running. He mounted his horse here.”