Sunrise Canyon (New Americana 1)

* * *

“This must be your lucky day, O’Reilly! Some old geezer just paid your fine!”

Startled out of a doze, Jake sat up on his bunk and swung his feet to the concrete floor. “Are you messing with my head? I don’t know any old geezer.”

“Well, he must know you. He just showed up with a receipt from the court clerk for a thousand dollars cash. Here.” The deputy tossed Jake a plastic trash bag containing his clothes and boots. “Get dressed. You can pick up the rest of your stuff up front.”

Knowing better than to ask questions, Jake stripped off the hated orange jumpsuit and scrambled into his clothes. He could barely remember the bar brawl that had landed him here—a blur of angry words and fists crunching into flesh and bone. But the memory of his hearing before the judge was crystal clear, including the pro bono lawyer who’d asked for leniency on the grounds that Jake was a war hero.

He’d been allowed to plead the assault-and-battery charge down to disorderly conduct, but the sentence was still a stiff one. A thousand-dollar fine or thirty days in the Coconino County Jail. Not having the money, Jake had been forced to do time—which meant losing his construction job and missing his rent payment. By now, the damned landlord had probably sold everything he owned—not that it would be much of a loss. His small monthly veterans’ benefit would be direct-deposited to his bank account, which he could access with a debit card. But he’d used the last payment for his rent, and the next one wouldn’t be there for a week. Except for the few bills in his wallet, he was dead broke.

But t

oday, out of nowhere, somebody had paid his fine and set him free. “Some old geezer,” the deputy had said. That couldn’t be right. There had to be a catch—there always was. Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity. If so, when the truth came out, he could expect to be thrown right back into that cell.

Whatever was going on, Jake told himself, he mustn’t get his hopes up.

After hooking his belt and shrugging into his denim jacket, he opened the cell door, which was unlocked, and stepped out into the hall. The deputy was waiting to escort him down the corridor, past the security desk, to the reception area.

As he stepped into the open space, a tall figure rose to greet him—whip-lean, with stooping shoulders, a hawkish nose, silver hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. “Hello, Jake,” he said.

“Dusty?” Jake froze, struck by the shock of recognition. He hadn’t seen Wendy’s grandfather since her funeral, three years ago, and they’d barely spoken that day. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What are you doing here? What do you want from me?”

“Get your things, boy,” the old man said. “We can talk later, while I treat you to a good steak dinner.”

“Thanks, but I can buy my own food—and I’ll find a way to pay you back for bailing me out.” Jake collected his bagged personal effects from the checkout counter—his wallet with forty-eight dollars in it, his cheap Timex watch, and his keys—one to his apartment and the other to the ’95 Ford pickup that had thrown a rod, trashing the engine, two days before the fight that had led to his arrest.

The old man headed for the parking lot. Striding after him, Jake inhaled the crisp mountain air as he tried to recall what Wendy had told him about her grandfather. Dusty Wingate had been a national bronc riding champion back before Jake was even born. After too many injuries on the rodeo circuit, he’d retired to manage the family dude ranch near Tucson. Now in his seventies, he still made an impressive figure—like a modern-day Buffalo Bill in jeans and boots, a fringed leather jacket and a bolo tie strung through a hunk of silver-mounted old-pawn Navajo turquoise.

His wife, who’d died of cancer in her fifties, had given him two daughters. The firstborn, Wendy’s mother, Barbara, was running a charity mission with her second husband—a preacher she’d met at her first husband’s funeral—in Uganda or some other godforsaken place. When Wendy got pregnant and married Jake, the woman had pretty much disowned her. She hadn’t been there for the wedding. Hell, she hadn’t even bothered to come home for her daughter’s funeral.

Dusty’s other daughter had perished in a small plane crash with her doctor husband, leaving Wendy’s cousin Kira an orphan at seventeen. Funny he should remember even that about Kira. Something in him didn’t want to remember her at all. Something else couldn’t let go of her.

He knew, of course, that Kira had taken in his daughter to raise. But he’d long since made up his mind not to contact her. As long as Paige was safe and well cared for, she was better off not knowing the haunted, sometimes violent man her father had become.

Dusty led the way to a late-model white Jeep Wrangler and clicked the remote to unlock the door. “Climb in,” he said. “There’s a good steak house ten minutes from here. I know they don’t starve you in jail, but you look like you could use a decent meal.”

“Thanks . . . I guess.” Jake climbed into the passenger seat, closed the door and fastened his seat belt. “I’ve got some questions for you. For starters, how did you know where to find me?”

Dusty started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. “A few months ago, I hired a private investigator to track you down. He didn’t have an easy time of it. You don’t seem to settle anyplace for long, do you?”

“I guess not.” That mind-set had evolved after Jake checked himself out of the VA hospital. Don’t stay around long enough to get attached to people, to places or even to animals. No love, no loss, no grief. So far, it seemed to be working for him. In his good moments, he’d managed to feel almost numb.

They drove in silence for a few minutes before Jake spoke again. “So my next question is, what made you think a bum like me was worth finding?”

Dusty braked the Jeep at a red light. “That answer’s going to take some time. What d’you say we leave it till our supper’s on its way?”

Jake settled back into the cushy leather seat, his eyes tracing the silhouette of tall ponderosa pines against a blazing Arizona sunset. He’d been in jail two weeks, barely half his sentence. It felt damned good to be out. But he sensed that the old man was reeling him in like a hooked fish. Not knowing why made him edgy.

He would listen, Jake decided. But he’d be damned if he was going to talk. There were no words for the hellish things he’d seen and even done in Afghanistan. If Dusty tried to pump him, he would get up from the table and walk away.

Dusty pulled up to a restaurant with a log exterior and a name Jake recognized as a high-end steak-and-ribs chain. Inside, the aromas coming from the kitchen made him weak in the knees. After two weeks of jail fare and, before that, eating from fast-food dollar menus, this was like stepping into a forbidden paradise. But he’d insisted on paying his own way, and he could only imagine what a really good meal would cost here.

The hostess showed them to a booth. Dusty ordered two Coronas while Jake perused the menu. The cheapest item, a burger with fries and coleslaw, was fifteen dollars. That would have to do him.

“My offer to buy you dinner still stands,” the old man said. “They’ve got great prime rib here.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got it. And I’ll buy yours, too.” Jake gave his order to the waitress—a burger.