Blood Bargain
Page 2
Dealing with humans was part of my resume in the supernatural family business. And, although I preferred night to day, I could deal with it. It had never been a problem before, but then it had never interrupted too-long-delayed whoopie, either.
And now, a supposedly brief early morning appointment had stretched into the afternoon. I was not a happy Renfield.
It was Adam's not-so-bright idea I should be here, losing sleep and listening to an extremely annoying real estate broker. Adam was looking to acquire the last bit of ranch land adjacent to the Wild Moon that wasn't nature preserve.
In fact, it was also Adam's way short of brilliant idea to have given my mobile phone number to the brokerage. Kevin, the annoying real estate guy representing the ranch sale, had been the one who'd called and interrupted Adam's and my not-sex. Adam thought he was making things convenient for me—you know, I had an appointment already to sign paperwork regarding the mortuary sale, why not spend a little more time and conveniently take care of this business, as well? Except my real estate guy didn't handle ranches. He also did not have my private mobile number. I was picky about that sort of thing.
Adam had meant to talk to me about the ranch, but I'd distracted him. Or so he said. Whatever—it wasn't as if I were alone in that bed. After a confusing phone call with Kevin and then an explanation from Adam about rezoning and a referendum and developers and things I didn't want to talk about right then, I'd given up, agreed to go look at the place and also given up on finding why buying ranches was more important than great sex. It was close to seven by that time, so I'd gone to take a shower and let Adam go to sleep while I'd tried to get ready for the day ahead.
In the interests of keeping it all in the family, I'd risked interrupting things and dragged my brother out of his own comfy bed and from the side of his own vampire lover so he could join me in my frustration and sleeplessness. He totally owed me. If my great-great-granny could send him here to be my babysitter, then Tucker got to be dragged along on the less fun errands, too.
It wasn't as if I knew anything about ranch land, other than what I'd gleaned over the years living in Rio Seco. Adam had thought (probably rightly) that purchasing this land site unseen (so to speak) was likely to attract attention. So, here we were, Tucker and I, listening to the very unnecessary spiel from a guy who seemed to think my face was somewhere in the middle of my chest. My brother was all too amused.
"It's about five hundred acres all told, got a nice creek running through the middle of it.” Kevin Barton gestured, his hands pointing past the smallish house on the left. “The creek's a couple hundred yards back there, past the foreman's house and the bunkhouse. Lots of oaks, most of it's unimproved, but the main house is really nice. And your friend is in luck, property's priced to move quick."
I tried to listen as I shaded my eyes from the afternoon sun. Early morning had morphed into high noon as our original appointment with the broker got delayed. Kevin had called my mobile before Tucker and I had been even halfway to the ranch property and asked to postpone the meeting until noon. Didn't this guy eat lunch? After some choice words, I'd agreed and Tucker and I made a detour and spent the next couple of hours getting some power-napping in at my house, a place I hadn't been to in a while.
At least I wasn't completely sleep-deprived, but I was definitely in need of some caffeine. We'd overslept a little and hadn't had time to stop by Bea's café for more than a single to-go mug. As a result, my mood was less than agreeable. All I really wanted to do was to get this farce over with and go back to the ranch to catch some shuteye.
It was mid-March but the beginning of the Texas heat was already making its presence known. Daytime temps were running in the eighties with a hint of ninety hovering over the horizon. This was the part of the year I hated most. We mostly called it “Summer: Part One.” The Texas Hill Country isn't known for mild cool springtimes, except extremely occasionally. I remember a time or two during a late March weekend when a blue norther ripped through and plunged the temperatures below freezing. This was not one of those times. If there were any reason in the known universe to get me to emigrate to British Columbia with the rest of my family, this current hot spell might be one of them. Who says there isn't any global warming?
