Texas Free (The Tylers of Texas 5)

“Against your better judgment.”

“Don’t, Rose.” He reached across the table and captured her hand. “The moment I saw you this morning, and then held you in my arms while you cried, I knew I couldn’t just walk away again. I know I can’t be here forever, and I can’t plan ahead. But I want to follow this path and see where it leads us. Maybe it’ll be somewhere good, for us both. All right?”

His fingers tightened around hers. Tears welled in Rose’s eyes. “All right,” she whispered. “Wherever it leads. And if it doesn’t work out—”

“We’ll deal with that only when we have to.” He rose from his place, walked around the table, and drew her to her feet for a long, deep kiss. “I want to know you, Rose,” he murmured. “I want to know everything about you—your body, your life, the thoughts in your head . . . and I’m hoping it will take a long, long time.”

He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed for a night of loving and snuggling and whispered conversations under the covers, and then more loving until Rose ached with the need to keep him and make him hers. She knew it was too much to ask. There were so many dangers, so many uncertainties. For now, all she could do was hold on to every moment and hope it would last.

* * *

Tanner replaced a file in the stack on his desk, rubbed his eyes, and refilled his coffee cup. After three days on the job, he had plenty to do at his new post. His first case and his first rotating partner had yet to be assigned, but the hours of the day were spent reading through the files and memorizing the aerial maps of the canyons. When he could get away, he would take the truck and drive the back roads, visiting each small ranch, introducing himself to the owners, and taking a look at the cattle. Maybe one of these times Rose would enjoy going with him—surely that would be allowed. The nights in her bed—which he made sure to leave before dawn—had restored him in body and spirit. But they needed time just to be together, relaxing and talking.

There’d been no more sign of Rose’s nighttime intruder. But Tanner could tell she was nervous, and he was worried for her. Neither of them would rest easy until they knew who’d killed her lambs.

But it wasn’t just the lambs. “I get the feeling I’m being watched,” she’d told him the night before. “I never see anybody. It’s just this creepy feeling I get, that I’m not alone. What if it’s somebody from the cartel? What if they’ve tracked me down? I’ve started taking my gun when I go outside. But even that doesn’t seem to make a difference.”

Tanner knew better than to dismiss Rose’s fears. She was tough enough to have shot and killed two men in self-defense. Her survival instincts were razor sharp. If she said somebody was watching her, she was more than likely right.

He’d urged her to move to the duplex on the Rimrock, as Bull had invited her to do. Rose had refused. “I’d never forgive myself if I came back to find the chickens butchered and the trailer burned,” she said. “This is my land, my home. I’m staying put.”

Tanner knew enough about the cartel to be concerned. But he was more suspicious of Ferg Prescott. He’d found fresh boot prints among the willows on the far side of the creek. It would be like Ferg to have somebody spying on Rose, or even to have her lambs killed. But he had yet to find a shred of evidence.

Between files, he checked his watch. It was after six, too early to show up at Rose’s but time for a break. He’d drunk the last beer in the fridge yesterday. A shopping trip was in order, but he could do that tomorrow. Right now, a cold one at the Blue Coyote sounded like a good idea.

The parking lot of the town’s only saloon was crowded at this hour with people getting off work. Inside, an old Hank Williams song was blaring from the speakers on the wall. The booths and tables were almost full. The only available seat Tanner could see was a stool at the bar. He took it and ordered a Corona.

He paid with a five. The bartender shoved his change across the bar. Before Tanner could pick up the coins, the man on his right, who looked like a military veteran, an eagle tattoo on his shaved head, turned on the stool, swung his forearm to one side, and swept the coins onto the floor.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, speaking with a slight lisp.

“Accidents happen.” Tanner wasn’t going to start an argument over less than a dollar, and he wasn’t about to get down on his knees and pick up the coins off the crowded, dirty floor.

“Aren’t you going to pick them up?” The stranger, who appeared drunk, reached into his pocket. “Here, man, I’ll pay you back.”

“Keep your money. It’s fine,” Tanner said.

“What’s the matter, man, isn’t my money good enough for you? Okay, fine then, pick up yours.”

Tanner usually knew how to handle himself in a brawl. But he was unprepared for the sudden chop of a hand to his neck and the slam of an iron fist to his groin. With a gasp of surprise and pain, he crumpled and dropped to the floor. Anger flooded his body as he struggled to rise. Then he noticed the stranger’s boots—weathered brown military boots, liberally spattered with blood. The blood appeared to have been wiped off, but the vivid stains had soaked into the leather. Those stains couldn’t have been more than a few days old.

By the time Tanner recovered and struggled to his feet, the stranger had gotten up and left. But that was all right, he told himself. He had seen what he’d needed to see.

The bartender was watching him, a worried look on his young face. “You all right, man?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine.” Tanner fished two twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet. He held one toward the bartender. “Can you tell me the name of that man with the tattoo on his head?”

“Sure. His name’s Deke Triplehorn. He hangs out here a lot.”

“Thanks.” Tanner handed him one bill and held out the other one. “And do you know who he works for?”

The bartender hesitated. “I don’t know for sure. He’s kind of like a freelancer. But I know he gets phone calls here from Ferg Prescott.”

“Thanks. You just made my day.” Tanner handed over the other bill and left the bar. He made it out to the parking lot in time to catch up with Triplehorn, who was climbing into his Jeep. He didn’t appear to be armed, but neither was Tanner.

“What the hell do you want now,” the man growled. “If it’s a fight, bring it on.”

“No fight. Just a message for your boss, Ferg Prescott. Tell him I’m onto you, and you’re through doing his dirty work. If I hear of you making more trouble, both you and he are going to jail.”