The Cowboy's Deadly Mission. Addison Fox
feet, her gaze roaming over the dry footprints that were barely visible in the scrub grass that surrounded the fence. They’d likely never even be visible if it hadn’t been for the spring rains that had softened up the land. “You put the patrol on like the chief asked you to?”
“So now it’s my problem?”
“It’s all our problems, Tate. I’m asking if you’ve done your part.”
Tate’s shoulders hunched before he turned back to the men cutting wire. Stubble still coated the firm jaw that was hardening in anger. “We all take turns. I’ve got extra patrols on each night. Added several men on top of that and I let the Feds roam around here with all that Yankee finesse they’re known for. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s a hell of a lot of acreage to cover over every night after a long day of work.”
“And people looking for a way in observe patterns. Weak spots. The Pass has more than most.”
While she refrained from saying much to the contrary at work, she wasn’t going to sugarcoat it for Tate. Midnight Pass had gotten its name for the deep ravines and many hiding places that ran along a small tributary of the Rio Grande. That tributary—and the larger river a half mile away—made up a stretch of Texas-Mexico border that was a challenge to patrol.
The rich, fertile land was home to the three largest ranching clans in the county. The Reynolds, Vasquez and Crown families had built massive cattle operations over the lush earth. And for the past decade, their land had increasingly become the conduit to a drug trade that was far more lucrative than cattle.
“You think anyone on your team’s letting them in?”
“Ace, Hoyt and I have a zero tolerance policy and make that known. Our older guys keep an eye out, as well. Best I can say is we watch out for it.”
“Fair enough.”
Tate moved in, his fingers snaking out to toy with several strands of hair that had come loose at her ear. The 6:00 a.m. wake-up call ordering her out to Reynolds Station hadn’t allowed for much prep time and putting her hair in a hasty bun and some slapdash makeup was all the armor she’d had time for. “Why are you here, Belly? You know this is a dangerous job.”
The whispered endearment only increased the flapping wings of the demon bats and she slapped at his hand. “You know how I feel about that name.”
“Which is why I use it.”
“And you know how I feel about my job, dangerous or otherwise. You have no say in the matter.”
“I never did.”
* * *
Tate stared at the only woman who had the ability to wrap him in knots and dropped the curl winding around his finger. Annabelle Granger had been his nemesis since the first grade and little had changed in the ensuing quarter century. Trite as it was—he’d pulled her pigtails then and had been proverbially doing so ever since—he couldn’t remember a single moment of his life that Belle Granger hadn’t occupied space in his head. The amount of real estate changed pending how recently they’d seen each other, but she was always there.
His Belle.
With her blond curls that made his fingers itch. Vivid blue eyes with a gaze as sharp as her tongue. And the small dent in her chin that fascinated him as much at thirty-two as it had at six. There’d even been a time—a short, gloriously wonderful time—when he’d run his tongue over that little dent while his hands roamed over—
On a hard, mental curse, Tate shut down that unproductive line of thought and focused on his problem. Once again, Reynolds Station had been used for trafficking—either drugs or illegal immigrants. He was committed to finding a solution to the poor souls who gave everything they had to come across the border, no matter the cost, a stance that didn’t make him incredibly popular with the locals. He had no time for the abuse so many of those individuals suffered in the process and made his feelings known as a voting member of the town council.
The drugs, on the other hand, had gone positively nuclear. What had been an irritating problem had mushroomed over the past decade into an all-out war. And there were far too many days Tate believed he and his brothers were losing. Every time they found a cut line of fence or line of footprints tracking over their land, it was another skirmish they’d fought and lost.
And no amount of manpower seemed to be helping.
“When did you discover this? I got the dispatch around six.”
“About five.” When she only stared at him, he added, “I was out early.”
Her gaze narrowed, that sharp blue spiking even sharper points. “You’re not sleeping?”
Her lack of response over his barb about her choices, coupled with the sudden focus and attention on his lack of sleep, had Tate sliding back into the familiar comfort of their usual sparring. “Just because you’d gladly hug your pillow until noon doesn’t mean some of us aren’t early risers.”
“Sun’s not even up at five this time of year.”
“I took a flashlight.”
Tate had no idea what had pulled him out to this end of the property but he’d had the urge and had pushed Tot this direction on their early morning ride. Good thing he had because they were planning on rotating the herd to this section later this week.
Belle dropped to her knee again, her gaze roaming over the ground. Clear signs of feet were stamped into the earth, but unlike that volume of prints he’d expect from a border crossing, there seemed to be far too few for a group of people spirited across the border. The coyotes—those guides who led those desperate for opportunity or freedom from poverty over the border—had increasingly been replaced of late with drug smugglers. Criminals who saw the border crossing as an opportunity to use their charges as drug mules, all while promising them freedom.
Even with that change, there should have been more variance in the footprints.
Her gaze remained focused on the ground as she duckwalked, stopping every few feet to assess from a new angle. She was an observer—had been one since she was in those pigtails—but it always fascinated him to watch her work. He might not like her professional choices but he couldn’t argue she was damn good at her job. Dedicated, too.
And hadn’t that been the problem?
“You see this?”
Her question pulled him from his musings and Tate crossed the distance, crouching down when she gestured once more to the depressed earth. “Here. There are a few sets of footprints, then this depression, rounded out like someone set down something heavy.”
“You can see that?”
The depression she spoke of was nothing more than a soft bending of grass, but now that he looked, he could see the rounded outline of a heavier shape.
“It looks like a heavy bag or weight was set down. Could be a bag of drugs, set down out of the way.”
Tate scanned the length of fence. “They did all this for one duffel bag full? It hardly seems worth it.” She shot him one lone raised eyebrow and he pressed on. “I’m not condoning anything. I’m suggesting if I were planning an illegal border crossing with drugs, I’d look to move a hell of a lot more to make it worth the risk.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“You think it’s something else?” Knowledge flashed in the cool blue of her eyes—a sure and recognizable sign Belle had already formed an opinion—and Tate moved closer, curious. “What?”
“I’m thinking it’s the payoff.”
Her words hovered there, the brisk air swirling around them in a rush like an exclamation point. Before he could even muster up a response, she had her phone out, snapping several quick pictures from a variety of angles. She then pulled a packet of bright yellow tape out of her pocket. “Let me mark this. I’ll get Julio out to review the area and give