Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

“Take a break.” I tilt my chin at the shade beneath a nearby tree.

“Not until you do.”

Stubborn woman. I’m accustomed to grueling work. She’s not.

Every day, I use wire, leather gloves, fence clips, staples, pliers, and splicers. I smile at the fence stretchers in my hand, loving where her mind went when I mentioned them.

“Snowdrifts destroyed a lot of this over the winter.” I gesture at the fence. “Some of the wire is older than I am and it—”

“You’re two years younger than me.”

I squint at her. “You’re twenty-six?”

“That surprises you?”

“A little.”

I hadn’t given any thought to it, but with her hair in braids, dirt streaked across her face, and that tiny tank top hanging off her shoulders, she looks barely legal.

“What were you saying about the fence?” She props a hand on her hip.

I shift back to the wire in my grip. “See how barbed this is? It’s so industrially well-made most of it hasn’t needed repairs until now.”

“Why are you fixing it instead of replacing it?”

“Wire isn’t made like this anymore. It’s dangerous to work with, but the cattle won’t go near it.”

“There must be miles of it on the property.” She scans the horizon, taking it all in. “I noticed some of the fences are made with wooden railings, too. Do you have someone who runs the perimeter every day, checking for breaks and holes?”

“There’s no way to do that when the land goes on forever. We check the problem areas regularly and rely on the cattle to let us know when the fence is down. Because they’ll find a way out. Same with kids. When the four of us were little, we disappeared all the time. Our dads would have to send out search parties.”

“I bet.”

She returns to her section of wire, her hands protected by heavy leather gloves as she works. She appears focused, but at the mention of my dad and Dalton, something shifted in her mood. I anticipate what’s coming before she opens her mouth.

“John Holsten and Dalton Cassidy borrowed money from people outside of financial regulators. You know who those people are.”

I know who those people were. But she used present tense.

“Where’s Rogan Schroeder?” she asks, confirming she doesn’t know he’s buried at the bottom of the ravine with his truck.

“Why do you assume I would know?” I watch her profile out of the corner of my eye.

“Your dad told me you and your brother know where to find all the men on my list.”

My stomach hardens. I should be happy Dad didn’t tell her they’re dead. But instead, he sent a suspicious reporter to us armed with potentially incriminating information.

“Why would you believe anything John Holsten told you?” I infuse my tone with boredom.

“Instead of denying his claims, you answer my questions with questions. That’s telling, Jarret.”

We agreed to speak honestly or remain silent. My silence would’ve been more telling. I can’t stop her from making assumptions about what I’m not saying. But when she leaves here, assumptions are all she’ll have, and that doesn’t make a worthy news story.

“I know Rogan Schroeder has been here.” She keeps her gaze on her work. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Of all the men she named, Rogan is the only one who met with my dad on the ranch. The others worked for Rogan as hired killers or loan sharks.

I don’t know how much she’s uncovered, but I understand why she’s not telling me. If she reveals what she knows, she loses her bargaining power. Maybe she knows nothing, but the fact that she has that list of names makes me hesitant to call her bluff. She knows something.

“Did my dad explain his relationship with Rogan Schroeder?” I ask.

“He confirmed what I already know.”

“And that is…?”

“You and Jake are involved in bad business.”

I chuckle. “Define bad.”

“Illegal.” She lowers her chin, avoiding my eyes.

“Do you believe that?”

She breathes in deeply and releases a sigh of uncertainty. “I would be naive to ignore the evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“You tell me, Jerry.”

“I’m not answering to that.”

“You just did.”

We’re talking in circles, and it’s giving me a fucking headache. The suffocating heat only heightens my aggravation.

“Look at me.” I shift toward her and wait for her gaze. “You have a place to stay and food to eat. There’s no urgency to get your story, right? Nothing pressing?”

“That’s not…” Her brow pinches. “I don’t know. I mean—”

“You either have a deadline or you don’t.”

“There’s no deadline.”

“Then forget the interrogation for now.” I tilt my head, studying her as she studies me. “Work with me during the day. Relax with me at night. With time, we’ll get to know each other and trust each other enough to have this conversation.”

She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, scrutinizing me with tapered eyes. “If you have nothing to hide, why not just answer my questions?”