Gary asked, “What’s he doing in Presidio County at a murder scene?”
Danny said, “The murdered man is his stepson.”
Danny and Gary let a moment of silence pass as they looked at Hunter.
Hunter said, “I feel like such an ass.”
“You should,” Gary said, and Hunter gave him a light elbow him in the side.
The Sheriff said, “You don’t have to feel bad. He said he liked your attitude, said you were protective of your organization and your friends, and he admired that.”
“Huh. I’ll apologize to him if we meet again.”
Danny said, “It wouldn’t hurt anything if you did.”
“What do you know about his stepson?”
“Next to nothing.”
“Wh
at about Jones’ sidekick, Ashton?”
“Only that he’s Lincoln Jones’ right hand man. Been with him about ten, fifteen years.”
They finished their coffee and left the Sheriff’s office. Hunter said, “Let’s call it a day.”
“I’m with you,” Gary said. They drove to the Marfa station and serviced the vehicle for the next shift, then completed their paperwork and drove to their separate homes. Hunter entered her big two-story home and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. She stripped down, showered, and put on an oversized white tee shirt with Dallas Cowboys XXL on the front. She slipped into loose shorts made of cutoff gray cotton sweatpants and went down the stairs to make a screwdriver, which she carried to the couch.
The phone rang, and she took a sip of the orange juice and Tito’s vodka before answering. “Hello.”
Lincoln Jones said, “Miss Kincaid, Lincoln Jones here. Please meet me tomorrow at noon at the Cibolo Creek Ranch.”
Hunter sat up, “Mr. Jones, I apologize for my rudeness this morning.”
“Not necessary. Don’t tell anyone about meeting me tomorrow. It’s important.”
A hundred thoughts ran through Hunter’s mind. She said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”
Jones hung up without saying goodbye. Hunter called the office and requested a day of annual leave for tomorrow. The supervisor approved it and she relaxed, not having to worry about informing others now. She wondered what Lincoln Jones wanted that was so secretive. She sighed and drank more of the screwdriver while turning on the television, surfing channels, finding nothing worthwhile to watch. She went upstairs, crawled into the big bed and opened the new book she’d bought in El Paso last week. She opened it to the marked page. After the first paragraph, she rejoined Walt Longmire in Wyoming on another Craig Johnson-written adventure. The story kept her up longer than she wanted because it was so good that she continued reading, telling herself, just one more page, just one more. She fell asleep like that, with the book on her chest, not wanting to quit.
Hunter woke at seven with the sun streaming in the window and the Craig Johnson novel still cradled on her chest.
~*~
She left the house at eleven and pulled through the gate on the Cibolo Creek Ranch forty-five minutes later. No one was around as she drove the long road to the ranch headquarters and stopped at the main building, where an employee directed her to the arbor beside the small lake. She spotted Lincoln Jones and Ashton Dean sitting at a small table.
Both men stood when she approached. Lincoln Jones said, “You’re early.”
Hunter said, “By ten minutes.” She pulled out a chair before Lincoln could do it for her, and sat across the small table from him. Dean remained standing beside his chair, hands crossed in front. No one else was within hearing distance.
Lincoln sat in a relaxed posture, a different body language from when they first met. He said, “Are you always so short tempered, or is it just with me?”
Hunter rubbed her chin, “Lately it’s pretty much all the time.”
“I’ve been there. For me, it was anything out of my normal routine that kicked it in gear. Sometimes a sudden loud noise was all it took.”
Hunter nodded, “Yeah.”