Hot On His Trail

Rufus chuckled. “That’s the difference between us, Radcliffe. You’re honest and poor. I’m dishonest and rich. It’s time you wise up, son, before you lose both the bet and the nice fat check that’s already got your name on it.”

Matt had never been so tempted to walk away. Leave behind Rufus and his frivolous bet. Finding work had never been a problem before. Finding someone willing to pay him half a million dollars was another story. Especially since he was only three hundred miles away from making his dream come true.

A ranch of his very own.

He’d dreamed of it ever since he was fifteen years old, lying under the stars on his first cattle drive. Some cowboys liked the nomad life, but Matt needed roots to feel whole. Roots that had been ripped away when he was twelve years old and never replanted.

Now he was so close to his dream, he couldn’t resist the offer Rufus dangled before him. Hell, why should he resist it? Rufus wouldn’t miss the money. It was a stupid, meaningless bet, but if Matt didn’t take the job, Rufus would find someone else to do it.

“Don’t worry,” Matt said, moving toward the door. “I’ll win your bet. And I don’t intend to let Lester Hobbs or anyone else stop me.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT MORNING, Matt led his bay gelding, Jericho, out of the stable, then mounted his horse and joined his crew by the corral. He’d carefully selected them, wranglers he’d known for years whom he could trust to work hard and keep the cattle moving. He looked at them now in the predawn shadows and knew he’d chosen the best.

Cliff Donovan was his oldest friend and a cowboy with a wry sense of humor. But Cliff took his job seriously, especially now that he had a growing family to support. He was not only book smart, but cow smart, and knew how to keep a large herd under control.

Davis and Deb Gunn were a husband and wife team who could ride and rope with the best of them. They were saving money to start a dude ranch on the Wind River Range in Wyoming, where Deb had grown up. She was one of the few women he knew who looked more comfortable in a saddle than in a dress.

Arnie Schott was pushing sixty and fighting arthritis in his knees, but he still loved riding the range. The old cowboy also had good instincts when it came to river crossings and rounding up strays. He had more years of experience driving cattle than the rest of them combined.

Bud Lanigan rounded out the crew. Matt had talked him out of retirement to drive the chuck wagon and prepare the meals. Bud had grumbled about the long days ahead, but Matt could see his excitement in the avid attention he paid to the smallest details of the journey. He might not be the best cook in the country, but he’d keep them well fed over the next few weeks.

Then there was Boyd.

Matt had dragged the wiry nineteen-year-old out of bed this morning and he still looked half-asleep on top of his horse. Despite the addition of an extra hand on the drive, Matt sensed the kid would be more of a hindrance than a help.

“You awake, Tupper?” he called out.

Boyd opened his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Time to get moving.” Then his gaze scanned the rest of the crew. “We’ve got three hundred rough miles ahead of us, but the forecast looks clear today. We’ll be following the Pecos River south for the first leg of the trip. I’ve already gotten permission from all the landowners along the route, so we shouldn’t have to worry about trespassing problems. When we reach Portales in a few days, one of us will ride into town and fetch the veterinarian. He’ll check out the herd so we can cross the state line into Texas. Any questions?”

Boyd emitted a loud yawn. “I’ve got a question. When’s breakfast?”

“You missed it,” Matt replied briskly.

Bud held up a brown paper sack. “I’ve bagged peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch if you want to eat early.”

The teenager wrinkled his nose. “I hate peanut butter.”

Matt swore under his breath. They hadn’t even gone a mile yet, and the kid was already complaining. “Nobody here will stop you from going back to bed.”

Boyd scowled, but to Matt’s disappointment didn’t make a move toward the bunkhouse.

The herd of one hundred Texas longhorns penned inside the corral lowed in restless anticipation, as if they sensed today was no ordinary day.

Matt looked over at Cliff, who had rounded up the lead steers and moved them to the gate. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Cliff replied, then called over to Bud, who was seated on the buckboard of the chuck wagon. “Hey, save Boyd’s sandwich for me. I love peanut butter.”

