up his gloved hands, the flattened palms parallel to each other, indicating what “small” meant in case she didn’t know.
But she ignored his visual clue. Pulling on the halter, she led the bull to the back of the van. “What is this—about twelve by six?”
“Probably less,” he said quickly, following at a safe distance.
“No, it’s definitely twelve by six.”
Her confidence was irritating.
She continued talking as though this was nothing more than an evening stroll. “I used to put Val into Mr. Connors’s small cattle trailer and it was twelve by six.”
Three cheers for Mr. Connors’s cattle trailer.
“How are its shocks?”
“Excellent. I cart heavy tools.” Damn. This wasn’t the time to tell the truth. Unfortunately, lying had never been a skill he’d learned.
The cowgirl opened the back doors. “What’s back here?”
“Some pickaxes. Shovels. Box of fossils.”
“Fossils?”
“They’re in a metal crate up front.”
“Metal. They’re safe. Valentine is a pussycat, trust me.”
Damn irritating, that confidence of hers.
“Come on, Hot Stuff, let’s get inside,” the cowgirl said, followed by some kissing sounds.
Before Kirk could suck in another brain-numbing breath, the beast had placed one mighty hoof then another on the van’s carpeted floor. Then, with the grace of a meaty ballerina, the beast disappeared inside as the van creaked and lowered with the added weight.
The girl shut the doors carefully, as though she’d just loaded the back with china, then walked back to Kirk. “You saved our lives.” Her voice was soft with appreciation. It was too dark to see her face, but he imagined her having that same grateful look she’d flashed him earlier when she’d stood in the headlights.
And for a sweet moment, he knew how Tarl Cabot, the mighty warrior of Gor, felt when he’d rescued a damsel.
The cowgirl damsel slapped Kirk on the arm, one of those good-pals gestures that wiped out his Tarl Cabot fantasy.
“Let’s go—or we’ll freeze our you-know-whats out here!” She trotted toward the passenger door.
Stunned with the occurrences of the last few minutes, Kirk walked stiff-kneed toward the driver’s door. As he sloshed through a chilly puddle, he experienced literally the meaning of “cold feet.”
Was the anxiety he felt due to his impending marriage or the adventure he’d stepped into?
2
“NEDERLANDER HIGHLANDER RANCH,” Louie repeated for the umpteenth time, rolling the words in his mouth as though tasting them.
“Some Scottish guy?” asked Shorty, taking a last drag on his cigarette and flicking it out the window. The lighted stub seared a thin orange flame through the darkness.
Louis slugged Shorty on the arm. “There’s an ashtray in here.”
“Oh.” Shorty stared straight ahead, looking like a basset hound that had just been severely chastised. “Sorry, Lou.”
Louie sighed. He hated guilt trips. Reminded him of his ex-wives. The first two, anyway. He also hated being stuck with an imbecile like Shorty on a critical job, but Shorty was the nephew of Clancy “The Neck” Venuchi and if Clancy said Shorty was working a job, only a bigger imbecile than Shorty said no.
“Forget it,” said Louie. “We need to figure out where this Nederlander Highlander place is.”
After a little boy hanging around outside the stock show had told them he’d seen a girl and her bull trot into a cluster of rundown nearby buildings, Louie and Shorty had driven around that area for several hours. They’d waved money in winos’ faces, until one swore he’d seen two people loading a buffalo into a big yellow truck with the words Nederlander Highlander Ranch on it.
The buffalo had to be the bull.
But Nederland Highlander?
“Shorty, get the map book. Look up Nederlander.”
Shorty reached underneath his seat and retrieved the thick Denver Regional Area guide they’d purchased at the Tattered Cover.
“Right.” Shorty flipped open the book and stared at a page.
“What’re you lookin’ at?”
“A map.”
Louie bunched his fist, fighting the urge to smack some sense into his partner. “There’s over a hundred pages in that thing. Check the frickin’ index.”
“Right.” Shorty flipped to the back of the book. “Ned…er…lander,” he muttered under his breath. “Ned…er—”
“N-e-d-e-r-l-a-n-d-e-r.” Louie loved books, especially detective novels, so he had an affinity for words and their spelling. But he had a feeling this street map was the first book Shorty had cracked open in years.
Shorty made a smacking sound as his finger slid down a page. “Dere it is!” He brought the book to within inches of his face. “Ne…der…land.” He looked up. “No e-r.”
“Good.” If it was in the book, it was close to Denver. So the girly and the bull had hopped a ride to a nearby town. Sweet. “Check which highway leads to it.”
“Right.” After a pause filled with more smacking, Shorty announced, “Twenty-five north to thirty-six to one ninety-three to one nineteen.”
“I said which highway, not how high can you count.” No sweat. They’d spent a chunk of today on the I-25 highway, and Louie remembered signs to highway 36. The rest was chump change.
He started the engine.
“Lou?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll use da ashtray next time.”
If Louie has his way, there’d be no next time with Shorty. Fortunately, this job would wrap up soon. All Louie had to do was steal the frickin’ bull and cart it to a rendezvous point outside Lubbock, Texas. There, they’d hook up with a go-between who’d pay them their dough and take the bull off their hands.
Louie’d never messed with a bull before, but after being told his take would be a cool half a mil, he figured he could dance with the beast if he had to. Besides, he’d done some studying. Brahmans looked tough, but were for the most part temperate-like.
Sorta like himself, he figured.
Louie turned the wheel and steered
