Showdown in West Texas

by Amanda Stevens

  Or so she thought.

  As Grace started to turn, she caught a blur of movement out of the corner of her eye a split second before something hit her from behind.

  Her bags tumbled down the stairs as she tried to grab hold of the banister to check her fall.

  But it was too late. Already, she was plunging headlong down the wooden staircase.

  When she hit the bottom, she rolled onto her back, so dazed she couldn’t immediately process what had happened. Nor did she feel any pain.

  In the space of a heartbeat, the only thing that registered was a face at the top of the stairs, peering down at her.

  Chapter Two

  As Cage Nichols watched the cloud of steam mushroom over the hood of his car, he was reminded of his mother’s favorite saying: “Son, if we didn’t have bad luck, we wouldn’t have no luck at all.”

  Back then, Cage hadn’t entirely subscribed to Darleen’s pessimistic outlook on life. Sure, they’d seen a lot of hard times after the old man took off, but Cage had been a good-looking, popular kid with a talent for football and girls, and he’d never minded hard work. Growing up in a small East Texas town, he hadn’t needed much else.

  But out in the real world, he’d discovered soon enough that a man needed more than looks and gumption to get by. Even a good education and the right connections could only take him so far. What a man really had to have was a little luck.

  Cage could remember the exact moment when his had run out—at precisely 9:56 on a Friday night sixteen years ago.

  He’d caught the winning touchdown in the last game of the season just as the clock wound down. In that moment of mindless exhilaration, he’d failed to note the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound linebacker still bearing down on him from his left. The late hit had caught him completely off guard, and the resulting knee injury had ended his dream of a full-ride scholarship to Southern Methodist University.

  Ten years later, a hollow-nose bullet fired at close range from a thug’s 9mm handgun into the same knee had ended his career as a SWAT officer with the Dallas P.D.

  Now Cage sold oilfield equipment for his brother-in-law, Wayne Cordell. Or tried to.

  His sales record had been pretty dismal thus far, partly because of the downturn in the economy, but mostly because Cage wasn’t much of a salesman.

  Which was why he desperately needed to close the El Paso deal.

  Which was why the steam pouring out of the grill of his car as he coasted to the shoulder of the road made him want to put his fist through the windshield.

  Instead, he got out, raised the hood, then slammed it shut a few minutes later. Just his luck. He’d blown a damn radiator hose.

  Helluva place to be stranded, he thought, as he took stock of his surroundings. He was literally in the middle of nowhere. A good hundred and eighty miles from El Paso and less than twenty miles from the Mexican border. A no-man’s-land of tumbleweed, cholla cactus, and whatever wildlife could survive the blistering Chihuahuan Desert heat.

  Sweat trickled down Cage’s back as he got out his phone and checked for a signal. Nada.

  Well, that figured.

  What aggravated him more than the inconvenience of the breakdown was Wayne’s warning before Cage left Dallas. “That clunker won’t get you as far as Waco, much less El Paso. Just fly down there tomorrow, close the deal, and get your ass back here with that contract. Or else don’t bother coming back at all,” he’d added with an ominous glare.

  If Cage had followed his brother-in-law’s advice, he’d already be in El Paso working on his pitch for the four o’clock meeting. Afterward, he could have hopped on a Southwest Airlines jet and been back home in time for the Mavericks tip-off since they were playing on the West Coast that night.

  But, no.

  Cage had had the bright idea to drive down overnight, drop in on a few of their best customers and hope that the personal touch and a little charm might persuade them to throw a couple of bones his way.

  But that hadn’t exactly worked out like gangbusters. Mostly, it had been a big waste of time.

  So, not only would he end up getting canned for blowing the El Paso deal, he’d have to listen to Wayne’s I told you so from now until eternity—or until his sister wised up and divorced the smug bastard.

  Not that Cage was in any position to cast stones. He was hardly a catch himself these days. And if he hadn’t been so damn hardheaded, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament—miles off the beaten track, stuck in the desert with a half-empty water bottle and a dead cell phone to his name.

  Things are really looking up for you, buddy.

  He tried to find the bright side as he watched an earless lizard peeking through the orange blossoms of a prickly pear. At least he wasn’t that far from the nearest town. He’d seen a sign a few miles back for a place called San Miguel.

  But when Cage got out his map, he couldn’t find it in the listings. Probably one of those tiny outposts along the Mexican border that time and civilization had forsaken.

  He was doubtful he’d find a garage there, but surely he’d be able to use a landline to call for a tow truck…from somewhere. At the very least, he could let the El Paso folks know he’d likely be later than four.

  He glanced at his watch. High noon. With any luck—and he’d be a fool to count on that—he could be up and running by two, and if he put the pedal to the metal, he might still make El Paso by five, with just enough time to close the deal and keep Wayne off his back.

  Wishful thinking, but what else did he have going for him at the moment?

  Grabbing the water bottle from the car, Cage tucked the folded map in his back pocket and struck out on foot. The desert was like an oven this time of day, and his shirt and hair were soon soaked with sweat.

