The Cowboy's Secret Son. Gayle Wilson

between that metaphoric “bag” and this.

      “I don’t understand,” she said.

      “He left here owing a lot of people money.”

      Reluctantly, Jillian dredged up the memories of that time. She had thought her life was ruined because she had been forced to leave Mark. And her father had forbidden her to even speak his name. Just as he had forbidden her to write or call him.

      She had, of course. None of the things her father had threatened her with could have kept her from doing that, especially not after she had discovered she was pregnant.

      “My dad left here owing people money?”

      The sheriff studied her closely a moment before shifting his attention to the vista that spread in front of them.

      “Your old man and Bo Peterson had taken out loans with just about everybody within a hundred miles. By the end, they didn’t own a cow or a teacup that wasn’t hocked or mortgaged.”

      “Are you saying my dad took out a mortgage on his ranch?”

      That didn’t sound like her father.

      “A couple of them, or so I heard. Course, you could hear just about anything around here after your family run off in the middle of the night. Believe me, there were a lot of explanations offered for that.”

      “He had lost the ranch,” she said softly.

      It was only now that she realized that this loss, and not her relationship with Mark, was the reason her entire life had changed in the course of one night.

      “They both did. Lost everything. Bo held on a little while longer, but even when your place was sold at auction, it didn’t bring in enough to pay off both mortgages and the rest of the loans. That’s when they foreclosed on the Peterson ranch.”

      “The Petersons lost their land, as well?”

      “Bo never got over it. It killed him in the end.”

      “I thought Mark was still living there.”

      “Not in years. He was in the service for a while. Just came back here a couple of months ago. He’s working for the people who own his daddy’s ranch now.”

      That must have been a bitter pill to swallow for someone with as much pride as Mark had always had. Jillian wondered why he had come home at all. But of course, so had she.

      “Bo and my dad signed loans together?” she repeated, trying to make sure she understood what Ronnie was saying. “For what?”

      This wasn’t something she had heard before. And frankly, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Why would her dad and Mark’s father have taken out joint loans?

      Ronnie shook his head. “Nobody knew. Maybe they were going in together on some kind of hybrid. Bo was always talking about finding the perfect breed for raising beef cattle up here.”

      “So they borrowed this money, and then my father leaves. He ran out on the loans he’d signed. Is that what you’re saying?”

      “Peterson was pretty steamed. Musta come as a shock.”

      It had come as a shock to her, too. There had been no warning. Her father had simply awakened her in the middle of the night and demanded she get dressed. Her mother was already in Jillian’s bedroom, folding her clothes and putting them into a suitcase.

      She had always believed that her dad had discovered what was going on between her and Mark. Although he hadn’t said that the night they’d left, he had had plenty to say when he’d found out she was carrying Mark’s baby. Now the sheriff was implying there might have been another explanation for that midnight exodus.

      “You think whoever put this here,” she asked, touching the bag with her shoe, “is angry because my father owed him money?”

      “It’s a possibility. You think of any other reason somebody would want to harass you?”

      “Is that what you call this? Harassing me?”

      “I figured that’s what you’d call it,” Ronnie said with a grin. “What I’d call it is a sack full of dead varmints. You want me to get rid of ‘em for you?”

      Jillian hesitated, not wanting to be in Ronnie Cameron’s debt. And that sounded like something her father might have said, she realized. He never wanted to be beholden to anyone. Which made the story the sheriff had just told her even more bizarre.

      “I’d really appreciate that, Ronnie. If you don’t mind,” she said. The tone of her agreement sounded grudging and ungracious, despite its surface politeness. “What about my door? You think it’s possible someone has a key to the house?”

      “Anything’s possible, I suppose. You just bought the place. You have the locks changed?”

      “I never even thought about it. Not out here.”

      She would have in the city, of course. She had foolishly thought that because her family had never had to worry about crime while she was growing up, she wouldn’t have to, either.

      “You can do that,” Ronnie said. “Or you can just get yourself a dead bolt. A big one.”

      The sheriff picked up the garbage bag, holding it gingerly. He walked down the steps and over to the patrol car he’d parked in the yard. When he reached it, he opened the trunk and dropped the sack inside, closing it quickly. Then, still standing behind the car, he looked back at her.

      “Maybe this has nothing to do with that money. But it looks to me like somebody isn’t too happy you’ve come back. You know how folks are around here. Memories are long, and grudges are held even longer. But one thing’s for sure, whoever did this was trying to get your goat. If I were you, I wouldn’t make too much of it. At least not in public. Don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they’ve succeeded in making you nervous. Or they might try it again.”

      She nodded, realizing he was probably right. But it made her furious not to have any recourse. Ronnie touched the brim of his hat and walked around to open the door of the cruiser. He settled into the seat, again making that brief radio report before he turned the car around and drove down her road.

      Despite yesterday’s rain, she could track his progress for quite a way by the plume of dust that followed the cruiser. She stood on the porch and watched it for a long time, maybe because she wasn’t sure what she should do next.

      One thing she was sure of was that this stunt wasn’t going to make her do what her father had done. If they expected her to leave in the middle of the night, they had better think again.

      As she stood there, she realized that the aroma from the sack still permeated the air. She’d put some disinfectant in a bucket of water and mop the porch, even though the contents of the bag hadn’t touched the wooden boards.

      With that thought, she acknowledged that this all could have been much worse. Those poor, long-dead creatures could have been dumped on the porch itself. Or even inside the house, which would have been a real pain in the neck.

      That hadn’t happened. Apparently, somebody wasn’t thrilled there was a Salvini living here again, but as pranks went, this one was relatively minor. She could only hope that whoever had done it had gotten whatever animosity that had precipitated it out of his system.

      * * *

      “MOM,” Drew whispered, tugging on her elbow.

      “What?” she said absently, trying to decide between the only two brands of coffee that the small rural grocery store carried, neither of which she had heard of before.

      She would have done much better—especially pricewise—to have gone into town. Exhausted from losing sleep last night and from another long day spent unpacking boxes and trying to get their belongings into some sort of order, Jillian had instead opted for shopping at Herb Samples’s convenience store, which had been here long before she’d been born. She planned