McKettricks of Texas: Austin by Linda Lael Miller Page B

the mental capacity to run an operation that big and complicated, but he wasn’t naming any names and neither were any of his partners in crime.
    â€œHow are things in the cattle business?” Austin asked, keeping his tone light.
    Tate frowned, and his jawline hardened. Evidently, he’d used up his daily allotment of good cheer saving the horse. “As if you gave a damn,” he retorted, peevish as hell, just before he turned to walk away, vanishing into the barn.
    Austin watched him go, didn’t look at Garrett when he spoke. “What’s chewing on him? ”
    â€œWe’re still losing livestock,” Garrett replied after a long time and with significant reluctance.
    Austin faced Garrett straight on. “Stolen?” Before Charlie and his gang had been rounded up, they’d raided the McKettrick herd a number of times, carted off a lot of living beef in semitrucks. Another half-dozen cattle had been gunned down and left to rot.
    â€œAbout a hundred head, as far as we can tell,” Garrett replied. “A few more were shot, too.”
    Austin swore. “You and Tate were planning on mentioning this to me—when…?”
    Garrett sighed, folded his arms. Scuffed at the ground with the toe of one boot. “We figured you had enough to worry about, what with your back being messed up and everything.”
    â€œI get a little sore once in a while,” Austin bit out, stung to a cold, hard fury, “but I’m not a cripple, Garrett. And what happens on this ranch is as much my concern as it is yours and Tate’s—whatever you think to the contrary.”
    Tate came out of the barn again. Because of the angle of his hat brim, his face was in shadow, and there was no reading his mood, but Austin figured it was still bad.
    As if you gave a damn, Tate had said.
    Where the hell had that come from?
    Garrett thrust out a sigh. “Tate’s pretty worried,” he said, keeping his voice down. “And I can’t say I blame him. Rustling is one thing, and killing cattle for the hell of it is another. It’s hard not to conclude that somebody out there has worked up a pretty good grudge against us, for whatever reason, and we figure it’s bound to escalate.”
    Tate waved but headed for his truck instead of joining the conversation between Austin and Garrett.
    At the moment, that was fine with Austin, because he was pissed off at being left out of the loop. Okay, so he had a herniated disc. He couldn’t ride bulls anymore, and for the time being, he wouldn’t be doing any heavy-duty ranch work, either. But one-third of the Silver Spur was his, and he had a right to know what went on within its boundaries, whether it was good or bad.
    He watched as Tate got into the truck and drove off.
    Garrett started toward the house and, after a moment’s hesitation, Austin fell into step beside him, but there was no more talk.
    Once they were inside, Garrett headed for his part of the house, and Austin went to his, glad to find Shep there waiting for him. It made him feel a little less lonely.
    A little, not a lot.
    He fed the dog, then made for the bathroom, kicking off his boots and stripping down for a hot shower.
    The spray eased some of the residual knots in his back, and he felt damn near human by the time he toweled off and pulled on fresh clothes. He ran a comb through his hair, put his boots back on and then went downstairs.
    Shep, having finished his nightly kibble ration, went along, too, curious and companionable.
    Austin searched the large storage room adjoining the garage until he found the camping gear. He took arolled-up sleeping bag out of a cabinet—it smelled a little musty—and returned to the kitchen.
    There he ate two frankfurters straight from the package, drank what was left of the milk and called it supper. If he got hungry later, he could always raid the kitchen again. Before going off to El Paso to take care of her