Carson Thorn parked his truck in front of the rock-sided building that housed offices of the Little Horn, Texas, chapter of the Lone Star Cowboy League. As distracted as he was, he couldn’t help but think about the history of the century-old group. It had started as a service organization, serving communities and ranchers across the state. Today it felt more like the last line of defense for ranchers who were being hit hard by thieves. The cattle rustling had started a month ago and showed no signs of letting up.
At today’s meeting the other members were expecting answers. They wanted him to come up with solutions. He wished he had some. And he wished he was anywhere else on a Thursday in October than in town at this meeting.
He grabbed his briefcase and locked his truck. As he did, he noticed a white sedan pull into another parking space. He didn’t stop to see who it might be. He had paperwork to hand over to the league secretary, and Byron McKay, one of the biggest ranchers in the state, was waiting to talk to him. That wasn’t a conversation Carson looked forward to. He never looked forward to talking to Byron. Knowing that Byron’s ranch had recently been hit by the thieves, Carson knew the conversation wouldn’t be pleasant. This was one of those days when he wished he could live in a community and not be involved.
Someone must have been looking out for him, giving him one thing to be thankful for. Ingrid Edwards, the league secretary, wasn’t at her desk. He sighed with relief. One bullet dodged. Now he just had to face Byron. The older man was already seated in the boardroom, a stack of papers in front of him.
“Byron.” Carson pulled off the sport coat he’d worn and tossed it on the back of his chair. He rolled up his sleeves and then poured himself a glass of water.
“This has to be stopped, Carson.” Byron pushed himself out of his chair and shed his own jacket. The rancher, a little paunchy and with thinning, strawberry blond hair, managed to knock over his own water glass.
Carson tossed him a roll of paper towels. He wasn’t playing maid to anyone, not even a McKay. He cringed, thinking of Byron’s offspring, twin teenaged boys who were sure to be chips off the old block someday.
He gave the other man a careful look, not wanting to wade too far in.
“I’m aware that it has to stop, Byron. I’m not sure what you want me personally to do about it. Do you want me on patrol? Do you want me to guard your livestock?”
“We need a plan. And maybe some of us do need to patrol. Lucy Benson is a great sheriff, but I’m not sure she’s up to snuff on this case.”
“Lucy is just fine.” Carson sat down in his chair at the end of the table. Times like this he’d like it if someone else was the local chapter president.
“Well, I for one think that Derek Donovan should be questioned.”
“Why do you think that?” Carson asked the question, but he knew the answer.
“Because he got out of prison and that’s when all of this started.” McKay slammed his meaty fist on the top of the table.
“Stop blaming my grandson,” a shaky voice said from the open door.
Carson rubbed a hand over his face and groaned. “Iva.”
“Yes, Iva.” The older woman pushed her walker into the room. “I’m still a member, Carson Thorn, and don’t you forget that.”
“No one is forgetting.” Carson stood and went to her side to pull out a chair for her. She was nearing eighty, and in the past few months, Parkinson’s had started to take a toll on her health. But Iva wasn’t letting it stop her, not until she didn’t have a say in the matter.
She waved him away, not taking the offered chair. “I’m not feeling the best, so I’m not staying for the meeting. I just wanted to confront you all and tell you this neighbor-blaming-neighbor business has to stop.”
Byron McKay faced the woman, his tone only slightly more gentle. “I’ve lost more cattle and equipment, Iva. My boys lost a couple of dirt bikes. This thief knows us and knows our ranches.”
Iva shook her head and raised a frail hand that jerked as she pointed an unsteady finger at the rancher. Her arm trembled as she tried to steady the gesture, adding a fierce glare that had Carson smiling. No one could beat down Iva Donovan. Even with her failing health she was a force to be reckoned with.
“Watch how you talk about my family, you bully in a Stetson.”
“I’m not running you down, Iva. You’ve had it tough and none of us blames you.”
“If you blame my kin, you blame me.” She shook her head at the chair Carson offered. “My grandson made mistakes and paid for those crimes. I’ll not have you pointing fingers at him.”
“Iva, you know we have to look at everyone in a situation like this,” Carson said, hoping he sounded diplomatic and not as suspicious as he really felt.
“We don’t have to start accusing our neighbors or searching their homes and farms,” Iva argued. She rested heavily on the walker as she looked from Carson to the other members who were trickling in. “Don’t come to my place again unless you have real evidence.”
Carson shot Byron McKay a warning look that silenced him. “Iva, unless they have a reason, they won’t search your place.”
“They don’t have a reason,” Iva insisted with a growl. “And you aren’t going to harass my family.”
“No, Iva, we won’t do that.” Carson took charge because he could see Iva weakening as her anger took over. She’d always been a spitfire and having Parkinson’s hadn’t taken any of her orneriness away, just her energy. “We’ve got the police on this and our own investigation team. We’re putting up surveillance cameras. We’ll figure out who’s responsible.”
“I hope you do,” she said a little more calmly. “Now I have to go, so you all continue on without me.”
“Let me walk you out to your car,” he offered.
“Hey, we still have things to discuss. You’re the chapter president and you can’t just walk out, Carson,” Byron McKay bellowed.
“Byron, relax. I’m walking Iva to her car and I’ll be back.” Carson reached for the door, and Iva smiled up at him. Her blue eyes were faded and rimmed with red, but she winked and he saw that spunk that had gotten her through some tough times.
“Byron McKay has more bluster than sense,” Iva snipped as they walked out of the meeting room.
“He does tend to go on.” He helped Iva through the main room and headed her toward the doors.
He nodded at Ingrid Edwards, once again behind her desk. She was shuffling through a drawer but she smiled up at him, her glasses sliding down her nose and red hair coming loose from a clip that held it to the top of her head. She winked and he wasn’t quite sure what to do.
Last week she’d brought him fried chicken. The week before that, brownies. Ingrid was on the prowl, looking for a husband before she turned twenty-six. Or so the rumor went. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but she’d have to look elsewhere. He was thirty-one and had no intention of settling down.
“It