“Supposedly the town sprang up so fast after the railroad was built that it seemed like magic.” Sam drew a bottle of Canadian Club from the brown paper sack of groceries. It looked like he anticipated being stuck together for two weeks would drive them both to drink.
“What exactly are we eating?” Jason unloaded a sack that contained limes, lemons, and a lot of chicken. “Or are we starting a new religion?”
The sound Sam made sounded indulgent. “You want breakfast or lunch?”
“Lunch? I had coffee and breakfast rolls with your mom.”
Sam’s smile was wry. “That must have expanded your horizons.”
Jason didn’t quite get it. He shrugged.
Sam seemed to come to a decision. “Pan-seared steak and roasted beets, then.”
That sounded pretty awful, but Sam was a more than decent cook when he had to be. It had initially surprised Jason how conscientious Sam was about trying to eat right—not easy given theirs was not a job with regular meal breaks. It was all part of fighting the tide of time. Sam worked hard to stay in top physical shape, and a good part of that battle was nutrition.
Now he turned on the sink taps, dropped the beets under the flow of water, and pulled a chef’s knife out of the drawer next to the sink.
“What can I do to help?” Jason asked.
Sam said absently, “Stay out of the way.”
In cooking as in everything else? Jason snorted, and Sam maybe heard his words through Jason’s ears. He glanced up from chopping the tops off the beets, and said, “How’s the ankle?”
“It’s holding up.”
“Yeah? Well, good, because I brought you a present.”
“Another present?”
“How would you like to consult with the Cheyenne RA on a stolen art collection?”
The Cheyenne Resident Agency was one of Denver’s nine satellite offices. Like a lot of satellite offices in these days of severely reduced federal budgets, they had to try to cover five counties with a skeleton staff, so it was reasonable they might need help with something specialized like art theft.
“What kind of stolen art collection?”
“I didn’t get the full details. Art and antiques relating to magic and magicians.”
Jason’s interest quickened. “You’re kidding. Really?”
“I’m not a kidder, West. You know that. Cheyenne’s got one rookie agent trying to work this thing while the rest of the team’s aiding local authorities searching for the unsub who robbed a federal bank last Wednesday.”
Despite the not-a-kidder comment, there was the faintest gleam of amusement in Sam’s gaze. “I take it you like the idea.”
“I do like the idea. A lot.”
“Okay, I thought you would. But you’re still officially on sick leave. This is strictly consulting on another RA’s case.”
“I do that all the time. I’m happy to do that.”
“You don’t have to be quite that happy.” Sam sounded rueful.
“Yeah, but you’re going to be working on your book. What am I supposed to do? I can’t nap for two weeks. I should be on limited duty, not sick leave.”
“Don’t push it. This is off the books. Nothing has been cleared through the Administrative Services Division.”
Jason grimaced. “Got it.”
Sam returned to preparing their lunch. He peeled, halved, and cut up the beets, dumped them on a baking sheet, drizzled them with olive oil, and shoved them in the oven. He heated more oil in a heavy iron frying pan and deposited the steaks on the shimmering surface.