Texas Tough (The Tylers of Texas 2)

The next morning Sky stepped outside to a leaden dawn. For a moment he stood on the porch of the brick duplex he shared with Jasper, gazing southeast, toward the hundred acres Bull had left him in his will. The land wasn’t part of the Rimrock. It lay along the ranch’s eastern border, like the heel of a boot. Bull had bought the prime section from the absentee neighbor for what must have been a handsome sum—bought it as a legacy for the blood son he’d never acknowledged in life.

Sky had ridden across the land in the past, admiring its grassy, wooded hills and spring-fed creek, never dreaming it could be his. But since the reading of the will he had yet to revisit the place. He was still coming to terms with the gift Bull Tyler had left him.

Except for Jasper, no one else, not even Will and Beau, knew about the land. At first Sky had questioned whether he deserved it. Now he found himself wondering if he even wanted it. He could sell it for a good price, return the money to the ranch, and be free of any obligation to the father who’d been too ashamed to claim him as his own. He had his pride, after all.

But the decision would have to wait. This morning he’d agreed to ride out with Beau to look at the place where Jasper had been shot. It was time they got moving.

He was walking out to get the horses when Will hailed him from the front porch. “Sky! Get in here! You’ve got to see what’s on the news!”

Spurred by the urgency in his voice, Sky sprinted across the yard to the house. Will was already headed back inside. “Hurry,” he said. “The TV’s on in the den.”

The commercial break was just ending when Sky walked in.

Beau, still rumpled and unshaven, was perched on the edge of the couch, drinking coffee and staring at the television screen. Will, freshly showered and dressed, handed Sky a steaming cup.

“Back to our breaking news story.” The Amarillo newscaster was a fiftyish man with a bad toupee. “Former Blanco County Sheriff Hoyt Axelrod, awaiting trial for murder, assault, and conspiracy, was found dead inside his cell this morning. The cause of death has yet to be determined, but there appeared to be no sign of foul play. For more, let’s go to Mindi Thacker outside the Blanco County Jail.”

The curvy blonde looked as if she’d done her hair and makeup in the news chopper, which sat on the landing pad behind her. Her porcelain smile seemed out of place in the grim dawn light. “The story’s still unfolding here, Bill. A guard, making a routine check of the prisoners early this morning, found Axelrod lying on the floor of his cell. Paramedics were called, but the former sheriff was unresponsive. He was declared dead at 4:43 a.m. Preliminary assumption, pending the medical examiner’s report, is that death was due to natural causes.”

“Natural causes!” Beau slammed his cup on the table, sloshing his coffee. “That’s a joke! Somebody got to the bastard before he could make a plea deal and talk.”

“In his cell? That would take some doing,” Will said.

“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be done. A man Axelrod’s size and age is a likely candidate for high blood pressure or diabetes. A switch in his meds would do the trick, or something in his food, even some kind of injection if they could incapacitate him first. Not that much to it—just a matter of enough money changing hands.”

Sky’s gaze met Beau’s across the room. Nobody in the ranch family would grieve over Axelrod’s death—least of all Beau, who’d nearly gone to prison when the sheriff tried to frame him for killing Slade Haskell, Natalie’s abusive husband.

“You know this isn’t over,” Beau said. “Hoyt Axelrod died for the same reason Slade died, the same reason Lute and that poor little waitress died. He knew too much, and he would’ve spilled his guts to save himself from the death penalty. That’s why he had to be silenced.”

“But it was Axelrod who killed the others.” Will seemed to be playing devil’s advocate.

“This is bigger than Axelrod,” Beau said. “Whoever’s pulling the strings is still out there.”

Stella Rawlins turned away from the big-screen TV above the bar and lit a Marlboro to celebrate. Hoyt Axelrod was dead and couldn’t implicate her. She could breathe easy again.

“You gonna tell me how you pulled that off?” Her husky half brother Nick was perched on a bar stool, sipping coffee and munching a stale doughnut. The morning sun, slanting through half-closed plastic shutters, gleamed on the black Maori-style tattoos that ringed his shaved head.

Stella blew a lazy smoke ring. “The less you know, the better, Nicky. For you as well as for me.”

“Gotcha.” Nick carried his cup behind the bar to rinse it.

Nick, who went by Nigel these days, had been a runner for the Rumanian mob in New Jersey. After snitching on them in a plea deal, he’d been forced into hiding. Stella had taken him in two years ago when she’d bought the Blue Coyote Bar in Blanco Springs. He’d proved his worth as her bartender and bouncer. But she knew better than to trust him—or anybody else—with her secrets.

She’d done pretty well for herself here in Blanco. The town was off the beaten track but with easy access to the Mexican border. Trading Texas guns for Mexican drugs had made her a tidy profit. But if she’d learned one thing, it was to keep her hands clean and leave the dirty work to others. So far it had worked. As far as the law was concerned, her record was spotless.

Her business depended on connections and the exchange of favors. Money, sex, and fear were valuable tools, and Stella knew how to use them all. But there’d been some collateral damage along the way—Jess Warner, the waitress who’d stumbled on one secret too many; Slade Haskell, who’d become a useless, wife-beating drunk; Lute Fletcher, the half-breed boy who’d gotten too greedy for his own good; and now Hoyt Axelrod, the sheriff whose one big mistake had been getting himself arrested.

Hoyt had been a wheezing walrus in bed. But his skills with a long-range rifle had come in handy. He wouldn’t be an easy man to replace.

Turning back to stub out her cigarette, Stella caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Without makeup she looked old and tired. Her flame-colored hair needed a fresh dye job, and the crow’s feet were deepening at the corners of her eyes. She was forty-six years old. How much longer could she work this racket and get away with it? She needed something more. She needed security.

A Dallas crime family was looking to expand its reach. They’d sent out feelers about her Mexican ties—a tentative invitation for her to join them. Stella had always prided herself on flying solo, but having an organization to back her wouldn’t be all bad. They’d demand a cut, of course, but in return she’d get protection and, if needed, access to a reliable hit man.

But she couldn’t go begging to them, or give them the keys to an operation they could easily take over. She needed something to offer them—some sphere of influence uniquely hers, to keep power in her own corner.

The early-morning newscast had ended. Stella was about to switch off the TV when a paid political ad came on the screen. The ad was a low-budget job, just some talking head running for reelection to Congress. The candidate, a silver-haired man, wasn’t bad looking, but he could have used better lighting and a decent makeup artist. And why would he be plugging for votes at an hour when so few voters would be watching? Maybe his campaign was short on funds. Prime time had to be expensive.

Nick was watching her from behind the bar. “I’ve seen that look,” he said. “Why are you smiling?”