Texas Tall (The Tylers of Texas 3)

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” She gave him a feline smile. “I’ve got plans for you—plans that involve a lot more money than you’re making now. But first you need to show me I can count on you. Understand?”

Ralph’s mouth had gone dry. He nodded.

“Good. We’ll talk more later. For now, here’s your package. Instructions are in the bag. Now get going.”

Ten minutes later, Ralph was on the road, with two packets of cocaine on the seat beside him, hidden under a wrapped cheeseburger in a take-out bag from the Burger Shack. By now he knew the drill. Drive to an isolated spot on Blanco County’s network of backroads. Wait for the customer to show up, turn over the package, collect the cash, and take it back to the Blue Coyote for Stella. After she’d given him his cut, he’d be free to go.

He never asked who the customers were, never even looked at their faces, if he could help it. Most of them, he suspected, were local users or small-time dealers who worked nearby cities like Lubbock and Wichita Falls. The less he knew about them, the better.

The source of Stella’s drug supply remained a mystery as well. He’d heard rumors she had connections with a Mexican cartel and a powerful Dallas crime family. But these were only rumors. Stella Rawlins played her cards close to her ample chest. Nobody was in a position to accuse her of any crimes—including Ralph himself.

Ralph was startled from his musings by the flash of red and blue lights in his rearview mirror. His heart dropped like a buckshot quail as he pulled over to the side of the road, braked, and rolled down the window, praying he could bluff his way out of the situation.

The sheriff ’s vehicle parked behind him. The door opened and the officer climbed out. Lord help me, it’s Abner.

“Hey, Ralph.” The sheriff was just tall enough to peer in the window of the truck. His headlights illuminated the space behind him. “I recognized your old truck. D’you know you’ve got a taillight out?”

“No.” Stomach clenching, Ralph forced himself to look his father-in-law in the eye. “Thanks. I’ll get it fixed tomorrow.”

Abner didn’t budge. “What’re you doing out here at this hour, anyway? Is Vonda all right?”

“She’s fine. Just touchy, with the baby so close and all. We had a spat tonight. Nothing serious, just this and that. I’m taking a drive to cool down and clear my head.”

“Vonda was always a feisty one.” Abner sounded as if he missed his daughter. “But you’d better be getting home to her. She could go into labor, and her all alone in that little house without a car.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that.” Ralph started the engine.

“Oh, and be careful on these back roads at night,” Abner added. “We’ve had some reports of illegal drug trade out this way. Run into those scum balls, and they’d just as soon shoot you as look at you.”

“Thanks, I’ll be careful. I’m going now.” Ralph shifted into low and pressed the gas pedal.

“That’s a good boy! Go home to your wife!” Abner slapped the fender of the truck as Ralph drove away. Ralph was shaking like a junkie in need of a fix. Running deliveries for Stella was such easy money and paid so well that he tended to forget how risky it could be. Get caught by the law, and you’d wind up in prison. A deal gone bad, or even a case of mistaken identity, and you could wind up dead, like Stella’s bartender brother, who’d been shot by Will Tyler. Anything could go wrong out here.

But he didn’t plan to stay in this business long, Ralph reminded himself. All he wanted was enough money to buy a decent vehicle, leave Blanco Springs—and Vonda—in his rearview mirror, and never look back. With the new, better-paying jobs Stella had mentioned, he should be able get there even faster than he’d hoped.

Glancing in his side mirror, he saw the taillights of Abner’s big, tan sheriff ’s vehicle vanishing down the dark road. He’d handled that encounter like a pro, Ralph told himself. Everything had gone fine. And if he played his cards right, things were bound to get even better. Nobody was going to suspect the sheriff ’s son-in-law of carrying drugs in his old rust bucket of a truck—not even the sheriff himself.

“Hello, Stella . . .”

The razor-sharp voice pulled Stella out of a deep sleep. The woman bending over her bed was tall, with ropy muscles and long black hair, which hung in strings over her ragged gray T-shirt. An ugly white scar slashed the left side of her lean Comanche face from her temple to the corner of her mouth. In her right hand she gripped a huge, gleaming kitchen knife. Laughing like a witch, she raised the knife high and brought it down in a swooping arc . . .

Stella woke with a gasp. Her heart was pounding, her body drenched in cold sweat. Jerking bolt upright in bed, she stared into the darkness. It’s all right, she told herself. I’m safe. She’d been dreaming again, that was all.

Shaking, she glanced at the bedside clock. The luminous digits read three-fifteen. Too early to get up and make coffee. But how could she go back to sleep after that god-awful nightmare? She should’ve known better than to mention Lute’s sister, Marie Fletcher, to young Ralph. It was as if speaking the name had been enough to trigger the dream that had plagued her for months.

Stella had survived and thrived because of her ability to control people. But she’d never been able to control Marie. In fact, it almost had been the other way around. Using her married name, Marie Johnson, the woman had hired on as a waitress. But her real agenda had been to avenge her brother’s death and take over Stella’s operation. After Stella hired a Dallas hit man to take Marie out, Marie had fled on her motorcycle, leaving the gunman to burn to death in his blazing car.

Marie was still out there somewhere, and Stella had no doubt that someday she’d be back for revenge.

Now that Nicky was dead, Stella had lost her only protector. She’d changed the locks on the Blue Coyote, bought extra fastenings for the doors and windows of her apartment, had an alarm installed on her Buick, and kept a gun within reach, even in the bathroom. But nothing could lock out her fear, or those blood-chilling dreams.

The bedroom was cool. Stella swung her feet to the floor; she reached for her Chinese silk robe and pulled it around her. At this hour there’d be nothing on the living-room TV but infomercials, shopping shows, and religious rants. But anything would be better than going back to sleep and waking up in the nightmare again, with Marie looming over her bed.

In the kitchen she took a cold beer from the fridge, popped the tab, carried it to the sofa, and switched on the TV. The pitch woman on the shopping channel was selling fake Navajo turquoise jewelry that was probably made in a Shanghai sweatshop. Stella stared blankly at the screen, her thoughts elsewhere. Maybe it was time to pull up stakes and leave the country. There were quiet places in Mexico where Marie would never find her. She had useful contacts there and enough money to last her for years. She’d be fine.

But she had unfinished business here in Blanco Springs. Will Tyler had murdered her brother, and she couldn’t walk away until she’d seen the high-and-mighty son of a bitch pay for what he’d done. She’d been counting on the law to put him away, but the process was taking far too long. The trial was still two weeks away. Meanwhile, Will Tyler was out on bail and sitting pretty. She’d wanted him to suffer, and he was doing far too little of that. She was getting impatient. She wanted some action. Maybe it was time she took matters into her own hands.

With Slade Haskell and Hoyt Axelrod both dead, she was short-handed when it came to taking vengeance. All she had was a friendly sheriff, a county prosecutor who was scared to death of her, and a willing but inexperienced young flunky. But she’d managed with less. There had to be something she could do.