I'd slathered on some SPF 50 before I'd left the house; tan was something alien to me. All my life, I'd mostly stayed out of the sun since my skin, heritage from my faery mother, was only a shade darker than Adam's and had a terrible tendency to burn. Geared up in jeans and a light long-sleeved cotton shirt over a tank top, I was ready for bear ... or ranch buying. A black “gimme cap” I'd appropriated from my late cousin's funeral home topped off my attire and helped shade my face. Hard to avoid sun at the peak of the day, though. Even the expensive shades weren't helping much.
"So, okay if I take a look around?” Tucker straightened up from his lean against the porch railing of the main house. The place was really nice: small, but well built, obviously cared for over the years. Not that it mattered. Adam wasn't planning on living here after all; he was buying the place as a precautionary measure. The vampires had been at the Wild Moon since this past October and had managed to keep a low profile. That wasn't too hard, around here, mostly folks kept to themselves.
Kevin shrugged. “Be my guest,” he said. “Stay away from the corral, though. Hear Pete's breaking a new horse. He gets a mite cranky with strangers around."
"Pete?” I turned back to Kevin, who was standing in the shade of a giant live oak.
"The foreman,” he answered. “Been working for the judge for awhile now."
"Judge?” Tucker asked.
"Judge J.D. Pursell,” answered the broker. “County judge. He's retiring at the end of the month and Bitsy's none too fond of the ranching life."
"There's a person named Bitsy?” Jeez, I hope she's twelve and his daughter, I thought, because really.
Kevin chuckled. “Elizabeth's her given name,” he said. “His wife. Hear she's of the trophy persuasion.” His hands started to move, cupped upwards. He seemed to think better of it and aborted the motion. Great. I'd already spent close to an hour with this guy ogling my own breasts and now I had to listen to him describe Bitsy, with all the attending male chauvinist hand gestures. Bitsy, evidently, was not so much twelve as twenty-something, tanned, most likely with frosted hair, frosted pink and highly unnatural nails and a penchant for lunch and tennis bracelets. Figures. I didn't know this judge, but there were too many like him around. I'd bet anything that he had a former Mrs. Judge and mother of his children somewhere around.
"I imagine she prefers San Antonio or Austin,” I said aloud. “This place a little too remote?"
"Got that ‘bout right,” Kevin said. “They've got new place up in one of those new McMansion subdivisions outside of San Antonio.” He leaned in a little, dropping his voice, although there was no one around to hear. “I heard through the grapevine that Ms. Bitsy is buying all new furniture for the new house and that's why the quick sell on this one. Kind of surprised me, though. Judge P's old man bought this place dirt cheap during the Depression and it's been in the family ever since. Guess now that it's the two of them, though..."
He let his voice trail off as if to intimate there was more to the story. I got the feeling I was supposed to huddle closer and join in the gossip. So not likely. I'd already had enough of Kevin Barton and I was not about to put my breasts in closer proximity to him. I was pretty sure Kevin had his own version of Bitsy at home. Not that I was necessarily in favor of the ‘til death do us part type of marriage. Marriage for life wasn't exactly a model in my family. Couldn't be, really, when “life” meant “just short of immortality.” But I hated the good ol’ boy penchant for dumping the first wife without much warning to marry a younger version. Their first (and sometimes second) marriages never ended well. A lot of times, the original wife and kids suffered from financial hardships, while the second Mrs. Good Ol’ Boy raked it in, unlike the more rational arrangements of my own family.
Sounds like the last place I'd ever want to be, but these types of developments had become too damned pervasive for my tastes. Too much of that going on up Highway 281 and further, places that were once sprawling ranch land cut up for urban sprawl, every year, getting closer to Rio Seco. Come to think of it, that's probably what Adam meant about the rezoning. The state conservation area couldn't be touched, but the Pursell place was an outlet mall and subdivision waiting to happen. Yeah, we were far out from the madding crowd, but the folks in San Marcos, Katy and Allen had thought that, too, and now all those locations had ginormous temples to the retail gods.
"Kevin, you hear anything about any commercial rezoning up around here?” I asked. If anyone would know, he would. He would, of course, have an eye out for new sales possibilities.
