Let It Bree: Let It Bree / Can't Buy Me Louie. Colleen Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ Val, running his hands expertly over the bull’s back and sides. Val will live the rest of his life as a breeding Casanova, Bree reminded herself. But the justification felt hollow. If she hadn’t been so busy these last few days hauling Val down to Denver, registering into the stock show, prepping him for the competition, she might have taken a few moments to ponder if winning your dream was worth losing your roots.

      Finally, Dr. Marshall straightened, eyed Val one more time, then walked over to one of the 4H helpers who offered him a microphone. Taking the mike, the vet turned to the crowd. “Valentine,” he began—his drawl making her bull’s name sound like “Vaaalentiiiine”—”walks freely with good placement. He’s got excellent thickness, depth of body, spring of rib, straight topline. Superior Brahman character.” He paused.

      Bree’s insides lurched. This was the moment.

      The next thing she knew, someone was shaking her hand. She looked into the judge’s twinkling gray-blue eyes, vaguely aware he was congratulating her. People rose to their feet. Stetsons flew. Amid the shouting and whistling, the announcer’s voice yelled, “It’s Valentine Bovine, Brahman Grand Champion of the first Denver Stock Show Brahman Competition!”

      People flooded the arena. Flashbulbs. Somebody motioned Bree to bring Val to an adjacent pen where she received a small bronze statue. More flashbulbs. A teenage girl wearing braces on her teeth and a rhinestone tiara on her head—who someone introduced as “Miss Livestock 2003”—joined Bree in another picture. Bree dipped her head a little, painfully aware she towered over the stock-show princess.

      The princess disappeared. Several stock show officials joined her for another photo. Carlton, watching from the side, gave her a thumbs-up, a sign that his company was already outbidding other breeders for the rights to own Val. Carlton pointed toward the neon exit sign at the south end of the stadium, mouthing he’d meet her there.

      And as Bree smiled shakily for yet another set of pictures, she noticed two cowboys standing to the side. One tall and somber, the other short and confused-looking. They looked ridiculously out of place, like Abbott and Costello gone bad in one of those old gangster films her Grams so loved.

      Then the tall, somber cowboy sidled next to Bree, congratulating her in an east-coast accent, mumbling something about needing to get some stats on the bull. As he took the leather strap from Bree’s hands, she noticed a large diamond ring on his pinkie finger. Had to be one of the owners of Bovine Best, a business worth millions. With that kind of money, maybe even his shirt buttons were diamonds.

      But before she could check his buttons, the cowboy was leading Valentine away. Val jerked against the leather harness to look over his shoulder at her. As she stared into those big dark eyes for maybe the last time, waves of pain and loss washed over her. After two and a half years of grooming Val for this moment, it had all happened so fast—the trip, the competition, the win—and now her beloved bull was leaving her life forever.

      She dropped her head so no one would see the blobs of tears. Honest to God, she felt her heart breaking.

      Then, through her blurry vision, she caught sight of something wrong. She swiped at her eyes.

      Mr. Pinkie Ring wore brand new turquoise boots.

      Come on, she thought. Okay, so maybe he had money to burn and wore diamonds, but fresh-out-of-the-box boots at a stock show? Turquoise ones? And why was he leading Val toward the west exit, when Carlton had pointed to the south?

      She scanned the west, a mass of people, pens, cattle…but no sight of Carlton or any of the Bovine Best crew she’d met earlier.

      Panic tore through her. Are they stealing Val?

      She’d heard of such scams…criminals who’d kidnap, then sell, a prize bull on the black market to some dealer who’d claim he’d leased the bull and procured its sperm before the theft—and have forged records to prove it. These black-marketers made millions selling prize semen to ranchers eager to mix grand-champion genes with their herds. Unethical as hell, but it would take a small fortune in legal fees for the original owner—in this case, Bree—to prove her stolen bull’s semen wasn’t procured before the theft.

      A small fortune. Every single penny of her prize money lost in legal fees.

      And then there was the heart-killing image of Val, penned in some desolate location, unloved. No lady bovines around…nothing but a fake hind end to induce him…

      No! Not to Val! Just as on the volleyball court when she felt an opponent was ready to strike, Bree had to make a decision, fast.

      She darted, clawing her way through the mass of people. To her right, a Navajo blanket lay across a beam. Probably for someone’s horse. Bree snatched a corner of the coarse fabric and pulled it with her.

      Crazy ideas slammed through her mind as she picked up her pace. Maybe she’d toss the blanket over Pinkie Ring’s face to distract him? It’d buy her a few moments to wrestle Val’s strap from the man’s grip. And then what? A guy with a pinkie ring, turquoise boots and a bad attitude might do something really crazy.

      And sure enough, as soon as she spotted him, his jacket flapped open, exposing a gun holster.

      Now she knew what that something crazy and workable might be. He probably won’t pull a gun with all these witnesses.

      She paused. Wait a minute—is he talking to that cop?

      She shuffled in place. Weird. What did Pinkie and a cop have in common? There’d been a rash of internal police investigation stories in the Denver papers recently. Cops on the take. Black-market deals. Maybe some of those bad cops were in on this, too?

      Can’t go to the police. I’m on my own. Through a whirlwind of fear and fury, she fought to think what to do. I could flash Val the signal to act tough, to charge, but that’d be dangerous with all these people and livestock around.

      Pinkie began walking again, away from the officer, Valentine firmly in tow.

      It took Bree three giant steps to catch up. She slowed to a walk alongside Val, knowing instinctively he knew she was there. Eyeing the neatly creased, spotless Stetson on Pinkie Ring’s head, she held up the blanket, ready to…

      “Hey, girlie! Whatta ya doin’ with my blanket?”

      A man’s angry voice behind her. Had to move. Fast.

      She swung the blanket in an arc over her head.

      Pinkie Ring jerked around. “What the—?” As he raised his hands to thwart the blanket attack, the lead shank to Val’s halter fell free.

      Behind her, more yelling. Feet pounded the dirt floor.

      She swung the blanket in a wide, whooshing arc and flung it at Pinkie. As he stumbled and fell, she crouched and jumped—just as she would for a volleyball spike—using her body’s momentum to hurl herself over the back of Val. They’d done this before, but always in open fields, not in a building!

      “Go!” she yelled hoarsely, hoisting her leg over the animal’s back as she grabbed a horn for balance.

      Val snorted and lurched forward.

      A woman screamed.

      Bree held on for dear life as the massive beast broke into a trot.

      THE СКАЧАТЬ