His to Save

Shit.

Shit. Jasper rolled his shoulders, shifted on the saddle and counted again. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-two. Twenty-five. Thirty.

He'd counted forty-eight of 'em before thunder clapped and the bastard longhorns started mulling around. Goddamn it. He needed to get these motherfuckers moved and running. Needed to before the drovers from the Kinley ranch heard him.

They was mavericks, mostly, weren't they? Hell, they was just enough to pay out that last bit of work he'd never got a thin dime for, damned Jimmy Dane saying he'd been sleeping when he shoulda been on the herd.

He hadn't been, either. Not even a little. Fuckers. He'd been on the job but hard, but he hadn't been porking the boss' daughter, had he?

Hadn't planted a baby in her neither, so he had to be the one lyin'.

Fuckers.

The thunder crashed again, making him jump.

Damn it! Three steers peeled off and went to the left, right toward the bank that cut away and was sure to break some legs. Before he could turn and run 'em back in, though, a big gelding pushed past his mare and a sharp whistle had the steers falling back in with the herd.

Oh, hell no.

Hell.

He spent about half a second deciding whether to fight or run.

Running won.

Being a broke-dick drover sucked; being one in jail sucked rocks.