“No.”
Mariah nearly groaned aloud. Ned Anderson, the local attorney representing the Coulter estate, had been unable to locate the heirs. A month ago, he’d hired a Denver detective agency to take over the search but Joseph’s four sons were proving surprisingly difficult to find.
“I realize it’s been more than a dozen years since Joseph had any contact with them but still, how is it possible for four men to disappear so thoroughly?” she said, frustration coloring her tone.
“I don’t know, Mariah.” Pete lifted the worn hat and rubbed gnarled fingers over his close-cropped white hair. Worry furrowed his brow. “I heard gossip over the years that said them boys made a pact. The older ones waited until the youngest was done with high school and they all left the next day. They swore they’d never come back to the Triple C but nobody ever said where they went when they left.”
“I hope they’re found soon.” Mariah’s salary and tips as a waitress at the diner in Indian Springs barely covered food and necessities. The feed store was running a tab for hay and grain but she had no idea how long they would continue to do so. And after months of medical expenses, Joseph’s bank account had been nearly empty when he died.
“Me too, Mariah, me too.” Pete awkwardly patted her shoulder, then clapped his hat on his head and jerked a thumb at the truck. “I’ll carry the groceries in before I get back to work on the tractor.”
The wind picked up and Mariah shivered as the two carried bags to the bunkhouse kitchen. The Triple C had been a haven for all three of them—Pete, fellow ranch hand J.T. and herself—when they each had desperately needed shelter. They’d vowed to remain and care for it until Joseph’s sons returned to take over. She knew all of them privately hoped to stay on. But the ranch belonged to the Coulter heirs—she could only pray they were found soon.
Mid-March Mexico
The sixteenth day of March was unseasonably hot, even for the arid acres of the Rancho del Oro, located deep in the Mexican state of Chihuahua.
Cade Coulter tossed a roll of barbed wire into the back of the dusty ranch truck and walked to the cab. He reached through the open window and grabbed a thermal jug from the passenger seat. With one easy gesture, he unscrewed the lid and tilted his head back to drink. The cold water washed the dust from his throat and he didn’t stop swallowing until the jug was nearly empty.
It’s too damned hot, he thought as he wiped his forearm across his brow. The aviator sunglasses he wore blocked some of the sun’s rays but not all. He tugged his Stetson lower to further shade his eyes from the sun’s glare and leaned against the truck’s dented fender. A memory of brisk, chilly air in Montana’s early spring intruded but with the ease of long practice, he ignored it, focusing on the present.
A hundred degrees in March. It’s going to be hotter than the hinges of hell by midsummer. He studied the pasture inside the fence break he’d just repaired, assessing the barely visible green in the arid landscape. Under the best of circumstances, the desert-dry land offered scant feed for cattle but the winter had been even drier than usual and the land was showing the effects.
Maybe it was time to head north for the spring and summer—Utah, Idaho, maybe Wyoming, or even Canada. In the three years since he’d left the Marines, he’d worked on a series of ranches, spending summers in northern states and heading south to Mexico for the winter. There was always work for a man who knew his way around cows and horses, especially if he didn’t care whether he spent weeks on the range, far away from towns and the company of other humans.
A plume of dust moved toward him down the dirt track that followed the floor of the cactus-dotted valley and disappeared over a rise several miles away. This was the first time in the two weeks he’d been sleeping at the line camp and riding fence that he’d seen signs of life beyond the occasional steer, jackrabbit or coyote.
The del Oro bordered an area with active bands of rebels—unexpected visitors were always suspect. Cade leaned into the pickup through the open window, set the gallon water jug on the seat and took a loaded rifle from the rack mounted over the back window.
Friend or foe, it paid to be ready for anything. Especially when a man spent his days this far from civilization. Fortunately, he wouldn’t need to use the gun, as the truck drew nearer and he recognized a young employee from ranch headquarters.
“Hey, Cade,” Kenny called as he braked to a stop, dust swirling around the dirty pickup truck with the ranch logo on the door. “I’ve been looking for you since yesterday.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“You got a letter from an attorney in the States. Boss thought it might be important so he sent me out with it.”
Cade cradled the rifle as he took the envelope, glanced at the return address and felt his blood run cold. The last bitter, angry words his father had said to him rang in Cade’s mind as clearly as if Joseph Coulter had uttered them yesterday instead of thirteen years ago. If you leave, don’t come back—not until you get a letter from my lawyer telling you I’m dead.
The words brought an instant memory of his departure from the ranch, the rearview mirror reflecting three pickup trucks following him, each driven by one of his younger brothers.
Did they know Joseph Coulter was dead?
No, Cade thought with instant certainty. He hadn’t heard from any of them in several months and they would have contacted him immediately if they had learned of the news.
“Ain’t you gonna read it?”
Cade realized the young cowhand had stepped out of the truck and was eyeing him expectantly.
He ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper, swiftly read the short paragraph, then refolded and tucked the brief message back into the envelope.
“Well? Was it important?”
“Yeah.” Cade tucked the letter into his shirt pocket. “I need to pick up my horse and gear at the line camp. Tell the boss I’ll be in late tonight to collect my wages before I head north.”
“Damn, that letter was bad news, wasn’t it?” Kenny seemed genuinely sympathetic.
Cade didn’t do touchy-feely emotional stuff but something about the kid’s worried face made him relent.
“My father passed away.”
“I’m sorry, man. That’s hard.”
Cade shrugged. “It happens.”
“So you have to go back home to take care of stuff for your mom?”
“My mother died when I was a kid.” Cade reached into the truck and slid the rifle into the window rack.
“Damn. I’m sorry.”
“Again, not your problem.” Cade took pity on the kid, who looked as gloomy as if he were personally responsible for Cade’s parents having died. “I appreciate you coming all the way out here to tell me.”
“Sure.”
Cade drove off; a brief glance in the rearview mirror told
