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  Porky’s fist caught Justin hard in the gut. He buckled over, barely able to breathe. His good rodeo hat fell to the ground and Porky crushed it with his boot, then he whipped Justin back up by his hair.

  “Screw you,” Justin said hoarsely.

  “Cocky bastard.” Waters shoved him violently and Justin’s head slammed against the trailer. White pain exploded in his brain, then blackness started rushing in. The pounding of blood in his ears turned into the clopping of hooves and he saw a blurry figure approach the group, mounted on a horse. His vision cleared enough to recognize Pastor Bob. The pastor had given the church service on horseback in the arena that morning, wearing the same clothes; an orange-and-green-plaid blazer, bolo tie, and purple dress shirt. Justin had attended, and prayed with every ounce of conviction he could muster for God to give him a break today.

  “What’s going on here?” the pastor asked sternly.

  Porky scowled, said nothing.

  Beneath the brim of his hat, the pastor’s face was flushed red from heat. Beads of sweat collected along his jaw line and dripped onto his collar. He inched his Appaloosa forward. “You all right, son?”

  Justin shrugged, probing his throbbing head with his fingers. He was relieved to find his skull still in one piece.

  The pastor leveled a steel-edged gaze at Porky. “Three against one?”

  Porky flicked his cigarette into the dirt. “This ain’t church business, Preacher.”

  “But it is the sheriff’s.” All eyes followed the pastor’s gaze down the narrow dirt road that ran between the trailers. A police car cruised toward them. Justin sensed sudden nervous tension rolling off the three cowpokes. They assumed relaxed expressions as the car slowed down and the sheriff looked them over. Pastor Bob waved him on. The sheriff nodded, and drove on, covering them all in an extra layer of talc-like dust.

  “You all know the sheriff’s my brother.” An unveiled threat crept into the pastor’s tone.

  Porky’s gaze followed the sheriff’s Yukon until it disappeared, then he turned back to Pastor Bob. “This piece of shit asked for it. He’s trying to cheat us.”

  “Cheat you?” The pastor’s eyes narrowed. “You boys been gambling again?”

  No response.

  “Gambling’s a vice, Porky. No better than fornicating with whores.” The pastor slipped into his sermon tone. “There’s already plenty of volunteers running ’round doing Satan’s work. He don’t need no more help from you three. You better take care to protect your souls. Got any idea how to do that?”

  The men exchanged looks.

  “Clean living?” Waters offered.

  “Clean living. That’s right.” The pastor nodded at Justin. “This young man came to service this morning. Asked me to pray special for him.”

  Porky spat in the dirt near Justin’s boot.

  “He promised if he won anything he’d donate half to our church.”

  What the hell? Justin never had private words with the pastor, and he certainly wouldn’t have offered half his prize money. He kept his mouth shut. It was an expensive payoff, but at least he wasn’t getting the crap beat out of him.

  “Plenty of folks in our congregation have been pressed with hard times.” Pastor Bob locked eyes with Justin. “Now our prayers’ve been answered.”

  Amen to that. Justin figured most of the money would go into the pastor’s pocket. He quickly did the math. After half his money went to the preacher, he’d be left with fifteen hundred. After collecting his winnings that night from the bookie, he’d be ahead another couple grand. Thirty-five hundred. He could live on that for a while. Eat better, stay in a motel from time to time.

  “Here comes Maria. Watch your mouths.” The pastor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his dripping face.

  Justin’s jaw dropped a little as he took in the striking Mexican woman sauntering toward them. She wore a short sundress and western boots, her caramel-colored skin glistening in the sunlight. She looked around his age, twenty. Justin tried to focus on her face, but his eyes scanned the lines of her body of their own accord.

  Pastor Bob dismounted and wrapped a protective arm around her waist. Justin saw the gold wedding band sparkle on her finger. How’d the big sweaty ox get a woman like her? The pastor could easily pass for her father.

  Maria relaxed against Pastor Bob’s sturdy frame and her dark eyes flashed with recognition when they fell on Justin. “You cowboy ride Cyclone, yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Justin had no talent for talking to women, especially one as pretty as Maria.

