The Girl with the Golden Spurs. Ann Major

creek or the prickly pears along the barbed wire fence or the herd of cherry-red cattle grazing placidly. Or with the black buzzards lazing high above him on an updraft.

      A red fox stood still in the distance, watching him warily from the edge of oak trees. Caesar breathed deeply, liking the rapport he felt with the wild fox as much as he liked the smell of the grass and the feel of the warm wind against this cheek. After a minute or two the fox scurried back into the thick brush.

      Once Caesar had felt safe and confident here, safe in the knowledge that he was in charge, that his kingdom was secure for future generations. No more. The world was changing too fast and there was no one in the litter he trusted to follow him. The ranch and what it stood for was threatened on all sides.

      Besides, the family wanting more of the oil and gas money, every month was a new challenge. The Golden Spurs wasn’t just a ranch. It was a global, international, multifaceted, family-owned corporation that had diversified into other businesses, and it had to compete globally. The suits in San Antonio and an uppity, younger CEO, Leo Storm, constantly tried to dictate to Caesar.

      Not that the problem that had been eating at him ever since Jim, his lawyer, had called last night was global. Another group of local jackals, distant kin of Cole Knight, had discovered yellowed copies of the same documents Shanghai had shoved in his face years ago, claiming the second generation of Kembles had stolen from their adopted sister. Just like Shanghai, the greedy bastards had had the effrontery to call his great-great-granddaddy a betraying thief and a liar, and, thereby, claim not only a large section of the ranch but all the royalties earned on the oil and gas the ranch had pumped out of the ground for the last sixty years—plus interest.

      But what really galled Caesar was the fact that the lawsuit was the result of a tip from someone in the family, who’d leaked secret information from the ranch’s sealed archives. Walker? Cole maybe?

      Cole was at the center of a lot of the recent crises, and yet that very fact made Caesar suspect it was someone else. Cole had married himself square into the family. He was Vanilla’s father. He owned considerable stock in the ranch.

      If not Cole, it was damn sure somebody.

      Who the hell was the traitor?

      Caesar was mad, so spitting mad he had one of his headaches. His ancestors would have fought their enemies with six-shooters. But in these new days, killing came at a price. Thus, this was a problem for his high-priced, fast-talking attorneys.

      “If anybody calls you, just refer them to me. Act reasonable,” Jim had cautioned him just this morning.

      “Act reasonable?” he’d thundered. Not that he’d said much more. Jim cost too much. Billable hours, he called it.

      Since Jim had assured him there was nothing he could personally do about the problem except make it worse, Caesar had come out here to give himself an hour or two to settle down. He could have driven the pickup, but he preferred to ride Domino when he needed to get himself together. There was a purposefulness to the sounds of hooves on the ground and the movements of Domino through the grasses.

      He was glad he’d escaped Joanne. One look at his face and she would have grilled him for sure. She saw too much. She wanted things from him he couldn’t give. Besides, she could have been the one who leaked the information.

      Funny, he hadn’t realized how demanding she’d be when they’d struck their deal and he’d agreed to marry her. He’d thought she was meek and mild. He’d thought she’d be easier.

      Caesar was staring across the thorny brush country beneath the hot blue sky when his phone rang. Expecting Jim again, he yanked it off his belt.

      “Hi, there.” The voice was soft and breathy, and before he could speak, his armpits were damp and his body burned as hot as a smoldering tree stump.

      “How’d you get my number?”

      “Caller ID, big boy. You called me a while ago. Am I right?” She giggled. “Now don’t be shy. Guess what I’ve got on.”

      Not much, I reckon. He imagined Cherry in bed, young and voluptuous, naked, with her long white wavy hair flowing over soft pillows. He imagined her breasts and her pubic hair, which she’d told him she’d died hot pink.

      “Hot pink…just for you,” she’d teased. “And I shaved it into the shape of Texas. Wanna see?”

      “Hi, there back,” he said, feeling excited and yet easier, too. “So—what are you wearing, honey?”

      “Not much more than a burning bush.” She laughed.

      He envisioned fluffy coils of hot pink hair shaped like Texas and laughed, too.

      “I didn’t think you would ever call me,” she said.

      A beep cut into their conversation. “Damn,” he muttered. “Gotta get this.”

      “Don’t hang up again,” she pleaded.

      “I’ll call you right back.”

      “Bye. But don’t be too long,” she cooed, a pout in her voice. Then she blew him a kiss.

      He clicked over to the incoming call, cursing the timing.

      A strange, disembodied voice broke up amidst too much static.

      He jammed the phone against his ear, trying to get the gist of what the man, if it was a man, was saying.

      Two words stung him like poison. Dead. Electra.

      His heart beat dully as he remembered a girl with long, pale curls lying underneath him, her hair looking like ripples of moonlight on a dark, boiling sea. More images were burned into his brain and heart. Electra running, her long legs so graceful. Electra smiling, her lavender eyes as intense as lasers. Electra, laughing, always laughing, Electra, wild, beautiful, incredible Electra, his love.

      “She can’t be dead,” Caesar said. “Who is this?”

      “Dead,” the terrible voice confirmed.

      Caesar gripped the phone tight in his fist. “Then how? Where? Who the hell are you?”

      “Nicaragua,” the caller said without identifying himself.

      Electra was a damn fool. He’d told her to stay out of hot spots like that. She was nearly forty-eight, old enough to know better. Funny, when he thought of her, she was forever young. She always looked young when he saw her pictures in the newspapers.

      Forty-eight was too young to die. How many times had he warned her about those countries? He’d even gone down to Columbia once and rescued her when she’d gotten herself kidnapped.

      “How? How did she die?”

      “Did you know she kept a journal…so she could write a book? An intimate tell-all?” Laughter.

      Caesar remembered the way she used to sit up at night, writing with the lamp shining on her blond curls. Just like Lizzy. His head began to pound. His throat was so dry he couldn’t swallow.

      “She wasn’t a virginal, saintly heroine, was she? Any more than you’re the legendary, responsible Texas hero. Or the faithful husband. You ever wonder who else she slept with…or how you rate?”

      Hell, yes, he’d wondered. “Bastard! Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

      More laughter. “She wrote about you. Did you know that? Does Lizzy know who her real mother is?”

      “What the hell do you want?”

      “The world is full of shortages. You have so much.”

      “Who else have you told?”

      “Nobody…yet.”

      “How did she die?” he repeated.

      Laughter. “In her bed.”

      “How?”

      “The