He nodded. “There's been talk in town meetings. This could be a decent crossroads once some of the towns get a little bigger. Could be a prime location for a developer. Nothing's come of it yet, though. Judge P said he was fixin’ to sell the place, but not to some developer. They've all been arguing the zoning for a couple of months now. Coupl'a real loudmouths thinking to bring in tourist money. Don't think it'll come to a decision on the zoning until Judge P retires next month. He's a big influence on the rest of them."
"He's at the meetings in his capacity as judge?” I asked, confused. Texas politics wasn't my strong suit—hell, most times, politics in this state were incomprehensible even to those whose job it was—but I was pretty sure a county judge had no official place in a town meeting.
"Nah,” Kevin answered. “He's there as a private citizen. Thing is, once he retires, some folks gonna start seeing him as a weekend landowner, since he doesn't live here anymore."
"Yeah, I see that,” I said. “Thanks. I guess if he sells the place, then it's all moot."
Kevin shrugged. “Depends. Your friend wanting to move here or buy it as an investment?"
"Neither.” I wondered how much Adam had told Kevin during yesterday evening's discussion that I hadn't been privy to. “He owns the adjacent land and wants to avoid exactly what we were talking about."
"'Kay then, guess we should get on with it, so we can get to the point where you want to sign the papers.” Kevin motioned with his hand as if it was all settled. Nice realtor's trick, that, but totally unnecessary.
"So, what happens to Pete?” Tucker crouched down near Kevin, idly picking up a stick and making circles in the dirt.
"Happens?"
"When the ranch is sold,” I said, understanding where my brother was headed with his question. “What happens to the current staff?"
Kevin snorted a laugh. “Staff? Ain't no one here but Pete and a few, you know...” He made a hand gesture that could mean anything from “shoo fly” to “around the world."
"Know what?” He looked around a bit and dropped his voice into the same almost conspiratorial tone he'd used before. “I imagine there are a coupl'a hands, you know, of the exchange variety.” He gave us a wink with a bit of a smirk. I wasn't sure what he was getting at, but all it was missing was the “nudge, nudge” to make the look even more disgusting. “Since Pete's foreman, guess he'll be looking for a new job."
"I imagine that would make him a wee bit cranky.” Tucker stood from his crouch in one swift movement, startling Kevin, who took a step back.
Kevin grimaced, his jaw setting as he stared at my imposing six-foot-four Viking brother. I knew Tucker was doing this on purpose, for all his amusement at my expense, he obviously liked Kevin Barton about as much as I did, and it wasn't beyond him to use his height and presence as an advantage. I didn't think Kevin was aware of it, but I could see the machismo percolating.
"Imagine so,” Kevin said, leaving the shade, moving away from Tucker. He took my arm as he approached, leading me away from the front of the house, toward the other buildings, some fifty yards to the right on a small rise. We'd parked his over-expensive yuppie truck in the muddy drive near the corral. I'd offered to drive, since my Land Rover Defender was meant for this kind of terrain, but Kevin insisted on showing off his new toy. Whatever. I'd left the Rover in the parking lot of the café and he'd be the one scraping mud off a fancy paint job and from the overdone interior ... or at least paying someone to do it.
Tucker stayed where he was, his face showing no emotion, no feeling. I shot him a glance full of meaning. He grimaced back at me, then threw me an engaging grin. “I'll go look around,” he said to no one in particular.
Good. My brother was always able to read me fairly well. “Look around” meant scope out the place as only a 1200-year-old shapeshifter could. I didn't expect anything out of the ordinary, but I'd heard of ranch hands doing some creative growing of less-than-legal herbs on these weekend type properties. Absentee owners often meant a very lucrative side business for underpaid hands. Not that I really minded, but the last thing either side needed was a delay in the sale due to the discovery of an illegal activity. If Tucker found anything, we could always come back under cover of darkness and take care of it.
"You do that.” I tossed the words over my shoulder, and turned my attention back to Kevin.
"What about the hands?” I asked as we walked.
"They go back.” Kevin stepped in front of me, stopping to open the door to what was obviously a bunkhouse.