  “That bull, he loco.” Maria smiled, flashing even white teeth. “He throw every cowboy. Not you. You get beeg monies, no?”

  Justin felt his face warm. “I did okay.” Avoiding Porky’s eyes, he retrieved his hat, smacked off the dust and reshaped it, then pulled it down over his throbbing head.

  “He’s giving the church a big donation,” Pastor Bob said.

  “Good man.” She flashed a grin that lit up Justin’s insides like a firecracker.

  “You boys better clear outta town,” the pastor said sternly to Porky, then his tone lightened when he turned to Justin. “Let’s go, son. Where’s your vehicle?”

  Hoisting his gear bag over his shoulder, Justin followed the pastor’s Appaloosa past the trio of cowhands who made no attempt to clear a path. Porky shoved him hard and Justin picked up the scent of sour sweat and tobacco. Once a safe distance away, he glanced back. Porky’s eyes bored into his with what Justin interpreted to be murderous intent. He knew their paths would cross again at future rodeos. He’d made a dangerous enemy.

  Justin noticed that a handsome, silver-haired man was standing off the road, watching intently from the shadow of his oversized motorhome. A rig like that, Justin knew, cost top dollar, probably a quarter million or more. The air-conditioned livestock trailer hitched to the back wasn’t shabby, either. An air of confidence and success swirled around the man, and Justin felt a sharp jolt of envy for his secure place in life. He also felt humiliated that his ass-whipping had been witnessed.

  His feeling of shame faded as Maria linked her arm through his and matched his stride. Despite the brutal heat, she looked incandescent, shoulders and legs glowing in the sun. Her lips were painted the color of cactus flowers and her black hair was held in place by scarlet combs. Silver earrings dangled from her lobes like tiny wind chimes. It’d been a while since he’d had a kind touch from a woman. The fragrant scent of her hair stirred inside him an intense longing for an easier life, a stable life, and a woman like Maria he could call his own.

  As they approached his camper truck, Justin toyed with the idea of jumping into the cab and screeching out of the lot. Keeping his money.

  As though reading his thoughts, Pastor Bob got a sudden hard glint in his eyes. He opened his jacket and placed his hand on his hip, displaying a holstered .38 Smith & Wesson.

  Justin’s stomach twisted as he counted fifteen of his hard-earned greenbacks into the pastor’s hand. The pastor tucked the wad of bills into a pocket and turned to help his wife into the saddle. He mounted behind her, tipped his hat, and rode off across the emptying lot.

  Tight-lipped, Justin climbed into the cab. Spewing curses, he hit the dashboard repeatedly with the heel of his hand. He’d just been played by a conniving swindler. A thug walking around in the guise of a good Christian. But who could he turn to? The sheriff, who was the pastor’s crony brother? The two were power players, committing crimes with impunity in a town so small it didn’t exist on most maps. Justin revved the engine and fishtailed out of the lot, raising a storm of dust that followed him out to the paved county road.

  After several miles, he pulled onto a dirt road and parked under an outcropping of smooth gray boulders that provided shade from the relentless sun. Trying to calm the angry beast inside screaming for justice, he sprawled on his sleeping bag on the sand, his hat covering his face. There was nothing to do but wait. As soon as the cash from the bookie hit his wallet this e
vening, he’d break the sound barrier getting out of this dried up, degenerate town.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As he lay dying on a rutted goat trail in Kunar Province, Sully imagined Canadian geese flying across the war-tattered sky. The geese broke V formation and reconfigured, forming letters that spelled HELP. Sully weaved in and out of consciousness, his thoughts jumbled, the ground tilting at an angle. He wanted to grab hold of something to keep from sliding off the earth, but his arms wouldn’t move. His legs felt heavy and far away. At the edge of consciousness, a mortar round whistled, grew louder, and exploded with an ear-piercing blast. The ground rumbled beneath him. Dust and rubble sprayed his face. Whop whop whop whop. Apache gunships! Seconds away. Thank God. They’d blow the Taliban to hell.

