Three Cowboys - By Julie Miller Page 0,2

inflicted on those around him.

The gray limestone hills grew more rugged and rocky as they dropped off toward the Rio Grande River valley and its tributaries to the west. The land to the east, sectioned off by a network of irrigation canals, flattened out to succulent green pasture where hundreds of fat brown cattle and horses grazed. The gently sloping hills to the north led to a dammed-up reservoir and the neighboring Cobb ranch where he’d taken his horse on many rides to escape the arguments in the main house and stables. And behind him, about a mile to the south, was Mexico.

Pulling off his sunglasses, Bull scrubbed his hand across the dark brown stubble that peppered his square jaw and peered through the windshield. The barren landscape where he stood taller than almost any tree was a stark contrast to the crowded streets and steel high-rises of the Chicago neighborhood where he worked as a detective. He tucked his fingers beneath the unbuttoned collar of his damp, white shirt and wished for the snow and cold and biting lake wind he’d left up north. Even in mid-December with the A/C on in his truck, he could feel the sun beating down on him and heating his emotions.

This was a mistake. Why the hell had he let Wyatt talk him into this? He didn’t belong here anymore. Their father had made that painfully clear. The two of them had gotten into a shoving match out in the barn that day during spring break.

“You’re gonna learn to do things my way, Bull McCabe. And if you don’t like my rules, you don’t have to stay.”

He hadn’t.

But now he was back. He’d traveled down here from the northern edge of the country in just over twenty-four hours. His muscles were stiff and his neck ached. He was beat. But he needed to shift his truck into Drive and finish the last half mile of his journey. Someone needed him.

As Bull crossed through the gate, he recognized the familiar, two-story white house with its wraparound porch and pine-shingled roof. Framed by whitewashed barns and metal outbuildings, the house stood like a lonely beacon of civilization on the endless horizon of J-Bar-J land. This was Justice McCabe’s own little country, west of the Texas town of Serpentine.

And Bull had stopped being a citizen there ten years earlier.

He’d never envisioned himself coming back home to this place, to his father—he’d never wanted to.

But the phone call from his brother Wyatt had him handing off cases and leaving early for his holiday vacation. “Bring your gun and your badge, Bull,” Wyatt had said. “We need to save her.”

Bull didn’t intend to be here any longer than he had to be. Morgan, Virgil and Wyatt McCabe might have lost their beloved mother, Jeanne, to a traffic accident a decade ago, but she’d been dying inside long before that because of their father’s cheating. He’d be damned if he’d let another family member be hurt because of his father—even a sister he never knew they had.

“What the hell?” Bull pulled up behind a pair of departmental SUVs parked in the circular drive near the bottom of the front-porch steps. He recognized the dark-haired man in the blue jeans and cowboy hat, wearing a gun at his waist and a sheriff’s badge on his shirt pocket. That was his brother Wyatt. He could even guess the dark-haired woman arguing with him was some kind of law enforcement, judging by the brown-and-tan uniform she wore.

What he didn’t recognize was the evergreen garland, strewn with lights and red bows that draped around the porch railing and twisted up each post to another row of lights anchored to the gutter. And beyond the couple at the top of the steps, just to the right of the door, a tall pine tree, hung with ornaments and lights and an angel on top was framed in the front windows. What kind of game was this? There hadn’t been a Christmas celebrated at the J-Bar-J since their mother had died.

Maybe some things did change. But the unexpected decorations only made him suspicious. What was Justice up to? Did he think a few imported greeneries and sparkly lights could convince Bull to make this emergency visit a permanent move home?

He pulled his gun from the glove compartment and slipped it into the shoulder holster he wore beneath his left arm before opening the truck door. The heated debate that was mostly one-sided felt more like the