"Back?” I stepped through into the dark interior. It was slightly cooler than it was outside, but not by much. I could tell that this building would quickly turn into a roasting oven during the summer months. No sign of air conditioning either. A couple of ratty old ceiling fans hung up high. Place looked clean, but run down ... the opposite of the precisely kept main house. I was betting the foreman's place was nicer than this, too.
A row of steel-framed bunks lined either side of the concrete-floored building, small windows broke the monotony of the wooden wall about every ten feet. It looked very much like an army barracks. Not that I'd ever actually been in one, but I'd seen what Hollywood thought they looked like.
I suppose it wasn't too bad of a place for a ranch hand to live. Most of these guys were probably single, drifters; the last of a dying breed. Places like Texas, Colorado, Wyoming still had cowboys—men who preferred life among livestock, drifting from place to place in search of whatever. Soft voices in the distance filtered through the hum of the cicadas. I realized that I could hear the men at the corral. Cowboys, yeah, but here, they mostly spoke a broken mixture of Spanish and English, as if undereducated in both languages. Spanglish, common language of most Hill Country ranches.
"What did you mean by ‘back'?” I asked again.
"You know,” he said, moving forward to join me. “Back across.” He made a swimming motion with his arms.
"They're wetbacks?"
One meaty hand patted me on the shoulder, as the other came up to his lips. “Shush. Exchange students.” His eyes twinkled as he emphasized the euphemism that I suddenly understood. Students—more like severely underpaid and underappreciated labor.
"Once the contract is signed and the place is deeded over, Judge'll make sure they get back. Or go work on another place if someone needs ‘em."
I shrugged away from his touch. Yeah, I knew this went on in various places, ranches nearby, even. But I'd always thought it was something done by the good ol’ boys trying to buck the system. Not by respectable pillars of the community. I should have known, I suppose, should have at least guessed. The ratio of money and power to poverty and hunger never really changed. The powerful would always overshadow the needy—here, or in the bowels of the Welsh mountains where I was a child. Only the venue changed.
"For the love of.... “I exclaimed. “He's a county judge. How the—"
Sounds of shouting interrupted. Kevin and I exchanged glances and ran outside
.
CHAPTER THREE
Two cowboys were holding back a third man outside the horse corral. The man didn't struggle at all; he stood there, a lost look on his face. As we approached, another man split from the group and came toward us.
"Hey,” he said, nodding once to Kevin. He looked over at me with that stereotypical I'm-a-guy-and-you-have-tits appraising look that I utterly hated—the one that started at said tits, traveled down to the hip region and then finally, as if dragged there through mud, to my face. Great, another one.
A sardonic smile crossed the weathered features as if giving his seal of approval. He wasn't old, probably close to my own age, maybe thirty-seven, thirty-eight, (except he looked it and I didn't); looked as if he'd done this all his life, clothes cowboy rough, dirt-smeared and broken in—the real McCoy. Since he looked about as Mexican as my brother, I figured this was probably the foreman, Pete. The other three men were definitely Latino.
I returned Pete's stare, letting a tiny amount of my don't-mess-with-me-I-could-be-a-predator peek through. Not enough to really frighten, but enough to make most men a little uneasy. Pete didn't disappoint. He shifted his stance, ever so subtly turning towards Kevin.
"What's going on, Pete?” Kevin asked. I could tell he was trying to keep it low key. After all, I was a prospect. If this ranch sold for the asking price, he'd be making a hefty commission. He'd listed the place, so he wouldn't have to split it with anyone else. Six percent of half a million translated to a whole lot of six-packs and Las Vegas weekends.
Pete shrugged, stepped back a ways and spat into the dirt. He tucked one hand into a back pocket and dug up a battered can of Skoal. He pulled out a hefty pinch and stuffed it into his mouth before answering. I wasn't sure if this was a calculated move, or simply habit.
"Ain't nothin'. Just a couple of the boys gettin’ a bit antsy.” He didn't look either of us in the eye when he spoke.