The Cowboy's Secret Son. Gayle Wilson

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      CHAPTER TWO

      “SOLD?” Mark repeated in surprise.

      “Somebody bought it right out from under their noses,” Stumpy Winters said, grinning. “I guess they waited a little too long this time, trying to drive the price down to nothing.”

      “An individual?”

      “With enough money to get the paperwork done overnight. Seems like they even took Dwight Perkins by surprise.”

      That wasn’t the way things normally worked around here. Most of the Realtors, like Perkins, were in the co-op’s hip pocket, which was pretty deep, giving them inside information on the market that allowed them to get the best deals.

      Mark even understood why Stumpy was grinning with such unabashed delight as he told him about the sale. It did feel like a victory for the little man to have the Salvini place sold out from under the co-op’s nose. And to a family, apparently.

      “Poor bastards,” Stumpy said, spitting tobacco juice into the five-pound coffee can that had been provided in the bunkhouse for that purpose. “They don’t know it yet, a’ course, but there ain’t nothing except bad luck and heartbreak waiting for ‘em.”

      Stumpy would know. Although Mark hadn’t thought about it since he’d been back, that ranch had once belonged to Winters’s family, long before Tony Salvini bought it.

      “Maybe it’ll be different this time,” Mark said.

      Stumpy snorted, his disdain for the prediction clear. “And maybe pigs’ll fly, too, but I ain’t hanging around expecting it.”

      “Speaking of which…” Mark said.

      He threw the dregs of his coffee out the open bunkhouse door. Considering the strength of the brew the old man boiled up on the woodstove every morning, he half expected it to sizzle in the dirt when it hit the ground. Despite the taste, though, there was nothing guaranteed to clear the head and get the heart pumping faster than Stumpy’s coffee.

      “You take care,” Stumpy said. “We’re gonna have us some weather ’fore the day’s out.”

      Weather. In the vernacular of the High Plains that meant a storm, which this time of year could include sleet or snow. Like most old cowpunchers, Stumpy’s battered bones were a better indicator of the local conditions than the six o’clock news.

      “See you tonight,” Mark said, taking the bunkhouse steps two at a time.

      Whatever Stumpy’s bones were telling him, Mark’s back felt better than it had for a couple of days. Of course, that might be due to the fact that he hadn’t had any marathon sessions in the cockpit lately. And today wouldn’t change that pattern. A run over to Albuquerque to take one of the co-op’s owners to a meeting was the only thing on his agenda.

      That could always change, but it looked as if he might have the afternoon free to take the résumés he’d been working on to the post office in town. He didn’t want to mail them from the ranch. That was something that his dad had drummed into him from childhood. The fewer people who knew your business, the better.

      Not a bad philosophy, Mark admitted. Not in this case, anyway. Until he had another position lined up, he couldn’t afford to alienate the owners of the co-op. He’d keep his mouth shut about his plans to move on. After all, that decision was nobody’s business but his.

      * * *

      JUST A GLUTTON for punishment, he thought as he found himself easing the stick to the right.

      Flying over the Salvini place hadn’t been a conscious decision, but on the return leg of his trip, Mark had ended up again on the northern boundary of the property. Although the distance this route added to his flight time would be no more than a few minutes, they could be critical on a day like this.

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