LITMIR.BIZ

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER ONE

      RICH AUTUMN SUNLIGHT spilled over the hills and valleys of Central Texas, dancing on the slow-moving river and touching the rolling acres with gentle fingers of gold. The noonday sky was high and endless, the air as crisp and clear as champagne. Far overhead, a red-tailed hawk rode the soft wind currents, rising and wheeling with effortless grace.

      In a small corral pen of weathered split logs, a man straightened, wiped his hot face with his forearm and glanced up at the circling hawk.

      “See that?” he muttered to the animal that lay trussed and heaving on the ground in front of him. “They’re lookin’ for you, pal. Another few days and you’d have been breakfast for those guys.”

      The calf rolled his eyes and bellowed in agony. He was a large Brangus bull calf, destined someday to be a heavy thundering monster of an animal. At present, though, he was still plump and blocky, with an appealing baby look to his big dark eyes and a short blunt nose that bristled cruelly with porcupine quills.

      The black-tipped quills protruded at all angles, giving the calf’s head the comical appearance of a big furry pincushion. But there was nothing funny about the anguish in his dark liquid eyes, or the strangled bellows of pain that issued regularly from his mouth.

      “Pore little fella,” Brock Munroe muttered, gazing down at the calf, pliers dangling from his hand. He squinted up at the hawk again, then leaned against the corral rail to rest for a moment before returning to his unpleasant task.

      He was a tall broad-shouldered man in his mid-thirties with a lean hard-muscled body, a handsome tanned face and a head of crisp springing dark hair that glinted warmly in the midday sunlight. A worn plaid work shirt rested easily on his wide shoulders, the seams bleached almost white by the sunlight, and faded jeans fitted snugly over his lean hips and long muscular legs.

      Brock dropped to one knee beside the trembling calf to check a half hitch in the twine that held the little animal’s legs knotted in position. Then, frowning with grim concentration, he clamped the pliers onto another quill.

      “This won’t take long now, pal,” he murmured to the calf. “I already got all the bad ones. These others are loose already, an’ they’ll just come out like butter. See?” he added, holding a quill aloft in the metal jaws of the pliers and brandishing it before the calf’s rolling dark eyes.

      Brock worked doggedly, his big callused hands surprisingly gentle as he labored to extract the barbs from the calf’s soft nose.

      “Next time,” he muttered, “you better listen to your mama, okay? I bet she told you not to mess with those porcupines. But did you listen? Oh, no. Just like all kids, had to learn the hard way, didn’t you?”

      His deep gentle voice seemed to have a soothing effect on the animal. Gradually the calf’s trembling and straining lessened until he lay still on the dusty ground, his damp sides heaving, his neck outstretched in weary resignation.

      “Now, that’s the way to do it,” Brock praised him, gently working out the last of the quills.

      “That’s

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