The Cowboy (20 page)

Callie shook her head. No, she didn’t think Blackjack had killed her father. But she would be damned if he was going to benefit from her father’s death. She would never give her father’s bitterest enemy the satisfaction of having Three Oaks during her lifetime, not if there was any way she could hang on to it. She owed her father that much, at least.

The cell phone in her shirt pocket rang, and Callie pulled her horse to a stop to retrieve it.

“Callie here. What kind of problem? That’s impossible! Don’t do anything until I get there.”

“What is it, Callie?” Luke asked.

“Something’s come up at the auction barn. You finish driving these cows to the loading chutes. I’ll meet you there after I’ve taken care of this little glitch.”

“You sure you don’t need any help?”

Callie stared into Luke’s worried eyes. “Thanks for the offer, Luke, but I can handle this. I appreciate you doing a man’s job.”

Leather creaked as Luke shifted his weight in the saddle. He lifted his eyes from the ragged buckskin gloves that protected his hands, which were perched one on top of the other on the saddle horn, to meet her gaze. “I could
do more, Callie. I could be a big help. I don’t have to finish high school.”

She laid a hand on Luke’s thigh, then shifted it to avoid the searing heat from one of the silver conchas decorating the leather pockets on his chaps. “You’re a big help right now. I’m counting on you to finish up here. I’ll see you at the loading chutes later on.”

Callie spurred her horse to get away before Luke saw the tears stinging her eyes. She couldn’t believe another disaster had befallen them, especially not the one Bay had called to explain.
Brucellosis
. The vet at the auction barn was claiming one of their cows had tested positive for brucellosis!

Brucellosis was a sexually transmitted undulant fever that caused cows to abort their fetuses. Their cows had all recently dropped healthy calves. Therefore, they didn’t have—couldn’t have—brucellosis.

According to Bay, an inspector from the Texas Animal Health Commission had quarantined their cows based on the determination by the vet that their cattle were infected. Which meant they couldn’t be sold—except for slaughter—until the quarantine was lifted.

Of all the bad luck! The cows were worth only half as much if they were sold for beef, rather than breeding stock. And lifting the quarantine could take months! They wouldn’t be able to make the first payment to the government. Three Oaks would be seized and sold for taxes!

There must have been a mistake. Callie wanted to see the results of the card test—the blood drawn from one of her cows and put on a cardboard card that revealed the disease—with her own eyes.

Callie shouldn’t have been surprised to find Blackjack
at the auction arena, but she was. Corporate buyers stood by the rail smoking unfiltered cigarettes, eyes narrowed against the smoke, or sat in clumps in the stands swatting at flies, observing the beef cattle being herded into the arena, checking to see whether they had been fed to a grade of “choice” or “prime.” Although with everybody nowadays so worried about cholesterol and calories, there wasn’t much market for the marbled fat found in a “prime” piece of beef.

Callie crossed to me small stand of wooden bleachers beside the covered, pipe-railed auction arena and climbed up the several rows to where Blackjack sat with his
segundo
, Russell Handy. It seemed Blackjack had come, like a vulture, to wait for her last dying breaths, so he could feed on what carrion was left.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I’m auctioning one of my bulls,” he said, gesturing to an enclosed pen beyond the arena.

That made sense. It was also very coincidental. “Have you heard what happened?”

He nodded, as though in commiseration, but he couldn’t keep his lips from quirking. “Too bad about your cows. My offer for Three Oaks stands. It’s a fair price, considering I can probably pick up your land at a tax sale for a lot less.”

“There’s been some mistake,” Callie said.

Blackjack lifted a black brow. “Is that so? Did you have your cows vaccinated?”

“No, and you knew very well why I didn’t!” Not only was Strain 19 vaccine expensive, it was risky to vaccinate cows for brucellosis, because sometimes a cow infected with live
Brucella abortis
bacteria would get hot and go
wall-eyed and turn into a “banger,” and you’d get precisely the result you’d been trying to avoid.

Even if that didn’t happen, the brucellosis antibodies could give you a false positive on the card test at auction, and your vaccinated cow would get a big red
B
painted on its flank to indicate it could be sold only for slaughter.