At Matt’s signal, Davis hopped off his horse and unhitched the latch. The gate swung open wide and the steers began to lumber out of the corral.

Matt raised one hand in the air, then swung it forward. “Let’s ride out.”

Then he took the first step toward his dream.

* * *

CALLEY STOOD in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Her only lead was the phone call from White Rock. Now she just had to hope Radcliffe lived somewhere in the area, or had left a paper trail she could follow. Not that she could even be sure he was still in New Mexico. Or that he’d obtained his driver’s license in this state. But she had to start somewhere.

At last she moved to the front of the line. “I’d like to know if you have any records for a Matthew C. Radcliffe. His last name is spelled R-A-D—”

“I have it,” the clerk interjected, pulling a file folder out of a wire basket. “Must be a popular guy. Another man was in here just an hour ago asking for the same information.”

Her heart lurched. Simms. Carolyn Mulholland had told her the name of her rival. Somehow he’d gotten a step ahead of her. She inwardly chastised herself for taking time to walk her daily five miles on the treadmill in the motel’s exercise room this morning. It had cost her precious time she couldn’t afford, but old habits were hard to break.

Her cardiologist had stressed the importance of exercise from the first day of her diagnosis, ranking it only second to faithfully taking her medication. Which reminded her of another problem. She only had a few pills left in the bottle. Once she tracked down Matt Radcliffe, she’d have to find a pharmacy to refill her prescription. Something her mother had taken care of for as long as she could remember.

“Next,” the clerk called out, breaking into Calley’s thoughts. She shifted over to one side and opened the folder. Inside was a copy of Matt Radcliffe’s driver’s license. Her breath hitched when she saw his picture. She’d never been particularly attracted to cowboys before, but this particular cowboy could make any woman’s heart beat faster. Her heart was skittering so fast in her chest, she feared it might be due to more than simple animal attraction.

Calley took a few deep breaths, then found an empty chair. She relaxed as her heart resumed its normal pace, then she took a closer look at her prey.

He had short, jet-black hair that looked like it would curl at the ends if he ever let it grow past his shirt collar. His tan complexion gave witness to long hours spent in the sun. The combination of a solid, square chin, chiseled jaw, and well-defined cheekbones made him the perfect candidate to model in GQ magazine. But the slight crook in his aquiline nose told her he’d probably punch any man who would suggest such an occupation.

But it was his eyes that really fascinated her.

Deep, dark-brown eyes, like chocolate melted under the warm sun. They pierced right through her and made her shift restlessly in her chair. Eyes that held his secrets and seemed to hold the power to discover hers, as well.

Not that she’d ever give him the opportunity.

Still, if he could look this good in a driver’s license photograph, she didn’t want to think about the effect he might have in person.

She tore her gaze from his picture and studied the statistical data. Matt Radcliffe was thirty-two years old, according to the date of birth recorded on the license. He was six feet tall and two hundred pounds, and judging by his photograph, all of it muscle. The faded chambray shirt he wore stretched taut across his broad shoulders.

Calley pulled a notepad out of her bag and jotted down the address listed on his license, 5521 Alameda Street. She handed the file back to the clerk, then hurried out the door toward her car. Finally she had a solid lead. But then, so did Bill Simms. No doubt he was well on his way to finding Matt Radcliffe while she’d been wasting time drooling over his picture.

Thirty minutes later, she was knocking on the door of 5521 Alameda Street, hoping against hope that Simms hadn’t already been here. Or worse, that he and Radcliffe hadn’t already left for Texas.

At last the door opened and a little girl with brown eyes blinked up at her. “Hello.”

“Hi there.” Calley knelt down so she would be at the little girl’s eye level. The child looked to be about four or five years old, with red hair cut in a pixie style. “What’s your name?”

“Bianca.”

“Hello, Bianca. My name is Calley.”

“You’re pretty,” Bianca said.