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Chapter One
Four years later ...
"That no good, dirty, rotten son-of-a bitch." Brett Corrigan stormed into his study, toward the walnut cabinet across the room.
His foreman followed at a slower pace, wisely saying not a word. In the year since Brett had first taken over the ranch and made it his own, Wade Henry had learned that when his boss's temper let loose, it was safer just to keep his distance until it ran its course.
With the strength of the fury building inside Brett, it might be awhile. He loosened his kerchief with a single jerk, sloshed three fingers of bourbon from the decanter into a cut-crystal glass, and downed the liquor in one swallow.
"You want me to round up the men, Ace?" Henry finally ventured.
"And spend another month chasing a shadow?"
"We gotta do somethin'. That devil thinks your ladies are free for the takin'."
"I know!" Brett slammed the empty glass against the cabinet top. "I know." This wasn't the first time that cunning rogue had slipped onto the Triple Ace and stolen his stock. Over the last two months, Brett had lost almost a dozen horses to the wild black stallion they'd taken to calling Blue Fire. And last night he'd managed to lure away two of Brett's best Arabian fillies.
The timing couldn't be worse, either. Those fillies were just about to go into season, and he had a prime Thoroughbred stud waiting in the wings to service them. Albert Moore, a Kansas cattle baron with interests in racing, had already claimed the foals, and extended a promise of more contracts to come if the bloodlines were kept clean.
"Damn that rogue!"
Brett poured himself a refill, thenstrode to the vast window overlooking the bald landscape of the Triple Ace. He wondered again why he'd chosen this God-forgotten place to settle. There was nothing to boast about — just twenty thousand acres of sand and sagebrush, with a few juniper shrubs thrown in to break up the monotony. If the land hadn't come to him fair and square, he'd never have ventured onto it, much less decided to raise horses again.
What the hell had ever made him think he could take a handful of bony nags and turn them into valuable breeding stock? His father was probably laughing his fool head off. Think you're so high and mighty, don't you, boy? You couldn't raise a good horse with a windlass.
Brett's grip tightened around the glass. No, he wasn't going to fold his hand yet. Call it pride, call it arrogance, call it simple greed. This piece of Texas might not look like much now, but by God, it belonged to him, along with everything on it. One day the Triple Ace would be the most prosperous horse farm in the territory. No wild mustang with a fancy for his fillies was going to cause its failure before it even had a chance to succeed.
But how did he stop the wretch? And just as important, how did he get his fillies back before the stallion ruined them?
Brett glanced over his shoulder at the bowlegged man standing between matched black and burgundy-striped armchairs. Wade Henry looked like a hundred other veteran horsemen Brett had seen in his lifetime: gaunt cheeked, bristly haired, skin beaten into bronzed grooves by more than half a century of relentless Texas sun. What's more, he had exceptional horse sense. That alone made him worth keeping on. What would he do if he stood in Brett's boots?
He folded the temptation to ask Henry for ad
vice almost as soon as the notion formed. Bosses gave the orders; hired hands took them. The rule had been bred into Brett so deeply that crossing that boundary had never entered his mind before, and probably wouldn't have now if he didn't feel so damned helpless. But the word of a leader was second only to God's, and allowing a hireling to influence his authority eroded the workings of the whole outfit. As with every other decision that affected the Triple Ace, this one rested solely on his shoulders.
Brett swirled the bourbon, and as he watched the amber liquid lap against the rim, he considered his options. Angry as he was, he'd castrate the stallion if he could get his hands on him. Unfortunately, his men couldn't get close enough to rope him, much less bring him in.
Chasing him off hadn't worked, either; he'd just come back again and again, slipping past the guards under the cover of darkness, collecting a couple more missies for his harem, then disappearing the same way.
Maybe he should just hire a sharpshooter to solve the problem once and for all, Brett thought with a sigh. No one would fault him for it; he wasn't the only rancher in the area to have lost valuable horses to the wild herds. Still, he had a hard time with that idea. As infuriating as it was to have his stock stolen right from under his nose, a part of him couldn't help but respect — even admire — the stallion's boldness. Hell, if half the Triple Ace colts had that kind of gumption, he'd make a fortune.
Brett's head slowly lifted. Arabian grace and speed ... Mustang stamina and grit ... Why hadn't he thought of it before? Not everyone could afford Thoroughbreds. Local ranchers and the military were just as hungry for good mounts as wealthy businessmen. Breeding a couple of his mixed blood mares with the stallion could produce foals worth quite a tidy sum....
All it would take is someone smarter and more cunning to bring him in.
Brett abandoned his drink and headed for the door, for once not giving a gator's hide that his spurs might chip the flagstone floor. "I want the patrol doubled on the boundaries," he instructed Henry. "Have the men rotate in eight-hour shifts. Do anything you have to to protect those mares."
"Where are you goin'?"
Brett grabbed his hat and duster off the rack by the front door. "To find someone to catch that devil," he said, jamming on his Stetson. "If he wants my horses, he can have them — on my terms."
Hire a thief to catch a thief...
