LITMIR.BIZ

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Ty did know Clayton. For most of his life, Clayton had ridden bulls. Now that he couldn’t ride anymore, he “talked” bulls. Or talked “bull,” as some said.

      Still, Ty was worried about him. He decided to swing by Clayton’s trailer on the opposite side of town before returning to the ranch.

      Dusty McCall drove past as Ty climbed into his truck. He let out a sigh as he watched her leave. All he’d done was make her mad. But the fool girl could have gotten herself killed. What had been going on with her lately?

      Not your business, Coltrane.

      Didn’t he know it.

      In spite of himself, he smiled at the memory of her riding that saddle bronc. She was something, he thought with a shake of his head. Unfortunately, she saw him at best as the cowboy next door. At worst, as another older brother, as if she needed another one.

      He shook off that train of thought like a dog shaking off water and considered what might have happened to Clayton as he started his pickup and drove into town.

      Antelope Flats was a small western town with little more than a café, motel, gas station and general store. The main business was coal or coal-bed methane gas. Those who worked either in the open-pit coal mine or for the gas companies lived twenty-plus miles away in Sheridan, Wyoming, where there was a movie theater, pizza parlors, clothing stores and real grocery stores.

      Between Antelope Flats and Sheridan there was nothing but sagebrush-studded hills and river bottom, and with deer, antelope, geese, ducks and a few wild turkeys along the way.

      Antelope Flats had grown some with the discovery of coal-bed methane gas in the land around town. There was now a drive-in burger joint on the far edge of town, a minimall coming in and talk of a real grocery store.

      Ty hoped to hell the town didn’t change too muchin the coming years. This was home. He’d been born and raised just outside of here, and he didn’t want the lifestyle to change because of progress. He knew he sounded like his father, rest his soul. But family ranches were a dying breed and Ty wanted to raise his children on the Coltrane Appaloosa Ranch just as he’d been raised.

      Clayton T. Brooks had bought a piece of ground out past town and put a small travel trailer on it. The trailer had seen better days. So had the dated old pickup the bull rider drove. The truck wasn’t out front, but Ty parked in front of the trailer and got out anyway.

      The sun was high in a cloudless blue sky. He could smell the cottonwoods and the river and felt the early spring heat on his back as he knocked on the trailer.

      No answer.

      He tried the door.

      It opened. “Clayton?” he called as he stepped into the cool darkness. The inside was neater than Ty had expected it would be. Clayton’s bed at the back looked as if he’d made it before he left this morning. Or hadn’t slept in it last night. No dishes in the sink. No sign that Clayton had been here.

      As Ty left, he couldn’t shake the bad feeling that had settled over him. Yesterday, Clayton had been all worked up over some bull ride he’d seen the weekend before at the Billings rodeo.

      Ty hated to admit he hadn’t been listening that closely. Clayton was often worked up about something and almost always it had to do with bulls or riders or rodeo.

      Was it possible Clayton had taken off to Billings because of some damn bull?

      TEXAS-BORN BOONE RASMUSSEN had been cursed from birth. It was the only thing that explained why he’d been broke and down on his luck all twenty-seven years.

      He left the rodeo grounds and drove the twenty miles north of town turning onto the road to the Edgewood Roughstock Company ranch. The road wound back in a good five more miles, a narrow dirt track that dropped down a series of hills and over a creek before coming to a dead end at the ranch house.

      Boone could forgive those first twenty-seven years if he had some promise that the next fifty were going to be better. He was certainly due for some luck. But he’d been disappointed a few too many times to put much stock in hope. Not that his latest scheme wasn’t a damned good one.

      He didn’t see Monte’s truck as he parked in the shade of the barn and glanced toward the rambling old two-story ranch house. A curtain moved on the lower floor. She’d seen him come back, was no doubt waiting for him.

      He swore and tried to ignore the quickened beat of his heart or the stirring below his belt. At least he was smart enough not to get out of the truck. He glanced over at the bulls in a nearby pasture, worry gnawing at his insides, eating away at his confidence.

      So far he’d done two things right—buying back a few of his father’s rodeo bulls after the old man’s death and hooking up with Monte Edgewood.

      But Boone worried he would screw this up, just like he did everything else. If he hadn’t already.

      He heard someone beside the truck and feared for a moment she had come out of the house after him.

      With a start, he turned to find Monte Edgewood standing at the side window. Monte had been frowning, but now smiled. “You goin’ to just sit in your pickup all day?”

      Boone tried to rid himself of the bitter taste in his mouth as he gave the older man what would pass for a smile and rolled down his window. Better Monte never know why Boone had been avoiding the house in his absence.

      “You all right, son?” Monte asked.

      Monte Edgewood had called him son since the first time they’d met behind falling-down rodeo stands in some hot, two-bit town in Texas. Boone had been all of twelve at the time. His father was kicking the crap out of him when Monte Edgewood had come along, hauled G. O. Rasmussen off and probably saved Boone’s life.

      In that way, Boone supposed he owed him. But what Boone hadn’t been able to stand was the pity he’d seen in Monte’s eyes. He’d scrambled up from the dirt and run at Monte, fists flying, humiliation and anger like rocket fuel in his blood.

      A huge man, Monte Edgewood had grabbed him in a bear hug, pinning his skinny flailing arms as Boone struggled furiously to hurt someone the way he’d been hurt. But Monte was having none of it.

      Boone fought him, but Monte refused to let go. Finally spent, Boone collapsed in the older man’s arms. Monte released him, reached down and picked up Boone’s straw hat from the dust and handed it to him.

      Then, without a word, Monte just turned and walked away. Later Boone heard that someone jumped his old man in an alley after the rodeo and kicked the living hell out of him. Boone had always suspected it had been Monte, the most nonviolent man he’d ever met.

      Unfortunately, Boone had never been able to forget the pity he’d seen in Monte’s eyes that day. Nor the sour taste of humiliation. He associated both with the man because of it. Kindness was sometimes the worse cut of all, he thought.

      Monte stepped back as Boone opened his door and got out. Middle age hadn’t diminished Monte’s size, nor had it slowed him down. His hair under his western hat was thick and peppered with gray, his face rugged. At fifty, Monte Edgewood was in his prime.

      He owned some decent enough roughstock and quite a lot of land. Monte Edgewood seemed to have everything he needed or wanted. Unlike Boone.

      But what made Monte unique was that he was without doubt the most trusting man Boone had ever met.

      And that, he thought with little remorse, would be Monte’s downfall. And Boone’s good fortune.

      “How’s Devil’s Tornado today?” Boone asked as they walked toward the ranch house where Monte had given him a room. He saw the curtain move and caught a glimpse of dyed blond hair.

      “Son, you’ve got yourself one hell of a bull there,” Monte said, laying a hand on Boone’s shoulder as they mounted the steps.

      Didn’t Boone know it.

      Monte opened the screen and they stepped into the cool dimness

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