She risked a stare straight into those vivid green eyes. “So you’re threatened by my authority, then?”
“Yep. That’s it.”
Belle ignored the sarcasm and dropped to her knee. It gave her a break from staring at those broad shoulders, lean hips and his thick brown hair streaked blond from the sun. The fence had been cut clean through, the work likely as swift and efficient as it looked. “You lose any of your cattle?”
“No. I found the breach early enough to manage and the herd’s grazing on a different sector. This stretch hasn’t been tried before and I don’t have cameras out here.”
Belle filed that information away, the likelihood this was a well-planned—illegal—use of private property increasing exponentially. “Notice anything or anyone suspicious lately?”
“Other than a twenty-foot section of barbed wire cut clean through? No.”
A few of Tate’s ranch hands worked in the distance, preparing the stretch of fence for repair by removing what was cut. Their hands were coated in thick gloves but even with the barrier, they worked quickly.
“I’m here to help you.”
The eyes that usually flashed with easygoing humor clouded, transforming into a hard, cold emerald. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t take comfort in that. You’re the third member of our esteemed police force out here in the past six months and no one seems able to fix the little intrusion problem I seem to have developed on my land. That fence isn’t cutting itself.”
Belle chafed at the suggestion her department wasn’t doing enough, but she damn well knew problems along the border had grown nigh impossible to contain. Between drug trafficking and illegal immigration, the local cops had their hands as full as the Feds.
And both problems were only growing worse.
She got to her feet, her gaze roaming over the dry footprints that were barely visible in the scrub grass that surrounded the fence. They’d likely never even be visible if it hadn’t been for the spring rains that had softened up the land. “You put the patrol on like the chief asked you to?”
“So now it’s my problem?”
“It’s all our problems, Tate. I’m asking if you’ve done your part.”
Tate’s shoulders hunched before he turned back to the men cutting wire. Stubble still coated the firm jaw that was hardening in anger. “We all take turns. I’ve got extra patrols on each night. Added several men on top of that and I let the Feds roam around here with all that Yankee finesse they’re known for. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s a hell of a lot of acreage to cover over every night after a long day of work.”
“And people looking for a way in observe patterns. Weak spots. The Pass has more than most.”
While she refrained from saying much to the contrary at work, she wasn’t going to sugarcoat it for Tate. Midnight Pass had gotten its name for the deep ravines and many hiding places that ran along a small tributary of the Rio Grande. That tributary—and the larger river a half mile away—made up a stretch of Texas-Mexico border that was a challenge to patrol.
The rich, fertile land was home to the three largest ranching clans in the county. The Reynolds, Vasquez and Crown families had built massive cattle operations over the lush earth. And for the past decade, their land had increasingly become the conduit to a drug trade that was far more lucrative than cattle.
“You think anyone on your team’s letting them in?”
“Ace, Hoyt and I have a zero tolerance policy and make that known. Our older guys keep an eye out, as well. Best I can say is we watch out for it.”
“Fair enough.”
Tate moved in, his fingers snaking out to toy with several strands of hair that had come loose at her ear. The 6:00 a.m. wake-up call ordering her out to Reynolds Station hadn’t allowed for much prep time and putting her hair in a hasty bun and some slapdash makeup was all the armor she’d had time for. “Why are you here, Belly? You know this is a dangerous job.”
The whispered endearment only increased the flapping wings of the demon bats and she slapped at his hand. “You know how I feel about that name.”
“Which is why I use it.”
“And you know how I feel about my job, dangerous or otherwise. You have no say in the matter.”
“I never did.”
* * *
Tate stared at the only woman who had the ability to wrap him in knots and dropped the curl winding around his finger. Annabelle Granger had been his nemesis since the first grade and little had changed in the ensuing quarter century. Trite as it was—he’d pulled her pigtails then and had been proverbially doing so ever since—he couldn’t remember a single moment of his life that Belle Granger hadn’t occupied space in his head. The amount of real estate changed pending how recently they’d seen each other, but she was always there.
His Belle.
With her blond curls that made his fingers itch. Vivid blue eyes with a gaze as sharp as her tongue. And the small dent in her chin that fascinated him as much at thirty-two as it had at six. There’d even been a time—a short, gloriously wonderful time—when he’d run his tongue over that little dent while his hands roamed over—
On a hard, mental curse, Tate shut down that unproductive line of thought and focused on his problem. Once again, Reynolds Station had been used for trafficking—either drugs or illegal immigrants. He was committed to finding a solution to the poor souls who gave everything they had to come across the border, no matter the cost, a stance that didn’t make him incredibly popular with the locals. He had no time for the abuse so many of those individuals suffered in the process and made his feelings known as a voting member of the town council.
The drugs, on the other hand, had gone positively nuclear. What had been an irritating problem had mushroomed over the past decade into an all-out war. And there were far too many days Tate believed he and his brothers were losing. Every time they found a cut line of fence or line of footprints tracking over their land, it was another skirmish they’d fought and lost.
And no amount of manpower seemed to be helping.
“When did you discover this? I got the dispatch around six.”
“About five.” When she only stared at him, he added, “I was out early.”
Her gaze narrowed, that sharp blue spiking even sharper points. “You’re not sleeping?”
Her lack of response over his barb about her choices, coupled with the sudden focus and attention on his lack of sleep, had Tate sliding back into the familiar comfort of their usual sparring. “Just because you’d gladly hug your pillow until noon doesn’t mean some of us aren’t early risers.”
“Sun’s not even up at five this time of year.”
“I took a flashlight.”
Tate had no idea what had pulled him out to this end of the property but he’d had the urge and had pushed Tot this direction
