The fight was over, and so the ranch was saved. At least, Toby hoped as much from his lowly position in the dirt.

Grady towered over him, massive chest heaving in and out. His deep set eyes strained to bulge out of his coarse features. The sun glinted off his over-sized teeth.

“Toby Livingston, if’n you ever talk bout my momma gin, I’ll whup you somefin awful!” That seemed an odd statement to Toby, as it was hard to imagine a beating more severe than the one he had just endured. He could only see out of one eye. All he could taste was blood. Breathing hurt in at least four places. He was pretty sure one of his legs wouldn’t move even if he dared try. But had the plan worked?

“Oh, Toby, you idiot,” came a soft voice near his ear. Shandra. Oh, Shandra!

“And th’rest a ya,” Grady yelled, “no gall darned foolin is gonna change that I own this ranch now!”

“Tha’s quite enough,” drawled the sheriff, right where Toby had hoped he would be, a convenient witness for the coming litigation.