Cowboy Under Siege. Gail Barrett

hillsides, then turned his attention to the grass trampled down around the gate. Someone had recently been here, but who?

      The foreboding inside him increasing, he unhooked the barbed wire gate and dragged it aside, then followed the line of crushed grass to the slope of the hill. He swept his gaze to the river bottom where he’d pastured his cattle—stalling on three black cows lying motionless in the sun.

      He curled his hands. Anger flared inside him like a wildfire on a brush-choked hill. Someone had deliberately slaughtered his cattle. But why?

      Furious at the senseless loss, he searched the grass around his feet and found a brass casing glinting in the sun. He examined the markings—300 RUM. Powerful enough to take down big game—or several defenseless cows.

      Struggling to control his temper, he stormed down the hill, scanning the slopes for the remainder of his herd. Insects buzzed in the midday heat. The warm wind brushed his face. He glanced upriver and finally caught a glimpse of the scattered cows. They’d crashed through the barbed-wire fence and crossed the creek into his neighbor’s alfalfa. Now he had to chase them out before they died of bloat.

      Disgusted, he tugged out his cell phone and called the bunkhouse again. “It’s me,” he said when Earl picked up. “We’ve got several dead cows.”

      “Someone shot them?”

      “Yeah.” And then the coward had run away. “The rest of the herd broke through the fence and got into Del Harvey’s alfalfa. I need several men here fast. Have them bring extra barbed wire and stomach tubes, just in case. And tell Kenny to bring the front loader to haul away the dead cows.”

      “Kenny went to the Bozeman airport,” his ranch hand said. “He’s picking up Rusty’s daughter. She’s flying in from Chicago for a couple of weeks.”

      The muscles of Cole’s stomach tightened. Bethany Moore. This was all he needed. He swore and closed his eyes. But Bethany was no longer his business. Their affair had ended years ago.

      “You there, boss?” the cowboy asked.

      “Yeah, I’m here.” Cole blew out his breath and massaged his eyes. “Just make sure someone brings the front loader. And call the sheriff, Wes Colton. I want him to take a look at this.”

      Cole disconnected the call, determined to keep his mind off Bethany and the past. She’d made her choices. She’d left Montana. She’d left him. But he hadn’t expected anything else. He’d learned early in life that people never stayed. The only thing he could depend on was his land.

      Turning his thoughts firmly back to his herd, he returned to his truck, placed his rifle in the gun rack, and climbed into the cab. He had to work quickly to drive the surviving cattle back across the creek. Mitzy could keep them safely corralled until the men repaired the fence.

      Still furious, he cranked the engine. He glanced in his rearview mirror, waited until Mitzy jumped into the open truck bed, then steered his pickup off the road. He bumped and jostled across the field and through the gate, still barely able to keep his temper in check.

      He didn’t understand this senseless destruction. And he sure as hell didn’t need it. Not when his foreman had broken his leg, leaving him shorthanded. Not when his sister had been abducted and the FBI didn’t have any leads. And not when he was smack in the middle of the fall roundup, when the future of the Bar Lazy K Ranch—and the livelihood of a dozen men—depended on him getting a thousand healthy cattle to market in the next two weeks. An entire year of work boiled down to this single paycheck, and every cow, every pound they gained or lost, could make or break the ranch.

      He splashed the truck through the shallow creek bed and drove up the opposite bank. Even worse, he still had a hundred head stranded in the mountains he leased for summer pasture. He needed to hightail it up there to rescue them before the predicted snowstorm moved in, instead of wasting time hauling dead cows.

      Scowling, he steered around the trio of carcasses, appalled again by the pointless waste. And fierce resolve hardened inside him, an iron vise gripping his gut. He’d put up with the paparazzi. He’d put up with his self-absorbed father and his bodyguards hanging around. But this was different. This was personal, a direct assault on his ranch.

      But whoever had done this had underestimated him badly. The Bar Lazy K meant everything to Cole. This ranch was what he did, who he was. It wasn’t just his livelihood, it was his soul. And anyone trying to harm it had better watch out. Because if they wanted war, they’d get it.

      But he intended to win.

      “What do you mean, she died?” Bethany Moore stood at the luggage carousel at the Bozeman airport, her cell phone pressed to her ear. “How? When? She was fine last night when I gave her the evening dose.” Her seventy-year-old patient had been smiling, showing off photos of her granddaughter. How could she have suddenly died?

      “They’re looking into it,” Adam Kopenski, the lead doctor administering the trial, said. “I’ll let you know what I hear.”

      “Poor Mrs. Bolter. Her poor family.” A lump thickened Bethany’s throat. “I’ll come right back. I’ll have to check the flights, but I’m sure I can get there by tomorrow morning.”

      “There’s no point returning,” Adam said. “There’s nothing you can do here. The hospital is looking into it, and I can answer any questions they have.”

      “I know, but—”

      “Bethany, forget it. I told you, I’ve got everything under control. There’s no reason for you to come back.”

      Bethany sighed. Adam was right, but she still felt torn. As head nurse in the drug trial, the patients’ safety was her chief concern. “All right, but promise you’ll call as soon as you hear anything. Day or night. Don’t worry about the time difference.”

      “I will. And try not to worry. I’m sure it’s just one of those things. Now enjoy your vacation. Eat some buffalo burgers and relax.”

      She forced a smile, trying not to think of Frances Bolter’s kind blue eyes. “It’s beef on a cattle ranch. Not buffalo.”

      “Whatever. Just have fun. You work too hard. And I promise I’ll keep you informed.”

      “Thanks, Adam.” She meant it. She owed her friend big-time. Not only had he put in a good word for her, helping get her appointed head nurse on the study—a huge advance to her career—but his lively wit had kept her entertained on many a lonely night.

      But despite Adam’s reassurance, she couldn’t put the woman out of her mind. She clicked off her phone and stuck it in her purse just as her hunter-green suitcase pushed through the carousel’s plastic flaps. She couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. The Preston-Werner Clinic had a stellar reputation. Adam had screened the patients meticulously for the trials. And Bethany’s fellow nurses were all top-notch.

      She sighed and pressed her fingertips to her eyes, gritty from the 3:00 a.m. wake-up to make her flight. Adam was right, though. There wasn’t much she could do about Mrs. Bolter’s death now. And she wasn’t naive. She’d lost an occasional patient during the years she’d been a nurse. Still, it was never easy, especially with a patient that sweet.

      Besides, her father needed her here in Montana, even if he’d insisted he was all right. He’d fallen off his horse and broken his leg—not an easy injury to recover from at sixty-eight years of age.

      Her suitcase began to draw closer. Bethany skirted a man in cowboy boots, hefted it from the carousel, and wheeled it across the luggage-claim area to the tall glass doors. Once outside, she blinked in the afternoon sunshine, Bethany walked past the stone pillars to the end of the sidewalk where she stopped to wait for her ride.

      Relax, Adam had told her. She inhaled, filling her lungs with the dry mountain air, and willed her tension to ease—not hard to do since Bozeman’s small regional airport had none of the frenzy of O’Hare. There were no shuttle buses spewing exhaust, no constant stream of