  The din of choppers receded. The nightmare abruptly shattered. When he opened his eyes, sunlight stabbed his retinas like needle pricks. His body was tangled in the covers. The doorbell was buzzing, an insistent pulse as irritating as a dentist’s drill. Sully got up too quickly and braced an arm against the wall until a wave of dizziness passed. He didn’t remember getting into bed last night, or putting on the pajama bottoms he’d worn in high school. The buzzing stopped. He heard the back door open, then the sound of boots scuffing the kitchen floor.

  “Sully?” a baritone voice boomed. “You home?”

  Head ringing, stomach lurching, Sully shuffled down the hall past the living room and entered the kitchen. Pain radiated from his wound sites. Even his hair hurt.

  Dressed in his olive-green uniform, western boots, and wide-brimmed Stetson, Sheriff Carl Matterson stood holding a Styrofoam cup in one hand and a foil-wrapped pan in the other. The sheriff was a big man with strong features, nose bent slightly to the right from college football, his paunch more rounded than Sully remembered. The kitchen looked smaller with him standing in it.

  “Hang on, Carl.” Sully picked up the prescription bottle from the counter, shook a couple pills onto his palm, and gulped them down with water from a mug sitting in the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

  “Too much partying last night?” Matterson asked in a jovial tone.

  “Something like that.” Fighting a wave of nausea, Sully turned to greet him.

  Matterson’s grin faded as his eyes traveled over the red scars on Sully’s abdomen, arm, and face. “Man, you got banged up over there.”

  Sully ran a hand over his throbbing bicep. “No worries. Still got all my vital parts.”

  “Thank God for that.” Matterson pushed his hat back from his broad forehead. “You got bigger. More muscle. The military will do that to you.” His gaze fell to the names etched on Sully’s forearm. “New tats?”

  Sully extended his arm and Matterson scanned the names. Something like empathy glinted in his eyes. “That’s rough.”

  Sully shrugged. Matterson missed nothing. Training from years on the job. He’d been sheriff for as long as Sully could remember. Tough on crime. People slept better at night. “That pie you’re carting around, Carl?”

  “Oh, yeah. The wife made it yesterday. Gotcha coffee too. Strong, black.”

  “Hell, Carl, I like this delivery service. Have a seat.”

  Matterson made no comment about the mess in the kitchen. The smell of the motor oil on the car parts made Sully’s stomach churn. He transferred them from the table to a countertop, making room for plates and the only two clean forks left in the drawer.

  With a squeak of leather from his gun holster, Matterson settled into a chair, hung his hat on a bended knee, and stripped the foil from the pie pan.

  Sully sliced into the crust. “Strawberry-rhubarb? Sweet.”

  “None for me, Sully.” Matterson patted his belly. “Watching the gut.”

  “You sure?”

  “Well, maybe a thin slice.”

  Sully sliced a sizable piece for each of them and the two chewed silently for a moment.

  “That’s tasty. Give Susie my thanks. My first home-cooked food in months.” Sully served them both another piece. He gulped coffee in between bites and his brain began to sharpen.

  Matterson leaned back in his chair and his jacket fell open, revealing his holstered Glock 9mm and the badge clipped to his belt. “Travis called this morning. Told me you were back. Said to let you sleep. Guess I woke you anyway.”

  Sully glanced at the clock above the sink. “Hell, it’s after ten. I’ve wasted half a day.”

  “Relax, Sully. You’re not on military time anymore. You work for yourself now.”

  “You notice the state of this ranch, Carl?”

  Matterson glanced around the kitchen. “Needs some work, sure. But hold steady, son. Me and my guys at the station are coming out this weekend to lend a hand. Hardware store donated paint. The pastor’s organizing something with the women, too. All hush-hush. You don’t know anything about it, of course. We’ll get this place looking like Graceland in no time.” He grinned. “Might even be more pie.”

  Sully looked down at his plate. The idea of charity made him uncomfortable. If his father were here, he’d have none of it. “I appreciate that, Carl. I really do. But we don’t need help. I’m able-bodied, and so is Travis.”

  “You and Joe never said no to anybody needing help in this town. You’re a war hero. Can’t keep people from respecting what you did over there.”

  Sully didn’t feel like a hero but arguing with Carl was a waste of time.

  “Travis said you wanna bring Joe home. To get him here, you’re gonna need help.”