“There are no bangers in my herd,” Callie said.

“You’ll have to talk to the vet about that,” Blackjack said.

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.” Callie started down the risers, then stopped and turned around. “You know, we have a common fence line. If my cows end up quarantined for brucellosis, yours could end up being quarantined as well.”

Blackjack shrugged. “Wasn’t planning on selling any cows anytime soon,” he said. “Guess I’ll have to take my chances when the time comes.”

Callie felt the anger welling inside her, that feeling of helpless frustration she’d had too often in the days when Nolan was dying of cancer and the doctors shook their heads and said there was nothing they could do. She’d stopped praying to a God who seemed to have abandoned her. She’d thought He’d done his worst when she’d found her father dead.

But it seemed there was worse to come.

Callie left the stands without another word and headed for the outdoor pens, where cattle were unloaded from the trucks. It occurred to her long before she got where she was going that Blackjack had most likely loaded the deck in his favor.

He was president of the local Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association, which was responsible for
hiring the auction vet. Which meant the man Callie was about to confront had been handpicked by Blackjack and held his job only so long as he kept him happy.

“Dr. Guerrero!” she called over the noise of the bawling cattle.

When Tony Guerrero turned to face her, Callie was startled to discover that he’d been talking to Trace. She hid her distress as best she could and crossed to the vet’s side. “What’s this I hear about one of my cows turning up a banger?” she demanded.

The vet pulled a card out of his shirt pocket and held it out to her. “Read it and weep,” he said sympathetically.

Callie was sure he didn’t mean his words literally, but it was all she could do not to burst into tears. She turned on Trace and said, “How could you let Blackjack do this?”

“Callie, my father—”

“Your father owns the vet, and as sure as I’m standing here, he arranged for that positive card test.”

The vet shook his head. “That’s not true, Mrs. Monroe.”

“Oh, really?” she said, doing nothing to hide the sarcasm in her voice. “Who took the blood that supposedly turned out positive on that card test?”

“I hire a couple of men to draw blood,” the vet said.

Callie was surprised. She’d thought the vet did it himself. She looked around to see if she knew the cowboys who’d drawn the sample. Maybe she could find out the truth from one of them. “Who did you hire?”

“Just a couple of drifters looking for day work,” the vet said. “And Billy Coburn.”

Callie felt her heart skip a beat. “Bad Billy Coburn?”

“I think they call him that,” the vet said.

Callie rounded on Trace. “Doesn’t he work for your father?”

“Not anymore. I fired him for fighting with your brother the night of the Rafter S auction. Remember?”

Callie rubbed her temples in an attempt to ward off the headache that was threatening. Was it possible Bad Billy Coburn blamed her brother Luke for losing his job? Had Billy faked the positive card test to get back at the Creeds because he’d been fired? “I want to talk to him,” Callie said.

The vet stood on the bottom rail of the corral, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled shrilly. When he had Billy’s attention, he waved him over.

It took Billy a few minutes to weave his way between the cattle and reach them, and Callie watched his face the whole way, hoping for some clue as to whether he was the guilty party.

When Billy reached the other side of the fence, he stopped, stuck a boot up on the bottom rail, and touched his fingertip to the brim of his hat. “Mizz Monroe.”

Bad Billy Coburn reminded Callie of a young James Dean. His black hair lay in waves beneath the brim of his hat, and his dark brown eyes glittered with defiance. There was something raw and animalistic about his sharply defined features that appealed to her as a woman. Callie felt a shiver of unwelcome response as his heavy-lidded gaze slid over her body.

“Did you draw the blood that tested positive, Billy?” she asked.

“That depends,” he said, eyeing the three of them.

“Answer the question,” Trace said.

Billy shot an insolent look in Trace’s direction. “I don’t work for you anymore, big man.”

Callie spoke before the situation could worsen. “I’m trying to find out if someone fixed a card test on one of my cows.”

“I didn’t do the card tests,” Billy said.

Callie frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Billy took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked it into the dirt. “I gave the blood samples to the guy who was working with me, and he put it on the cards.”

Callie turned to the vet. “Is that how it’s usually done?”

