slashed down, stinging his face as he loped down the hillside, winding his way through the sagebrush until he reached the rise where he’d last seen him. In a crouch, the shotgun in both hands, he topped the rise and squinted through the rain and darkness.
At first, he didn’t see anything. Coalbed methane wells were fairly unobtrusive. Not a bunch of rigging like oil wells. The wellheads were covered with a tan box about the size of a large air-conditioning unit. The boxes dotted the landscape to the north past the ranch complex, but there were none near the house.
He scanned the half-dozen wells he could see. No sign of anyone. Frowning, he wondered if the vandal might have doubled back, having purposely drawn him away from his pickup. Brandon had been so sure the vandal hadn’t seen him where he was parked.
But as Brandon started to look behind him, he caught movement down the hillside toward the ranch house itself and the large stand of pine trees behind it.
The VanHorn Ranch was nothing like Brandon’s family’s Sundown Ranch, which was family-owned and run with a main house and the barns nearby.
The VanHorn Ranch was run by hired help, so the main ranch house sat back a half mile from a cluster of buildings that housed the ranch office, the bunkhouses and the ranch manager’s house.
The rustic main ranch house was long and narrow, tucked back into the hillside and banked in the back by pines. Mason VanHorn lived in the house all alone after, according to local scuttlebutt, his wife had run off and he’d alienated his only two offspring.
The vandal disappeared into the pines at the back of the ranch house, the crowbar glinting in the dim light.
This time of the morning, there were no lights on in the small compound down the road from the ranch house, and few vehicles, since most of the men were out riding the huge ranch’s perimeter.
The ranch house was even more deserted since Mason VanHorn had flown to Gillette, Wyoming, two days ago for a gas convention and would be gone for at least another forty-eight hours.
Red had promised a large bonus to any man who caught the vandals or anyone else trespassing on the VanHorn Ranch before the boss got home.
And now Brandon had one in his sights.
A bank of clouds crushed out the light of the moon. Brandon moved, running fast. Had their vandal gone from wells to an even bigger prize: VanHorn’s house?
Brandon reached the trees and stopped, moving slowly through the darkness of the dense pines to the back of the house. The guy was nowhere in sight, but Brandon heard the snap of rain-soaked curtains in the wind and spotted the open window.
He thought about radioing for backup, but just the sound of the radio might warn the intruder. At the window, he raised the glass higher to accommodate his height of six-four, and climbed into what appeared to be a bathroom, since he found himself standing in a large tub, the wet curtains flapping behind him in the wind.
Standing perfectly still, he listened for any sign of the vandal. The bathroom door was open and he could see light coming from down the hall.
Moving cautiously, he stepped out of the tub to the doorway. Across the hall, he could see what was clearly a little girl’s room. A spoiled little girl’s room, from the frilly canopy bed to the inordinate amount of stuffed animals filling the room. It surprised him, since a little girl hadn’t lived in this house in years.
He ventured out into the hall, hoping Mason VanHorn didn’t come home early and catch him here. He cringed at the thought of the rancher finding a reviled McCall not only in his house, but dripping on his hall rug.
The flickering faint glow of a flashlight spilled from the last open door on the hallway. He froze, listening. It sounded like someone was opening and closing file cabinet drawers.
He crept toward the sound and the flickering light, moving cautiously, the shotgun in his hands.
As he neared the open doorway, he could hear the intruder riffling through papers, opening and closing desk doors. What was he looking for? Wouldn’t a vandal just start tearing up the place? Spray-paint the walls with words of protest instead of going through files?
He stopped as the house fell silent. At the sound of a metallic tick, tick, tick, Brandon stepped into the room¸ the barrel of the shotgun leading the way as he wondered what the vandal had done with the crowbar he’d been carrying. Hopefully he’d left it out in the rain after breaking in through the bathroom window.
The vandal had his back to him, the flashlight beam focused on the dial of a wall safe.
Brandon reached over and hit the light switch. “Freeze!”
The figure froze.
The room was one of those fancy home offices with the massive wooden desk, the expensive leather chair, a nice oak file cabinet and a brushed copper desk lamp with a Tiffany shade. Nice.
The person behind the desk with his back to Brandon was smaller framed than he’d first thought—and from the shape, definitely not a teenager. Nor a man. The hourglass figure was all female and only accentuated by the tight black bodysuit she wore. A long lock of dark hair had escaped the black stocking cap and now hung dripping down her back.
“You caught me,” she said in a silken voice as she turned, one hand holding the flashlight she’d had pointed on the safe, the other empty.
She was in her late twenties to early thirties with wide brown eyes, striking features and the kind of innocence that did something to a man.
“Put down the flashlight. Gently,” he ordered.
She gave him a look as if she thought he was being overly cautious, but did as he asked.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
She blinked. “I was about to open the safe.”
“I can see that. Why are you breaking into Mr. VanHorn’s safe?” he asked impatiently.
Her face was flushed from exertion and wet from the rain, her errant lock of hair soaked. “I wanted to see what was inside?”
“Do you think this is funny?” he demanded reaching for the two-way radio to call this in.
“No,” she said quickly. “I’m just nervous. This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this.”
His hand stopped shy of the radio. “You’re in a world of trouble.” More than she knew, once he called the ranch manager….
She nodded, a slight tremble of her lips and an edgy flicker of her gaze toward the door giving away her tension. She should have been scared since he was holding a shotgun on her, had caught her red-handed trying to break into his employer’s safe and she had no way out.
“Do you have to hold that gun on me?” she asked, her big brown eyes wide with fear. “I’m not armed. You can search me if you don’t believe me.”
It was a nice offer but he shook his head and swung the barrel of the gun downward away from her. Hell, he could see every curve of her body in that outfit she was wearing. It was time to radio Red Hudson, the ranch manager. His instructions had
