Blood Bargain

by Maria Lima

  "You damned yuppie wannabes,” he growled, fingers tightening on the neck of the bottle. “Buying up all the land ‘round here, taking over real people's land. Puttin’ us all out of work."

  "That's ridiculous,” I said. “Don't play poor pitiful me on this one, Pete."

  Tucker's left hand moved in a slight gesture, a warning. Nope, didn't see it ... or at least, not caring about it.

  I stepped forward, moving closer to the foreman. “You can't tell me that Judge Pursell did any serious ranching. You know as well as I do that the reason he keeps stock and horses on the property is for the agricultural exemption. He's about as much of a rancher as I am."

  I looked around at the other hands, some of who had stood themselves. Now I was sure I recognized them. The two at the back of the table next to us were the ones who had restrained Ignacio Robles.

  Pete raised his bottle and took a long deep pull, then dropped the bottle back to his side. He leaned forward a little, still unsteady on his feet, opened his mouth and belched. “Whatever, at least he's not some wimpy, limp-wristed fag freak. Yeah, Judge don't take to those Eurotrash fags. Pro'ly a good thing I don't have to work for no freak."

  Sounds of agreement filled the room, cowboys nodding and muttering “yeah.” Intermixed with the variations on “he's right.” The words “Judge P's fag son ... ran off his own kid” reached my ears.

  "Who said that?” Both Pete and I spoke at the same time, each of us looking around. Silent faces stared back at us, no one admitting to anything. The room was suddenly quiet, the sound of the jukebox blaring out some nouveau Nashville crap, the only thing audible.

  "What's all that about?” I looked at Pete for an explanation. “What did they mean about the Judge's son?"

  He glowered back at me. “Don't know, don't care. You and your hippie brother gonna make something of it?” He threw his chest out, jerking his chin in challenge.

  I stared back, giving no ground. At the other tables, some of the other cowboys were standing, a few of the women patting arms and silently pleading for their men to sit down. The Pursell ... or former ... Pursell ranch hands stood still, staying in their space, waiting.

  I sensed the nervousness around me, from the hands, from the other cowboys, the women. Bar fights have started for less, deaths happened for sillier reasons. I knew none of the others wanted us to go there. Still, there was a frisson of excitement underpinning the tension. No matter how civilized humans seem, their animal nature still recognized challenge and reveled in the adrenaline rush.

  My brother's calm voice broke the charged atmosphere. His hand touched my back, at once soothing and cajoling. “No, we're leaving, actually."

  I relaxed into Tucker's touch, letting him know that I wasn't going to pursue the challenge.

  "Right, we're leaving,” I said, echoing my brother's calm tone. I dropped my gaze from Pete's and conceded the staring match. He instantly relaxed a little, but didn't move.

  Tucker pulled out a couple of bills and placed them on the table for Brandi. Without another word, we each walked around the table, skirted the still unmoving Pete and headed for the exit. Every eye in the place followed as we opened the front door and stepped out into the late afternoon sun.

  I waited until we were nearly to my Land Rover before I exploded in quiet fury.

  "What the hell was that all about, Tucker Kelly? We left before we found anything. We had a good—"

  Tucker grabbed my arm and dragged me over to the left of the building, around the side of the sagging porch. “Sshh. We're about to have company."

  Before I could say anything else, a door on the side of the building opened and the other waitress stepped out. She was a little older than Brandi, maybe late thirties, her strawberry blond hair as lusterless as her expression. Her nametag read: Jolene.

  "Hey,” Tucker said, a gentle smile on his face. This wasn't his wooing smile, this was the big brother version.

  "Hey,” Jolene echoed. She looked around and leaned up against the wall, pulling a crumpled cigarette from behind one ear and a lighter out of her back shorts pocket. Head bowed, she cupped her hands together as she lighted her smoke. After a deep drag, she let out the smoke along with a sigh.

  "Damn, that's good.” She smiled a little, turning her face from plain to pretty. “Sorry about that in there. Old Pete's a pain in the ass. He's been in here since about noon drinking up what's left of his last paycheck.” He must have come straight here after talking to Carlton, I figured.

  "No worries,” I said. “He was bluffing."

  Okay, so I was lying. Pete would have started something if I'd pushed him. I looked at her, then shot a glance at Tucker, trying to figure out what was going on. He sent me a clear message: Wait.

  Jolene ignored us, smoking in silence for a few minutes. I sympathized. These smoke breaks were probably her sole moments of quiet during her entire shift.

