Never Trust a Cowboy. Kathleen Eagle

up new wire.” His tone shifted, as though he’d been asked to testify. “It ain’t Stan. We go way back. Good man, Stan.” He turned his attention to a passing cloud. “Stan the Man. Remember the baseball player?”

      Del glanced at the cloud, half expecting to see a Stan or two up there, acknowledging Frank’s memory with a thumbs-up.

      Frank snapped out of his reverie with a chuckle. “Course not. That was a long time ago.”

      “Stan the Man Musial. One for the books, and I do read some. Musial said, ‘When the pitcher’s throwing a spitball, just—’”

      “‘—hit it on the dry side,’” they quoted in unison, and then they both laughed as Frank clapped a hand on Del’s shoulder.

      “I played baseball in high school. First base. Pretty good hitter.” Del read approval in Frank’s face, and he figured the old man had faced more spitballs over the years than he had. “Your sport, too?”

      “Was. Never had time to play much, but...” He looked down at the tire tracks and shook his head. “Yeah, I think we might’ve lost some cows. We’ll see what Brad comes up with. I keep my books on paper. He’s got this computer thing going, and we don’t always match up.”

      “I’m not much of a computer guy myself.”

      “Glad I’m not the only one. Guess we need to get with the program, buddy.” Chuckling, he laid his hand on Del’s shoulder. “They say everybody’s replaceable these days. Even cowboys.”

      “Yeah, that horse is out of the barn.”

      “Come to think of it, they haven’t made the computer yet that can chase that horse down and run him back in.”

      “Or string wire,” Del said. “So I guess I’m not completely replaceable.”

      “Brad either chose well or lucked out this time.” Frank smiled. “I admire a man who knows the value of a good horse. Still the best way to herd cows.”

      * * *

      Del tried two hills before he found a piece of high ground where his phone quit cutting out. Truth be told, he was one hell of a space-age cowboy. While truth telling wasn’t part of his job description, he made an effort to keep mental tabs on it, and taking his smartphone in hand and tapping out a couple of texts allowed him to get in touch with reality even as he was keeping his head in the game. The message that came back was unsatisfying, but at least it was a contact.

      

      

      Follow Benson. Get a line on Chasing Elk. Move up the line ASAP.

      

      

      ASAP wasn’t Del’s preferred approach to a job. Space-age aside, a dyed-in-the-hide cowboy didn’t do ASAP. If the question was “Fast or good?” his answer was always “The best you’ve ever had.”

      Which made him think of Lila.

      “I like her,” he told the dog in the passenger seat. He gave the animal’s head a vigorous scratching, the velvety drop ears a floppy workout. The pup lifted his head, eyes closed in pure bliss. “Okay, so she rejected you for now, but it’s not personal. She can’t give up too soon. It would be like saying out with the old, in with the new. That’s hard for a woman like her. She’s got no ASAP button. Give her time.”

      The dog whined.

      “No? Sorry, buddy, we got no choice. We gotta let her come to us. Okay?” He patted the dog’s back. “Meanwhile, I’m here for you.”

Chapter Three

      “I think we’re missing six head of steers,” Brad reported. He glanced at Del as though he might have something to with it. Then he turned his attention to Frank, but he didn’t look him in the eye. He dug his boot heel into the pulverized corral dirt like a kid who was having trouble making stuff up as he told his father how he’d done exactly what he was supposed to do. “Unless they got in with the cows. I mean, I drove across the south pasture and didn’t see any steers in with the cows there. That’s the only place...” He jerked up his chin suddenly. “You say there’s tire tracks?” he asked Del. “What kind?”

      “Sixteen and a half inch, probably a GM, maybe a Ford—big one-ton sucker—towing a gooseneck trailer.”

      “What color?” Frank asked, straight-faced as hell.

      “The pickup or the gooseneck?”

      “Either one,” Frank allowed. “Hell, both.”

      Del’s expression matched the old man’s. “Black. Had to be a matched set.”

      Brad was speechless, waiting for something to drop—a shoe, a net, something. Del purely enjoyed the seconds that passed before Frank tapped his shoulder with the back of his hand, signaling it was time for a good laugh.

      “I can read tracks, but not quite that good,” Del said.

      “Ground’s too dry,” Frank said. “You were doing real good finding any tracks at all.” He turned to Brad. “You sure we’re missing six? You got ear-tag numbers?”

      “Dad, they’re missing.”

      “You get the numbers that are there,” Frank explained with exaggerated patience. “The ones that aren’t there are the ones we’re looking for.”

      Brad glared briefly at Frank and then at the fence wire in the back of Frank’s pickup. “You know, I told Del to get that fence fixed.” He turned to Del. “You didn’t need to go to my dad for help.”

      “He didn’t,” Frank said. “He was looking for you. I went out there with him because I needed to get out of the damn house.”

      “Well, good. That’s good.” Nodding, Brad slid Del a cold glance. “I’ll give the sheriff a call, tell him where to meet up so he can see what’s going on out there.” He turned back to Del. “You go get the tag numbers off those steers out where I showed you yesterday. You remember how to get there?”

      “You don’t want him to show you where he found the tire tracks?” Frank asked.

      “You said the cut-across, right? How far off the highway?”

      “Little less than a mile. I marked the fence with a red flag. You can tell where it was cut. Anyway, Sheriff Hartley can tell.” Frank turned to Del. “I’ll get us the list of tag numbers. We’ll go out and check them off, see what’s missing.”

      “You’re not thinking about getting on a horse,” Brad challenged.

      “I think about it all the time.”

      “Don’t tell Mom that. She’s thinking all the time, too. About that trip you promised her after you get your other new knee.” Brad sidled up to Frank. “Let me take care of this, Dad. We’ll check the ear tags and figure out what’s what. You get hold of Hartley. Better you than me.” He looked over at Del and went back to being boss. “Mount up. Dad knows best.”

      * * *

      Del let his horse drop back to a trot when he heard the roar of the pickup at his back. He didn’t need help with taking ear-tag inventory—he could easily handle Frank’s metal clipboard himself—and he doubted he would get much. But making waves didn’t suit his purpose. Neither did ignoring Brad, as much as he wanted to. They both knew how many steers were missing. Brad didn’t know or care which ones they were. But Frank cared, and that was another good sign.

      Sign. Just a piece of information. Connections, Fox. That’s all you’re looking for.

      “This works out better,” Brad called out from the pickup.

      Del slowed to a walk. “What