Bernie tugged on his lower lip. “Actually, since our last conversation, I’ve determined that any able-bodied person with half a brain can do that. I have plenty of them already on my payroll. You would be a wasted asset doing manual labor.
“No, what I have in mind for you now, Gabe, is something more complex, more suited to an austere and respected man who has a knowledge of science and the healing arts.”
Befuddled, Gabe said, “What are you talking about, Bernie?”
“Poison.”
Forty
Thatcher was working late. The sun had already set, making it dark enough in the stable to require a lantern. He moved it from stall to stall as he replenished water and feed for each of his charges.
The mare who had caused him to work overtime snuffled and tossed her head when he entered her stall. She had a bad reputation for kicking, so he waited for her to settle before closing himself in with her.
“I saved you for last because we need to have a talk.” He moved to stand where she could see him. He stroked her forehead. “You kick another board out of Mr. Barker’s fence, he may kick both of us off his property. I’d lose money. Your owner, who’s already put out with you, would send you to the glue factory.”
Her ears twitched. She was listening.
“What he would rather do is breed you with that handsome stallion he’s got. If you keep acting unladylike, you’ll miss out. He’s hung like a racehorse,” he whispered. “He is a racehorse. The other mares would give their eye teeth. Think it over.”
He lifted a coiled lasso from a hook and began rubbing it over her with one hand while smoothing her coat with the other. Dryly, he said, “Of course, I’m nobody to be giving advice in that department.”
He’d spent three restless nights since he’d gone to Laurel’s house and had seen her with the O’Connor brothers. She thought they were charming. They had the gift of gab. They made her laugh.
This was Thatcher’s first experience with jealousy, but it had sunk its claws in deep. He understood now how it could cloud a man’s judgment and cause him to behave irrationally. But jealousy aside, he didn’t see anything good coming from Laurel Plummer mixing with hell-raisers the likes of them.
Thatcher knew—damn his knack for reading people—that she didn’t always tell him the whole truth. Some of that wiggling around certain topics and giving less than direct answers could be passed off as part of her prideful nature. She was fiercely determined to stand on her own. But he suspected that her sidestepping pertained to something besides protecting her privacy.
And that bothered him, because he didn’t think she had taken his warning about Chester Landry seriously.
To get her to listen, to try and i
mpress upon her how important it was that she heed his warning, he had held her and made out like he was going to kiss her again. The instant he’d put his hands on her, he’d gotten her attention, all right, but she’d for damn sure gotten his, too.
He’d counted on feeling a stiff corset or whatever it was women wore under their clothes to narrow this and plump that. But all he’d felt through Laurel’s dress was Laurel.
Her waist had been giving, each dainty rib delineated. The heel of his hand had brushed the underside of her breast. Not to cup that soft crescent in his palm… He deserved some kind of medal. He—
The mare’s ears twitched, and she restlessly bobbed her head at the exact moment that Thatcher heard a noise coming from the front of the stable. He lowered the lariat, but continued to run his hand over the mare’s withers to keep her calm.
A rustle. The faint crunch of straw underfoot. Maybe some kind of critter? Mouse, rat, cat, possum?
Then a clangor that would raise the dead. An animal might knock over an empty feed bucket, but it wouldn’t cuss a blue streak when it did.
The mare began to stamp and neigh, as did the other horses in their stalls. Thatcher hooked the lariat over his shoulder, unlatched the stall door, and slipped through. But he had to take the time to latch it back so the mare wouldn’t get out. Once it was secure, he ran to the wide stable door. As he cleared the opening, he caught sight of a fleeing male figure. Thatcher bolted after him.
It was full-on dusk, but Thatcher spotted the intruder skirting around the corral and running for the creek. Thatcher went after him, uncoiling the lariat as he ran. As the man began to slide down the steep embankment, Thatcher tossed the rope and lassoed him with ease, neatly dropping the loop over his head and trunk, pinning his arms against his torso.
The man gave a sharp cry as he was jerked backward and off his feet. When he landed butt-first on the rocky ground, he let fly another round of colorful profanities.
Thatcher walked toward him, taking up the slack in the rope as he went. The face that glared up at him was that of a young man still in his teens, about Roger’s age.
“Fuck you, cowboy.”
Thatcher planted the sole of his boot against the youngster’s chest and pushed him onto his back, holding him down with his foot. “You know what happens to horse thieves?”
Still glaring, the boy remained stubbornly silent.
“They’re hanged from the nearest tree.”