  "Look,” she said, as she straightened and dropped the remaining cigarette stub to the dirt and ground it out with her shoe. “I'm not so sure I should be talking to you.” She shot a glance to the closed door. “He'd...” She looked down at the ground and toed the remains of her cigarette.

  "It's okay, Jolene,” Tucker said. “Go on."

  She hesitated a moment, biting her lip. “I hear y'all were asking about Alex Robles,” she said, then looked at Tucker, her gaze flickering from him, to me, to the door.

  I started a little at this, but kept silent, watching her expression.

  "We were,” Tucker agreed softly. “Brandi told us he was last here about three months ago with a party."

  "Yeah.” Jolene looked away again, and pulled the elastic band from around her ponytail and shook out her shoulder-length hair, then re-fashioned the ponytail and rewrapped the band. “They were all here,” she continued, still looking in the other direction. “All the hands from the Pursell place. Payday and Junior's birthday."

  "Junior?” I asked.

  "One of the hands.” She shrugged and tucked her hands into the pockets of her shorts, as if it didn't make much difference which particular guy it was. “They started partying at about noon and didn't leave out of here until we closed. Weren't a one of them fit to drive, but wasn't mine to mind or worry about, so I didn't.” She dropped her gaze back to the ground, her foot worrying at the stubbed out cigarette butt again. “Guess it was okay, then, ‘cause they all came back the next day."

  "Alex?” I prompted gently.

  A quick smile flashed across her face, then vanished equally as swiftly. Her gaze wandered away from the fascination of the ground to the far horizon. “Alex didn't leave with them. He stayed.” She looked at me then, her expression changing a little, sharing the secret look that girls give one another. The look we all know the meaning of.

  "So he went home with you.” I wasn't asking.

  Jolene pressed her hands against the rough wooden boards, behind her back, leaning against them. “Yeah, I took him home. It was nice. He ... was nice. We partied a little more. I had some crank. Then, well, you know...” She turned a little towards me, her gaze seeking out mine. “I heard he was missing. I'm sorry. I wish I knew..."

  "So you don't know where he went?” I looked at Tucker briefly. He, too, was leaning against the side of the building, arms crossed loosely.

  Jolene's expression crumpled a little, then she stood up straight. “I'm sorry. I had to go to work that morning. I used to work a morning shift three times a week at the Denny's over off 1694. I had to be in by five a.m., so after ... I ... Well, I asked him where to take him and he wasn't sure how to get to the ranch. Me neither. I've heard of the place, but I don't know how to get there."

  She fumbled in her pocket, looking for something, probably another cigarette. “We drove around a little while and then it was getting late. I dropped him at the old crossroads back about a mile or so from the main county road turnoff. You know, right where those little white crosses are. I don't recall if there were road signs.” Her expression tu
rned defiant. “He said he recognized it and could walk. I couldn't be late. I couldn't afford to get fired. I gotta go back inside. You got what you want?"

  Tucker moved forward then and touched the woman on the arm. “Thanks, Jolene. We appreciate it. Really. If you could do me one tiny little favor before you go inside?"

  Her mouth thinned.

  "Could you possibly give us directions to where you dropped Alex off?'

  She glanced at the door again and nodded quickly. “Yeah, okay.” Jolene pulled a crumpled bar napkin out of her pocket along with a stubby pencil. She thought a moment, then scribbled some lines and words. “Here,” she said, handing it to Tucker.

  "I truly appreciate this,” he said. “For your trouble.” I caught a flash of a folded bill as he slipped it into the pocket of the little bar apron she wore.

  She nodded and patted the pocket, then without another word, turned to go back inside.

  "Wait. Please,” I said. “What those guys were saying in there, about the Judge's son. What was that all about?"

  She froze in her tracks, one hand reaching for the door handle. After a couple of seconds, she turned back towards me and stepped away from the door. “Heard tell that the story was Judge P ran off the kid because he liked boys. I dunno. Could be made up.” She seemed reluctant to say more, but at the same time, I thought I could detect something in her eyes. What was she wanting me to ask?

  "I thought his son disappeared while caving,” I said, encouraging her with a smile and a nod.

  "Yeah, that's what I heard, too.” She pulled out another cigarette, lit it and took a deep drag, then another, staring out across the porch, watching a squirrel chase another one up a tree.

