“I travel the rodeo circuit from time to time,” he said. It wasn’t quite a lie. He’d done a lot of rodeo when he was in his teens, before he joined the Army and went to war. “Lots of rich ranchers come to watch.”

She could hardly argue that. She knew that Cousin Rogan loved rodeo and hardly ever missed one. Catelow had a weekly rodeo in the summer. Lots of other towns and cities hosted them as well.

“I guess so,” she replied. She wasn’t eager to go, despite the calf’s infrequent movements as he rested between her flat belly and the pommel. She patted the calf absently.

“You should go,” he said, because he wanted her to stay, too, and it was unwise. He was flying false colors. He didn’t want her to know the truth about his status. Not yet. Let her think he was a roaming cowboy.

“I should.” She gave him a last, wistful smile and rode on toward Bart’s barn. He watched her until she was out of sight. He wished he knew why.

BART CAME DOWN to the barn and took the calf from her arms. He carried it into a clean stall and placed it gently on the hay. There was feed and water already in place. Ranchers expected to find a few deserted calves during calving season. “What happened?” he called back to her.

“You’ll have to ask your guest,” she said as she dismounted and followed him into the huge barn. “He found the little thing. Its mother was dead. He thinks it might have been a wolf or a pack of dogs. He’s tracking them.”

He chuckled. “He can track like a champion,” he told her. “Once, he caught a rustler by following a track with a break in the horseshoe. Tracked the men all the way to their transfer truck, pulled his .45 Ruger Vaquero and shot out their tires.” He shook his head. “Shot the head rustler as well.”

Her eyes were like saucers. “He shot someone!”

“Well, the man shot at him first,” he said defensively.

Her heart almost stopped. The thought of Cort being shot down made her feel sick at her stomach. She couldn’t understand why. She hardly even knew him. She didn’t want to know him. He made her knees weak.

“He and the sheriff in his county back home in Texas are good friends,” he told her. “And he’s well thought of by the Special Rangers—those are the Texas Rangers assigned to investigate livestock and ranch-and farm-related cases of cattle theft. The man Cort shot got thirty years in prison for stealing sixty head of cattle.”

“Thirty years?” she exclaimed.

He nodded. “Texas is hard on cattle thieves. Here in Wyoming, it’s ten years, tops. But in Texas, it’s a third-degree felony, punishable by ten years in prison for stealing ten head of cattle. Sixty head, sixty years, it should have been—but the guy had a good lawyer so he only got thirty years.”