  He could feel the hot pavement burning through his boots, and the sight of a rattler sunning itself on the side of the road didn’t exactly improve his mood, nor did the circling buzzards overhead. He ignored the vultures and gave the snoozing snake a wide berth as he kept on walking.

  By the time he arrived in San Miguel, a grimy little settlement of crumbling brick buildings and faded adobe houses, the blistering heat had sapped his energy and his bum knee felt as if someone had punched red-hot needles through the muscles.

  As he hobbled down the baking sidewalk, Cage took note of the businesses—a pawn shop, a pool hall, a boarded-up gas station, two churches and up ahead, a post office, judging by the flags waving overhead. But no garage.

  The main thoroughfare through town was paved, but dust swirled up like a cyclone as a black SUV with tinted windows sped by him. It was a late-model vehicle and expensive. Cage wondered what it was doing way out here in the middle of nowhere. But then, whoever was behind those tinted windows could be thinking the same thing about him.

  An old red pickup truck pulled to the curb in front of the post office, and an attractive blonde in tight jeans and a pink T-shirt hopped out of the cab. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, highlighting her smooth, tanned complexion and the shimmering lip gloss that was the exact shade of her shirt.

  She was young, but not so young that her lingering glance made Cage uneasy. She was probably in her early to midtwenties. Fair game if he’d been in the mood.

  “Excuse me,” he said as he limped toward her.

  “Well, hello.” She planted a hand on her blue-jeaned hip as she gave him an interested perusal. “Where did you come from, mister? We don’t get many strangers around here.”

  “Just walked in from the desert,” Cage said, and tried to muster up a halfway friendly smile.

  “I can believe that. No offense, hon, but you look like five miles of bad road. Better move into the shade before you keel over from heatstroke.”

  He stepped under the awning that hung over the post office entrance. “I’ll be fine as soon as I find a phone,” he said. “Or a garage. Or preferably both.”

  “Well, you’re in luck,” she said as she lifted her arms to straighten her ponytail. Th
e action tightened the thin cotton of her shirt across her breasts, which Cage was pretty sure she was well aware of. “Most any business along Main Street will let you use their phone and we happen to have a pretty good mechanic in town. And if you flash those dimples again…” She gave him a wink. “Somebody might even rustle you up a drink. You look like you could use one.”

  “I wouldn’t say no to a cold beer.”

  “I just bet you wouldn’t.” She gave him a knowing smile. “Well, then, you just head on up to Lester’s garage. You can’t miss it. It’ll be on your left, just past the beauty shop. Once you’re done there, have him point you in the direction of Del Fuego’s. Coldest beer in town.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You bet.”

  She hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for another response. When Cage merely nodded, she shrugged. “See you around, stranger.” Then she headed into the post office without a backward glance.

  Five minutes later, Cage stood in front of a dilapidated building with a dirt parking lot and a faded sign out front with moveable letters that had once spelled GARAGE. Now it read G RAGE.

  It had occurred to Cage about two seconds after the blonde disappeared into the post office that she’d been angling for an invitation to join him for a drink. In another time, another place, he might have made the effort to set something up with her, but right now he had more pressing matters on his mind than taking a beautiful woman to bed.

  Which just went to show how pathetically desperate he really was.

  The smell of rubber and motor oil permeated the air as he walked up to the open bay and rang the bell mounted on the side of the wall.

  After a few moments, a young man in greasy coveralls appeared in the doorway. “Help you?”

  As Cage briefly explained the situation, the mechanic took off his cap and mopped the back of his neck with the same filthy rag he’d used to wipe his hands.

  “Sounds like a busted radiator hose all right,” he said when Cage was finished.

  Cage glanced at the car inside the garage. “I can probably fix it myself if you’re all tied up. All I need is a new hose.”

  “I won’t have anything in stock that’ll fit that make and model. You’ll have to get it from the parts store.”

  “Okay. Where’s that?”

  “Nearest one is in Redford. That’s twenty miles east of here. I’m heading over there first thing in the morning for some brake pads. I can pick up a hose for you then if you want me to.”

  “That won’t do me much good,” Cage said. “I need to be in El Paso no later than five o’clock today.”

  Lester shook his head. “Sorry, mister, but you won’t be going anywhere with that busted radiator hose.”

  He was right about that.

  Mentally, Cage tallied up the cash he had on hand. “How much will it take to persuade you to make that trip to Redford today instead of in the morning?”

  Lester seemed to consider the proposition for a moment, then shook his head. “I’d like to help you out, but I’m right in the middle of a transmission overhaul.”

  “Fifty dollars,” Cage said. “That’ll pay your gas and then some for a trip you’re going to have to make anyway.”

  “Like I said, I’d like to help you out and all, but I just don’t see how—”

  “A hundred bucks.” That would take a big bite out of his wallet, but Cage didn’t see any other way around it. Besides, he had a company credit card he could always fall back on.

  “All right. You got yourself a deal.” Lester tossed the rag into a rusted-out barrel and waited patiently while Cage counted out the money.

  “Fifty now, fifty when you get back,” he said. “That okay with you?”

  “Fair enough, I guess.” Lester stuffed the money in the back pocket of his coveralls. “Where can I find you when I get back?”

  “You know of a place called Del Fuego’s?”