  Sully’s voice softened. “Point taken.”

  “There’s another reason I’m here.” Matterson’s brow creased into multiple folds. “Unpleasant business. Travis thought it’d be better coming from me.”

  Sully recalled Travis being troubled about something in the barn last night. His breathing slowed. Here it comes.

  “There’s been some horse thievery going on around the county the last few months.”

  Sully was genuinely surprised. Wild Horse Creek was a close-knit horse community. Most of the ranching families went back generations. Folks trusted one another. Horses were routinely left unattended out in pasture. Stealing another man’s horse was unthinkable. These days, horses were microchipped, papered, had photos on the Internet. “Whose horses?”

  “Patterson, Cannon …”

  Sully whistled. Those two highbrow neighbors owned million-dollar horse farms. One bred hunter jumpers, the other dressage champions. “How many?”

  “Seven, between the two.”

  “Jesus,” he said, alarmed. “You’re talking serious money.”

  The sheriff looked down at his hat, then back at Sully. “Gunner’s gone.”

  “What?” Sully didn’t think he heard right.

  “Sorry, Sully. They got him two nights ago.”

  Sully sat stunned. He pictured his high-spirited chestnut stallion with the white blaze, black mane and tail. A reining champion. “Two nights ago? I was getting on a plane in Germany.” Sully stood and paced, anger building in his chest.

  Matterson shook his head, said gruffly, “It’s a mean business. Horses are damned personal.”

  “Christ, it feels like I just had a kidney ripped out.” Sully heard anger sharpen his words. He’d rather lose a kidney than Gunner, his most valuable horse.

  “He’s insured, isn’t he?” Matterson asked.

  “God, I hope so.” Sully had no idea who was looking out for their finances these days. “No amount of money can replace Gunner. His reining instincts are inbred. He brought in top dollar in stud fees. How’re we gonna replace that income?”

  The sheriff looked down with a sullen expression, turning the brim of his hat in his hands.

  “It was too much putting all this on Travis,” Sully said. “Dad gone. Mom gone. Valuable horses just sitting in the barn. Guess I’m lucky they only took Gunner.”

  “He’s a prize, all right. It’s a changing economy, Sully. Hard times. Pushing people into crimes we haven’t seen here. A horse like Gu
nner can be sold on the black market overseas, or South America, for a small fortune.”

  Sully struggled to pull himself together, embarrassed to show emotion in front of Matterson. He heard the loud honking of Canadian geese as they flew over the roof preparing to land in the creek. “What do you know about the thieves?”

  “Not much,” Matterson said. “They operate at night. No one’s ever seen them. They get in and out without raising a stir. They’ve been at it awhile, we found out. Horses have gone missing in other counties, too.”

  “How do they know the layout of the ranches? Which horses to take?”

  “Evidently, Sully, they’re working with someone local. Someone who knows ranches around here.” Matterson’s expression tightened. “Could be a trainer, farrier, veterinarian. Who knows? So many of these people come and go every year.”

  Sully stacked the plates and placed them on the counter, his mind racing.

  “It’s got all our neighbors riled up,” Matterson said. “Wondering if it’s someone we know and trust.”

  “He’s gonna end up pretty damned dead if anyone finds him before you do.”

  “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.” Matterson shifted his weight. “Travis was out tracking with my deputies yesterday. They picked up two sets of boot prints leading Gunner out of the barn across the north end of your property. They lost the tracks out on the fire road where they crossed the creek. Spent hours trying to pick them up, but …” The sheriff shook his head. “Nothing. Had to pull my men off the chase. Travis went back out this morning.”

  “I gotta help him,” Sully said with a sense of urgency.

  “Travis doesn’t need your help. Nobody can track better than him, and he’s got a three-hour start on you.” Matterson wiped pie crumbs from his shirt, scraped his chair back from the table, and unfolded his large frame. “The best thing you can do right now is get the ranch ready. Joe’s gonna get word you’re back and he’ll be chomping at the bit to get home.” With a sympathetic look, Matterson settled his hat over his thinning hair and crossed the floor. He paused with his hand on the door handle. “Glad to have you home, son.” He walked out pulling the door shut behind him.