LITMIR.BIZ

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him pause.

      Sure as shooting she was the type woman who was trouble for a man like him. Hadn’t Mrs. Leach told her that she was to mind her own business while she was here?

      He whipped around to ask her that, but Miss Cade was nowhere to be seen. That didn’t ease his mind none. She may not be near, but she’d gotten an earful.

      He met Hubert’s calculating eyes. The old man was like a hawk, always keeping an eye on him.

      Though he couldn’t prove it, he suspected Hubert kept Burl Erston apprised of what he was doing here at the ranch. If Reid didn’t tow the line, Kirby’s cousin would make good his threat and bring a heap of trouble crashing down on the two men Reid considered brothers.

      “You get Miss Cade settled?” he asked Hubert.

      “Indeed. I was introducing her to her domicile when you commenced bellowing.”

      “Reckon my voice carried.”

      “Like a bugle on the wind, sir.”

      Reid winced. He hadn’t intended to vent his anger where his new cook could overhear. But she had, and if his suspicions were right, she’d eavesdropped on the rest of what had been said.

      “Forgive me, sir, but are you certain this Ezra Kincaid stole Cormac?”

      Being reminded that his prize stallion had been rustled from under his nose had Reid close to stomping mad again. “Middling so. Booth claims Frank Arlen saw the old outlaw riding off on the sorrel.”

      “How convenient Mr. Arlen happened by to witness the thievery.”

      The same thought had crossed his mind as well. “Booth said Arlen came around looking for work again. He was let go at the spread north of here that he’d been working.”

      “I’m not surprised.”

      Neither was Reid. Arlen had two streaks of lazy running down his spine.

      “Did Mr. Howard mount a search for the stallion?” Hubert asked.

      Reid shook his head. “By the time Arlen got around to telling him about the rustler, the tracks would’ve drifted over.”

      “The thief chose a perfect time.”

      That he had. Reid never expected Kincaid would steal his prize stallion right off his ranch. Now if that wasn’t rubbing his face (and pride) in a cow pie, he didn’t know what was.

      “Should I inform the cook of your dinner preference?” Hubert asked.

      “Whatever she wants to dish up is fine by me.” He’d been content with Moss’s whistle berries, sowbelly and soda sinkers.

      “Very well, sir. Will there be anything you require? Perhaps a brandy.”

      “I’ll take you up on that later,” Reid said. “Right now I aim to have a long talk with the hands. Since Kincaid found it so easy to walk off with one horse, he’ll likely return for another.”

      Hubert’s owlish eyes remained as emotionless as ever. “I hope that the thief has the sense to keep the horse stabled in this weather.”

      Reid hoped the same as he shrugged into his sheepskin coat. He headed for the back door, his bootheels hammering the floor, mirroring his anger. He had to make peace with the two men he’d wronged so badly, and so far he hadn’t had a lick of luck locating them.

      In the six months he’d been back here, he’d watched his herd of prize thoroughbreds thunder over the high plains, kicking up a cloud of dust.

      And sometimes, when that dun grit settled, he saw a young woman lying in the middle of a dusty street, her calico skirts fanned around her as a red stain spread across her chest. He’d never seen her lifeless eyes, but he’d damned sure remembered the condemning ones of the sheriff.

      He hung his head. Remorse mingled with the old anger that had never truly left him.

      He’d struck a devil’s bargain to save his hide, and ensure the two men he called brothers weren’t dragged into his nightmare. But he’d been lied to from the start. He hadn’t realized how deeply he’d been deceived by Burl Erston until he’d returned to America six months ago.

      Kirby was dead. Dade and Trey had vanished, accused of rustling cattle off the ranch, which had to be a damned lie. And Burl Erston held the controlling shares of the Crown Seven in his tight fist.

      He’d known then that righting that wrong wouldn’t be easy. It may prove impossible with a marshal out to make his mark and an old outlaw determined to even a score.

      As he passed the kitchen door, he caught a glimpse of Miss Cade staring forlornly at the stove. He had the distinct feeling she was miles out of her element. She wore much the same look that he’d seen staring back at him in a mirror since the shooting.

      Don’t go looking for trouble.

      Miss Cade could just as easily be piqued about the quality of the cooking contraption or the scarcity of needed goods in their larder. Whatever was amiss, Hubert could see to it.

      Reid pushed out the back door and turned up his collar. A gust of bitter wind stole his breath and forced him to struggle with each step.

      The coat of fresh powder blew sideways in a blinding curtain. No doubt about it, he’d gotten back here in the nick of time.

      He grabbed the rope line at the end of the terrace and followed it toward the hazy shape of the outbuildings. Bits of ice pelted his face and stung his eyes, but his ire failed to cool. By the time he reached the long, low bunkhouse he was spitting mad.

      He’d warned his crew time and again to guard those thoroughbreds. Somebody had let him down, and that somebody had better have a damned good reason for being derelict in his duty.

      He pushed into the mess hall that smelled of rich meat juices, spice and working men. Eight pairs of eyes focused on him with myriad degrees of annoyance at having their supper interrupted.

      He put his weight against the door to close it and stamped the snow from his boots.

      “Pears you brought in an avalanche,” Moss said in that scratchy voice that held a hint of pain.

      “It’s coming down again,” Reid said.

      “Park it on a bench while I fetch you a plate of stew.”

      “Coffee will be enough for now.” Reid ambled to the table and lifted a hand to stop his foreman, Howard Booth, from vacating his seat at the head of the long table. “I want to know everyone’s whereabouts when Kincaid stole my stallion.”

      “We were on the trail of a wolf pack,” Neal said, and indicated two other punchers who nodded agreement.

      “I was busting ice so the cattle could drink,” another hand said.

      Shane flicked him a worried look that raised his suspicions. “One of the support posts on that lean-to snapped and brought down the roof.”

      “We lose any cattle?”

      “Nope, but they scattered to hell and gone.” Shane took a long sip of his coffee. “Took the rest of the day rounding them up again.”

      “Was the post rotted?” Reid asked.

      “Nope.” Shane ran his thumb around the rim of his coffee cup, as if drawing the moment out. “It’s possible the cattle leaned into it and it snapped. Possible that somebody threw a line around it with the intentions of dragging it down.”

      Understanding dawned. “But the wood gave first.”

      Shane shrugged. “It made a damned fine diversion.”

      “Kincaid’s handiwork,” Reid said, and the men grunted and bobbed their heads in agreement.

      “I had the hands run the herd into the paddock while I stabled Etain, Tara and Grania,” Howard said, muddling the mares’

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