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“Don't think.”
“I can't afford—” She pressed her cheek against his. “I like you too much.”
“That's a bad thing?”
“It could be. I don't know what you're up to.”
“I don't mean to cause you any trouble at all.” He squeezed her hand, and she turned to him, eyes bright with her willingness to taste more trouble. All he wanted was another taste of her, which was no trouble. Not for him, anyway. Not unless thinking made it so.
“Oh, Del, you …” She dropped her head back and laughed. “You have no idea.”
Never Trust a Cowboy
Kathleen Eagle
KATHLEEN EAGLE is a New York Times bestselling author, teacher, mother of three grown children and grandmother of three children. Many years ago she fell madly in love with a Lakota cowboy, who's taught her about ranching and rodeo, Sun Dance and star gazing, and family “the Indian way,” making her Grandma to more beautiful children than she can count. Visit her at www.kathleeneagle.com and “friend” her on Facebook.
In loving memory of Phyllis Eagle McKee
Contents
Delano Fox enjoyed watching a smooth heist in progress the way any skilled player might be entertained by another’s performance. Sadly, under the starlit South Dakota sky on the flat plain below his vantage point the only real skill on display belonged to a blue heeler, and even he was a little slow. Del was going to have to forget everything he knew about rustling cattle if he was going to fit in with this bunch. Otherwise he’d find himself itching to take over, which wasn’t the best way to get in thick with thieves. Even rank amateurs had their pride.
One by one, six head of black baldy steers stumbled into a stock trailer, each one springing away from the business end of a cattle prod or kicking out at the biting end of the dog. There was no ramp, but a jolt of fear helped the first two clear the trailer’s threshold. When the third one tried to make a break for it, Ol’ Shep lunged, crowding the animal against the trailer door. The guy manning the door cussed out both critters, while the one handling the prod added injury to insult by missing the steer and connecting with the dog. It would’ve been funny if he’d stung the other man with a volt or two, but Del instantly set his jaw at the sound of the yelping dog. Inexperience was curable, but carelessness could be a fatal flaw, and lack of consideration for man’s best friend was just plain intolerable. The best cowhand of the lot—the one with paws—jumped into the bed of the jumbo pickup, where he shared space with the gooseneck hitch.
Two shadowy figures climbed into the growling workhorse of a pickup that was hitched to the stock trailer, while the third—the prod handler—hopped into a smaller vehicle—a showy short box with an emblem on the door—parked on the shoulder of the two-lane country road. He would be Del’s mark. One of them anyway. He would be local, and he would be connected. Rustlers were high-tech these days, and they used every resource, did their research, found their inside man.
Del didn’t go in much for high tech. He did his research on the down low, and he had already had a private, persuasive conversation with a man he knew to be one of the two hauling the stolen stock. The job he himself was looking for would soon be his.
He chuckled when he passed the sign welcoming him to the town of Short Straw, South Dakota, promising, You’ll Be Glad You Drew It.
Maybe, but there was bound to be somebody in the area who wouldn’t be. Del knew how to handle the short straw. He’d drawn it many times.
He followed the sawed-off pickup at a distance, which he kept as he watched the driver pull up in front of a windowless storefront emblazoned in green neon with what would have been Bucky’s Place if the P were lit up. The B flickered, trying mightily to hang on to its dignity, but it was ucky that cast a steady glow above the hat of Del’s mark, the man who had just helped steal six head of cattle. Del could see enough of the guy’s face now to add a few pieces to those he’d already collected. He could now read the Flynn Ranch emblem on the pickup door. So far, so good. The driver wasn’t much more than a kid, early twenties, maybe. The steers might well belong to his father. Wouldn’t be the first time the heir decided to help himself to his inheritance a little early. Del just hoped Junior had the power to hire and fire ranch hands.
It took Del all of thirty seconds to disable a taillight on Junior’s pickup.
A typical edge-of-town watering hole, Bucky’s was shades of brown inside and out. Customers were lean and green or grizzled and gray, but they were all on the same page at Bucky’s. They were winding down. Two guys sat side by side at one end of the bar, a third sat alone at the other, a man and a woman exchanged stares across the table in a booth and pool balls clicked against each other under the only bright light at the far end of the establishment.
“I’m looking for the owner of the Chevy short box parked outside.” Del was looking at the bartender, but he was talking to anyone who’d noticed his entrance. Which would be everyone.
“That’d be me.” The kid who’d wielded the cattle prod waved a finger in the air and then turned, beer bottle in hand. He wore a new straw cowboy hat and sported a pale, skimpy mustache. “What’s up?”
“The name’s Delano Fox.” Del offered