The vet shrugged. “We do it all kinds of ways. That way works as well as any.”

“Where’s the cowboy who was working with you?” Callie asked Billy.

“Don’t know. He left a while ago for lunch. Hasn’t come back.”

Callie turned to the vet. “Doesn’t that sound a little suspicious?”

“Not necessarily,” the vet said. “Cowboys come and go around here. The work’s hot and dusty, and we don’t pay much.”

“Are you done interrogating me?” Billy demanded.

“Oh. I’m sorry. Yes. I appreciate your cooperation,” Callie said.

Billy took another long, lazy look at her, then met her gaze with suggestive eyes and said, “Anytime, ma’am.” He tugged his hat brim low over his eyes and sauntered away.

“That kid is pure-D trouble,” the vet muttered.

Callie agreed, but she didn’t think Bad Billy Coburn
had anything to do with the positive test results. “How many of my cows tested positive?” she asked.

“Just one,” the vet replied.

“One. Just one.” Callie laughed with relief. “So the rest of the herd—”

“Is quarantined,” the vet said.

“But you can’t do that!” Callie protested. “One suspicious test—”

“There’s nothing suspicious about the results on this card,” the vet said, holding it out to her. He pointed with his finger. “That result is positive.”

“What if that missing cowboy substituted a vial of blood for one Billy gave him?” Callie said. “What if the test was fixed!”

The vet’s face reddened. “Are you suggesting I’d do such a thing? Because I can assure you—”

Callie could see she was losing ground. “No, no. Of course you wouldn’t. But don’t you see? What do we know about that missing cowboy? Couldn’t you retest my cows?”

“Wouldn’t do any good. Have to quarantine them for a bit to see if any bangers show up.”

“But—”

“What’s the problem here?”

Callie turned to find the local field inspector, Harvey Miller, standing with his hands perched on his hips beneath a burgeoning belly. He wore a TSCRA badge framed in leather—a Longhorn etched on a star within a silver circle—that hung from his breast pocket. The field inspector carried a Colt .45 on his hip and had the power to arrest wrongdoers. Callie wondered if Blackjack had sent him over to intimidate her.

“I came to see whether you want to sell your cows for slaughter or load them back onto your trucks,” Harvey said.

“I want my cows tested again. I don’t believe you’ll find any bangers, because my cows all recently dropped calves!”

“That doesn’t mean they can’t—or won’t—abort next time,” Harvey said reasonably. “What’s it gonna be?”

“I can’t afford to have my cows butchered,” Callie said, her voice rising sharply.

“Then I’ll have the boys load ’em back up,” Harvey said.

“This is insane!” Callie said. “My cows are perfectly healthy.”

“Well, you can always have the Texas Animal Health Commissioner come down from Austin and certify—”

“It could take months— And by then the prices— I need this situation straightened out now!” Callie cried.

“There’s nothing you can do, Callie,” Trace said.

She turned on him, her eyes flashing with anger. “Your father made this happen! I know he did! At first, I didn’t think he had my father killed, but now I’m starting to wonder just how far he’s willing to go to get Three Oaks!”

“You know that’s crazy talk,” Trace said.

“Is it?” She turned to the field inspector and said, “Load up my cows. I’m taking them home. I’ll be in touch with the Animal Health Commissioner, and believe me, I’m going to report what happened here today.” She turned to glare at the vet. “When I’m done, you’ll be lucky if you still have your job!”

Callie made the threat even though she knew, as the vet
must also have known, that Jackson Blackthorne and the Texas Animal Health Commissioner were most likely good pals, and that if she could compel the commissioner to come and reinspect her cattle at all, it wouldn’t be anytime soon—and certainly not before she was forced to sell Three Oaks to Jackson Blackthorne or lose it to the government for failure to pay her father’s estate taxes.

Callie gave instructions to the cowboys who were working with her cattle about where to drop them off, then headed toward the stands where Blackjack still sat waiting for his bull to be auctioned. She was nearly there when she realized Trace was beside her, matching her stride for stride.

“What are you planning to do, Callie?” he asked.

“Tell your father exactly what I think of him.”

“What purpose will that serve? Listen, Callie. I have a proposition.”