spree—until lately. Some of the background checks he’d done recently on the license plate numbers of unknown vehicles that had been spotted in the back country had begun paying off.
Now he had himself a couple of suspects. But he wasn’t ready to rope them in yet.
He’d begun putting some pieces together and he had a theory—one he needed to prove if he wanted to get rid of the rustlers at their source.
Ty suspected that this outfit was part of a large-scale ring operating in several states at once, not just a few locals rustling once in a while to pick up extra cash, like kids knocking off a liquor or appliance store. If his guess was right, this was a widespread, coordinated outfit, probably generating hundreds of thousands of dollars in the space of a year. After conferring with law enforcement and brand inspectors in Oregon, Colorado, and California, he was more convinced than ever that this was an organized crew of rustlers all working different areas, and all for the same employer.
And right now, Denny Owens and Fred Barnes, who’d both signed on last year as ranch hands at Ralph McIntyre’s Double M ranch, were only two small pieces of the puzzle. But they could be his key to solving the bigger picture—and to nailing the big boss.
He’d already checked both of them out and what he’d found was fascinating. Both men had started work at the Double M within a week of each other. And they’d both done time.
Owens had been arrested two years ago for fighting and destruction of property in Montana, and Barnes had an assault record for beating up a woman in a bar.
On the surface, they looked to be small-time felons, but Ty had dug deeper—and hit pay dirt.
And he’d also hit upon a plan.
It was two hours later when he finally got back to the Pine Hills after seeing Vernon Watkins sedated for the night, getting a written statement from Sue Ann, conferring with the doctor at the hospital, and completing dozens of pages of paperwork.
He spotted Josy Warner’s blue Blazer in the parking lot and found himself scanning the darkened building, wondering which unit on the second floor was hers.
Who cares,
he told himself as he left the cool windswept night and went inside to the dusky hallway, lit only by a forty-watt bulb.
Yet for some reason, as he climbed the stairs he thought back to the dance he’d shared with her. It was odd that he remembered every detail about it—especially the way she’d felt in his arms. Soft, sexy, and cool as summer frost—except for the tension that had radiated from her. She was hiding something.
He hadn’t been a cop all these years and not learned to trust his instincts. And his instincts told him that Josy Warner was not totally on the level. He wasn’t sure what about her seemed off, but there was something.
He filed it away in the back of his mind. He wasn’t about to start investigating her based on a gut feeling, but . . . he sensed there was something there. Otherwise he wouldn’t be remembering so much about their dance and their conversation . . . she wouldn’t be on his mind.
And it wasn’t because she was a slim, beautiful blonde, or because he’d felt a flash of heat when he’d first drawn her into his arms. It was because she had a secret, she was afraid, or she was here on some agenda. That was the only explanation.
He didn’t think she was a criminal. Just a mystery.
So it wasn’t as if it really mattered.
The rustlers picking on his town and who-knew-how-many others did matter.
At least—until he caught them.
Chapter 7
THUNDER CREEK’S LIBRARY WAS A SMALL STONE building at the end of town, set in a small flower-bordered square with two hardwood benches, a drinking fountain, and a handsome six-foot-tall gleaming bronze statue of a wild mustang in flight.
Inside, the air-conditioning wasn’t working but a wood ceiling fan kept the small lobby cool, and a spry woman of about fifty, wearing a pink blouse and a denim skirt, set aside a
Now he had himself a couple of suspects. But he wasn’t ready to rope them in yet.
He’d begun putting some pieces together and he had a theory—one he needed to prove if he wanted to get rid of the rustlers at their source.
Ty suspected that this outfit was part of a large-scale ring operating in several states at once, not just a few locals rustling once in a while to pick up extra cash, like kids knocking off a liquor or appliance store. If his guess was right, this was a widespread, coordinated outfit, probably generating hundreds of thousands of dollars in the space of a year. After conferring with law enforcement and brand inspectors in Oregon, Colorado, and California, he was more convinced than ever that this was an organized crew of rustlers all working different areas, and all for the same employer.
And right now, Denny Owens and Fred Barnes, who’d both signed on last year as ranch hands at Ralph McIntyre’s Double M ranch, were only two small pieces of the puzzle. But they could be his key to solving the bigger picture—and to nailing the big boss.
He’d already checked both of them out and what he’d found was fascinating. Both men had started work at the Double M within a week of each other. And they’d both done time.
Owens had been arrested two years ago for fighting and destruction of property in Montana, and Barnes had an assault record for beating up a woman in a bar.
On the surface, they looked to be small-time felons, but Ty had dug deeper—and hit pay dirt.
And he’d also hit upon a plan.
It was two hours later when he finally got back to the Pine Hills after seeing Vernon Watkins sedated for the night, getting a written statement from Sue Ann, conferring with the doctor at the hospital, and completing dozens of pages of paperwork.
He spotted Josy Warner’s blue Blazer in the parking lot and found himself scanning the darkened building, wondering which unit on the second floor was hers.
Who cares,
he told himself as he left the cool windswept night and went inside to the dusky hallway, lit only by a forty-watt bulb.
Yet for some reason, as he climbed the stairs he thought back to the dance he’d shared with her. It was odd that he remembered every detail about it—especially the way she’d felt in his arms. Soft, sexy, and cool as summer frost—except for the tension that had radiated from her. She was hiding something.
He hadn’t been a cop all these years and not learned to trust his instincts. And his instincts told him that Josy Warner was not totally on the level. He wasn’t sure what about her seemed off, but there was something.
He filed it away in the back of his mind. He wasn’t about to start investigating her based on a gut feeling, but . . . he sensed there was something there. Otherwise he wouldn’t be remembering so much about their dance and their conversation . . . she wouldn’t be on his mind.
And it wasn’t because she was a slim, beautiful blonde, or because he’d felt a flash of heat when he’d first drawn her into his arms. It was because she had a secret, she was afraid, or she was here on some agenda. That was the only explanation.
He didn’t think she was a criminal. Just a mystery.
So it wasn’t as if it really mattered.
The rustlers picking on his town and who-knew-how-many others did matter.
At least—until he caught them.
Chapter 7
THUNDER CREEK’S LIBRARY WAS A SMALL STONE building at the end of town, set in a small flower-bordered square with two hardwood benches, a drinking fountain, and a handsome six-foot-tall gleaming bronze statue of a wild mustang in flight.
Inside, the air-conditioning wasn’t working but a wood ceiling fan kept the small lobby cool, and a spry woman of about fifty, wearing a pink blouse and a denim skirt, set aside a
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