Page 27 of Wyoming Heart

“Gallant,” she translated absently. “You speak Spanish?”

He nodded. “We have a lot of cowboys who come from Mexico or down in the Yucatán. Many are Mayan, but they also speak Spanish.” He chuckled. “Most of us have enough trouble trying to speak one language, but they come here speaking two already. English is their third.”

“Intelligent people,” she said, smiling.

“Indeed they are.”

The calf was getting restless on her lap. “I’d better get him to the barn. Can you tell what killed his mother by the way she died?”

“Not so much,” he replied. “It could have been a wolf or a big dog—maybe a pack of stray dogs. I don’t think it was a person. The flesh was torn, not cut.”

She nodded. She cocked her head. “Can you track?”

He chuckled. “I can track. I hunt deer every fall. I love venison stew.”

“Me, too. I go with Cousin Rogan, when he’s home. He’s a good tracker himself.”

His sensual lips pursed. There was an odd glint in his pale brown eyes. “Does McGuire hunt?” he asked abruptly.

CHAPTER FIVE

MINAWASTAKENby surprise. The question, out of the blue, was unexpected. She colored just slightly. Obviously he’d heard that she and McGuire had eaten at the Simpsons’ place.

“I, well, I don’t know if he hunts,” she stammered. “A lot of ranchers do.”

He nodded. “He’s a millionaire,” he said. His eyes narrowed. “Is that the draw?” he added in a soft, but icy cold, tone. “Your ranch needs a lot of work and you’re operating in the red. McGuire could fix that, couldn’t he?”

“You’re insinuating something very insulting, to both of us,” she said shortly. “And in case you’ve forgotten, my cousin Rogan is rich, too!”

“Not as rich as McGuire, from what I hear,” he returned, unruffled. “Cousin Rogan doesn’t own a private jet.”

Her face went red with mingled embarrassment and anger. “Lots of rich men do.”

“And you’d know that, how?” he wondered aloud.

She gave him a cold going-over with her eyes, noting his worn chaps and dirty boots, his battered hat. “How would you know what rich men do, either?” she asked sarcastically. “You don’t look as if you travel with the jet set.”

Oddly, he wasn’t insulted. He just smiled. She had no way of knowing that he had, when he was younger, traveled with the jet set. He was well-known among cattlemen. He had one of the biggest ranches in West Texas. Latigo was known far and wide, not only for Cort’s innovative breeding strategy, and its prize bulls, but also for its history. It was founded by the Culhanes, a father and three sons, who passed it down to their children and their grandchildren. The grandchildren fought so hard over ownership that they lost it, running up litigation fees that finally led to the ranch being sold for money they no longer had.

Cort’s father, Vince Grier, had bought the property and moved in with his own family, his wife and four sons. Little by little, he’d built Latigo into the property it was today. Not only did the Griers have cattle, they had real estate holdings all over the world, and gas and oil stocks that were worth even more than the ranch. Cort often thought that the Culhanes would be proud to see that their legacy hadn’t been lost. Even if it continued under another family’s name.

“I travel the rodeo circuit from time to time,” he said. It wasn’t quite a lie. He’d done a lot of rodeo when he was in his teens, before he joined the Army and went to war. “Lots of rich ranchers come to watch.”

She could hardly argue that. She knew that Cousin Rogan loved rodeo and hardly ever missed one. Catelow had a weekly rodeo in the summer. Lots of other towns and cities hosted them as well.

“I guess so,” she replied. She wasn’t eager to go, despite the calf’s infrequent movements as he rested between her flat belly and the pommel. She patted the calf absently.

“You should go,” he said, because he wanted her to stay, too, and it was unwise. He was flying false colors. He didn’t want her to know the truth about his status. Not yet. Let her think he was a roaming cowboy.

“I should.” She gave him a last, wistful smile and rode on toward Bart’s barn. He watched her until she was out of sight. He wished he knew why.

BARTCAMEDOWNto the barn and took the calf from her arms. He carried it into a clean stall and placed it gently on the hay. There was feed and water already in place. Ranchers expected to find a few deserted calves during calving season. “What happened?” he called back to her.

“You’ll have to ask your guest,” she said as she dismounted and followed him into the huge barn. “He found the little thing. Its mother was dead. He thinks it might have been a wolf or a pack of dogs. He’s tracking them.”

He chuckled. “He can track like a champion,” he told her. “Once, he caught a rustler by following a track with a break in the horseshoe. Tracked the men all the way to their transfer truck, pulled his .45 Ruger Vaquero and shot out their tires.” He shook his head. “Shot the head rustler as well.”

Her eyes were like saucers. “He shot someone!”

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