Page 6 of Rip Ryder's Second Chance

“You’re lying,” Sammie said smartly. “You just don’t want to admit that you miss sex.”

“Not everything is about sex.”

“It’s not? Then you haven’t found a man with the right moves.”

Noelle’s thoughts traveled to a different time in her life, back when she still lived in Second Chance. She thought she’d found the right man…

“Stop trying to meddle in my relationship status, Sam. I’m doing just fine.” Although the words didn’t sound as convincing as she’d hoped.

Chapter 2

“It’s a disaster I tell you. We can’t keep the kids from partying on the land since Tuck’s death. This time they broke the fence and some of the cattle got out. Burt and Spike have been out all morning searching for the stragglers.”

Rip Ryder listened to Parson, the foreman at Bluebird Ranch, who clutched his battered Stetson with stained, crooked fingers borne from years of hard work. He’d been at the ranch for over twenty years and it showed in his weathered complexion. “Did you call Bend to file a report?”

Parson shifted his weight from one dusty boot to the other. “I thought you should make that call since you’ve been running things.”

The disappointment of Tuck’s death still felt raw. Six months ago, the seasoned cowboy had sat with Rip and told him that he’d been diagnosed with lung cancer. The doctor had given Tuck weeks to live, but he’d managed to stay strong for months. But eventually the disease had taken its toll. Rip had moved out onto Bluebird to oversee the running of things because Tuck had been too weak by the end. Watching the man’s health decline rapidly had been hard to watch, but Rip was glad that he was able to be there for his mentor during the final days.

He'd been a damn good friend.

Trespassers, especially teens, had always been a problem because Bluebird was butted up against Snowbleed Mountain. Hikers usually hung out along the caves, partied, then left before sunrise. Tuck had always been patient with the kids, but Rip’s tolerance stopped when things started getting damaged. He ran a tighter ship than Tuck.

“How many cattle are missing?” Rip asked as he looked over the herd busy grazing in the field.

The Highland breed of cattle had been Tuck’s livelihood. What started as a hobby years ago had quickly turned into a large profit, making him a reputable breeder in Montana. He’d treated the herd like they were pets. They were kept separate from the Black Angus that were sold for beef.

“Four.”

Rip whistled through his teeth. Thirty-thousand dollars’ worth of cattle walking right out of the pasture never made a cowboy feel good. “When did you notice they were gone?” He looked down the fence line.

“During our morning check. Everything was fine last night. They were tucked away like bugs in a rug.”

“So, the Highlands had to go missing sometime during the night. Who was on watch?”

Parson looked a bit uneasy. “Buddy, sir. I spoke to him, and he admitted he hit the bottle and fell asleep.”

Rip scrubbed his whiskered jaw. Tuck had hired Buddy at fifteen after he’d fallen off a horse and suffered a brain injury. He was a good guy, but tended to slack off sometimes. “Don’t place Buddy on watch again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What makes you think it was a group of teens that did this?”

“Buddy and I scouted every inch of the fence line all the way to the caves. We found empty beer bottles near the mountain and tire tracks by the damage.”

“Let’s go out there and take a look. I’ll drive.” He motioned for Parson to follow.

They climbed into the old beat-up work truck that Tuck had refused to get rid of, even though it broke down every few weeks without fail. Rip turned the key, pumped the gas, and coaxed the worn engine into a rumbling throttle. With a few sputters of resistance and a loud backfire, the truck rumbled to life. Rip shifted and followed the dirt lane around to the west pasture close to the mountain. They hit every bump and rut in the road on the way, putting the rusty suspension to the test.

Parking near the mended fence, Rip killed the engine and climbed out. He and the foreman followed the fence line a piece. The tall, reedy grass slapped their calves as the breeze picked up.

“You see the tire tracks?” Parson used his chin to gesture ahead.

The marks were made by small tires, which didn’t fit with a theory that someone could have stolen the cattle. A trailer would have made deeper ruts in the grass. Rip ran his finger over the grooves in the displaced dirt, then dusted his hands off. A few feet away he saw an empty condom wrapper someone must have tossed out the window.At least the teens were protecting themselves. “Let’s get some cameras set up along this area. I’ll have the feed streamed to my phone. Let’s have the hands take shifts on keeping watch. Ask Mick to take first watch.” Mick was a damn good worker.

“We have another problem, boss.” Parson shrugged a scrawny shoulder under his worn plaid shirt. “Mick up and quit yesterday.”

“He quit?” Rip swiped off his Stetson and slapped it against his jean-clad thigh. “Why?”

---