  “Just down the street a ways. Not much to look at, but the beer’s always cold.”

  “That’s what I hear,” Cage said.

  BUT DEL FUEGO’S WENT well beyond not much to look at.

  Hole in the wall was Cage’s first impression. The squat building with a flat roof and sagging wooden door reminded him of the places in Saigon his old man used to talk about.

  Walk in for a drink, lucky you didn’t leave with your damn throat slit.

  For all Cage knew, that story was just a load of crap like all the rest of the lies the old man used to spew. He probably hadn’t even left stateside during the Vietnam era.

  Cage might have wondered if his father had actually been in the service, but he’d seen pictures of him in uniform. A handsome, smiling guy with sparkling white teeth and a full head of hair.

  The man in those photographs bore little resemblance to the washed-up drunk who’d deserted his family when Cage was barely thirteen.

  After a while, his mother had put away all those old pictures, but Cage had once heard her tell her sister that she still sometimes dreamed about his father, the way he’d been before Vietnam had turned him into a stranger. She still secretly hoped that man would someday come back to her.

  His mother’s confession had stunned Cage. It was hard for him to reconcile the romantic dreamer pining for her first love with the downtrodden cynic Darleen had become. But then, there were things about his own life that Cage couldn’t reconcile.

  A fly buzzed around his face as he stepped through the door and stood for a moment glancing around. A bar to his left ran the length of the place, but the five or six patrons were all seated around a table in the back. The light was so dim, Cage could barely make out their features, but he knew he had their attention. He heard a mutter in Spanish, followed by a mocking guffaw.

  Ignoring the stares, he slid onto a stool and placed his phone on the bar.

  After a moment, the bartender threw a towel over his shoulder and sidled over to Cage. “What can I get for you?”

  “Cerveza,” Cage said. “Whatever you’ve got that’s cold.”

  “A man with discerning tastes, I see.” The bartender reached for a chilled mug.

  “Discerning, no,” Cage said. “Parched, yes.”

  The bartender gave him a curious glance. “Haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “Never been in before, but you come highly recommended.” Cage picked up the beer and took a thirsty swallow. “Damn, that’s good.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “No, just appreciative.”

  “Well, it’s always nice to be appreciated. I’m Frank Grimes, by the way.”

  “Cage Nichols.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cage.”

  They shook hands.

  “Likewise.”

  Frank Grimes was a tall, slender man of about fifty with longish gray hair and dancing blue eyes. His faded jeans and madras shirt looked straight out of the sixties, as did the silver peace sign he wore on a black cord around his neck.

  He had the look of an artist, Cage decided. The kind that spent his spare time painting coyotes silhouetted against sunsets.

  “So, what brings you to our fair town?” Frank folded his arms and leaned against the bar.

  “Car trouble,” Cage said.

  Frank nodded. “A story with which I’m intimately familiar. I was on my way to Juarez when my fuel pump went out just south of town. I had to wait overnight for a part that never came in, and I’ve been here ever since. That was three years ago.”

  Cage grimaced. “Well, I hope to have a little better luck than you. I need to be in El Paso by five.”

  Frank’s brows rose. “Five o’clock today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Life or death?”

  “More or less.”

  “That stinks for you, then.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m still holding out some hope I’ll be able to make it on time,” Cage said as he took another drink of his beer. “The mechanic at the garage is on his way to Redford now
to pick up a part for me.”

  “You mean Lester?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Frank’s eyes twinkled. “How much did you have to pay him?”

  “What makes you think I paid him?”

  “Because Lester never does anything out of the kindness of his heart. So, how much?”

  “Fifty up front and fifty when he returns with the part.”

  Frank whistled. “That was a big mistake, Cage. You never give Lester anything up front. He gets a little coin in his pocket, you’ll be lucky if you see him by the end of the week.”

  “Damn.”

  “Damn is right. Might as well have another beer while you wait. I doubt you’ll be doing any driving today.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s a rental car place in town?” When Frank shook his head, Cage said, “What about a bus?”

  “Last westbound Greyhound left two hours ago.”

  Cage flipped open his cell phone. “What’s up with the signal around here?”

  “We’re in a dead zone,” Frank said.

  “How the hell can you be in a dead zone? You’re out in the middle of nowhere. The signal should be able to travel for miles.”

  “I’ve been told it has something to do with electromagnetic currents in the air.”

  “Personally, I think it’s the aliens,” a female voice said behind Cage.

  He turned to see the blond woman he’d met earlier in front of the post office. For a moment, he flattered himself into thinking she’d come in especially to see him, but then she went around the bar and kissed Frank on the cheek before grabbing an apron from a nearby hook. As she tied it around her slender waist, she gave Cage another one of those knowing smiles.

  “See? I told you this place had the coldest beer in town.”

  “Never mind that we’re the only place in town,” Frank said.

  “All the more impressive that we maintain our rigid standards.”

  Cage hadn’t noticed before the way her lips turned up slightly at the corners, or the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She really was a very pretty woman.

  “So, E.T. or undocumented workers?” he asked, deciding a little flirtation wouldn’t do any harm. As long as he was stuck here, he might as well make the wait pleasant.