Cimarron Rose (Billy Bob Holland 1)

I almost didn't recognize her when she got out of a taxi cab in my drive at noon the same day. She wore a powder-blue suit, heels, a white blouse, and a beige shoulder bag. But for some reason, in my mind's eye, I still saw the tall, naturally elegant woman in tan uniform and campaign hat. I opened the side door and stepped out under the porte cochere.

'Wow,' I said.

'Wow, yourself.'

'You sure look different.'

'That's the welcome?'

'Come in.' I opened the screen.

She hesitated. 'I don't want to interrupt your day.'

We seemed to be looking at each other like people who might have just met at a bus stop.

'I don't know what to say, Mary Beth. I got one phone message. My only source of information about you has been Brian Wilcox.'

'Brian?'

'He got a warrant and tossed my house.'

She looked away, her face full of thought.

'I'm not supposed to be here. My people are cutting a deal with the new sheriff,' she said.

'Your people?'

'Yes.'

The wind blew the curls on the back of her neck. I could hear the tin roof on the barn pinging with heat, like wires breaking.

'The locals are trying to jam you up on the shooting?' I said.

'It's their out. I handed it to them on a shovel.'

'Sammy Mace was a cop killer. He got what he had coming,' I said.

'Can we go inside, Billy Bob? We were in Denver this morning. I overdressed.'

She sat down at the kitchen table. I poured her a glass of iced tea. I ran cold water over my hands and dried them, not knowing why I did. Outside, the barn roof shimmered like a heliograph under the sun.

'My office is taking the weight for me. I screwed up, but they're taking the weight, anyway,' she said.

'A stand-up bunch. We're talking about the DEA?' I said.

Her back straightened under her coat. Her hand was crimped on a paper napkin, her gaze pointed out the window.

'I thought coming here was the right thing to do. But I'm all out of words, Billy Bob.'

'Can't we have dinner? Can't we spend some time together without talking about obligations to a government agency? You think you owe guys like Brian Wilcox?'

'This is pointless. Because you hung up your own career doesn't mean other—' She didn't finish. She put both her hands in her lap, then a moment later placed one hand on top of her shoulder bag.

I opened the refrigerator door to take out the iced tea pitcher again. Then closed it and stood stupidly in the center of the room, all of the wrong words already forming in my throat.

'An English writer, wha

t's his name, E. M. Forster, once said if he had to choose between his country and his friend, he hoped he'd have the courage to choose his friend,' I said.