  "Which one is it, Jolene?” I prompted softly. “Did the Judge kick his son out for being gay or was it a caving accident?"

  Jolene spit a crumb of tobacco out onto her thumb and wiped it on her apron, leaving a yellow-brown smear among the assorted other food stains. “I guess it was a little of both,” she said finally. “My mom's friend Arletta did Mrs. Pursell's hair every week. Arletta'd come over to our house talking ‘bout how sweet that Pursell boy was and wasn't it a cryin’ shame his father was such a bastard.” She choked out a cloud of smoke along with a raspy laugh. “My momma would rock and smile real wide and agree. Then they'd get all whispery and tell me to go play in my room."

  I wanted to knock my head against the wall. This was not getting us anywhere.

  I didn't know that any of this made any difference, but a man who'd kick his son out for being gay wasn't someone I could trust. I knew that having issues with homosexuality was common amongst the Judge's generation, especially in this part of Texas, and that didn't automatically mean he let his workers get mistreated or, worse yet, cover up the fact one of them was missing, but it sure as hell didn't speak well for his character.

  "So, was he gay?” Tucker asked, smiling at Jolene.

  Jolene tapped the ash of the end of her cigarette. “I suppose, but I don't really know for sure. I know that Momma and Arletta had some good times gossiping about that boy. They were both pretty tore up when he disappeared like that."

  "Any chance of a quick chat with your momma?” Tucker broadened his smile and touched Jolene's elbow. He'd gone back to seduction mode.

  She blushed like a twelve-year-old girl and fluttered her lashes a little. “Wish I could help you out, but my momma passed some ten years back. Arletta, too, last year."

  My brother nodded solemnly. “Sorry to hear that. Appreciate your help, though."

  With that, Jolene dropped her cigarette, and with a hint of a flirtatious flourish, stepped back into the bar, leaving Tucker and me outside.

  My brother and I looked at each other.

  "How?” I asked.

  "What?"

  "How did you know she wanted to talk and how did you know she knew something about Alex?"

  "When you were playing face-off with Pete. I was looking around the room and she caught my eye.” He smiled. “I'm good at reading body language, sis."

  "She motioned to the door, didn't she?” Body language, my ass.

  "Yeah, well.” He shrugged and smiled.

  "Speaking of body language, you think something was off with her? She was nervous the entire time she was out here, that is until you turned on the charm."

  "Charm is it?” Tucker laughed and gave a light punch to my arm. I punched him back.

  "Yes, ‘charm'. Don't pull that crap with me, Tucker Kelly. What do you think was up with Jolene?"

  "She was definitely nervous about someone finding out she was talking to us."

  "That's exactly what I was thinking,” I agreed. “You think it's her worried about getting caught gossiping or something else?"

  Tucker shrugged. “I'm not sure. But I bet if we go check out this crossroads and then, maybe pay a visit to the Judge, we might be able to find out."

  "That, dear brother, sounds like a plan."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "Keira, thanks for coming by.” Kevin Barton surprised me by actually looking at my face this time as he stuck out his hand. I shook it and stepped into the relative cool of the real estate office. “Your brother not with you?"

  "I dropped him off at the café on the way over,” I said. “We were on our way to run an errand when you called. I'm going to pick him up after we're done. Where's the paperwork you need me to look at?"

  "Hey, I like that,” Kevin said. “Direct and to the point."

  Actually, yes, I thought. Let's get to the point so I can get out of here and back to what I was doing. Tucker and I had barely set out from the Diamondback when Kevin's call came in. He'd apologized having to bother me on such short notice, but he needed me to come get some paperwork for Adam. Something that needed Adam's review and countersignature before they could proceed. I'd agreed to come right there, mostly because it wasn't much of a detour on our way to the crossroads, at least not if Jolene's map was accurate.

  "Sure, sure,” he said. “Come on in."

  I followed him further into the small building. The office was a standalone faux-log cabin style building, located a mile or so down the main drag of town, next to the post office. Inside, it was divided into two sections: his office and a larger reception-type area with a few visitor chairs, a long table with a variety of brochures and ad circulars and a coffee machine. The walls reflected the pseudo-rustic design, photos of ranches fighting for prominence next to the numerous heads of dead deer, boar, javelina. I swallowed the sarcastic comment I was going to make as I took this in. Crap. This was something straight out of I-shop-at-Cabelas-weekly. Even the chairs fit with the theme: brown and tan plain canvas upholstery on some of them, the others a ridiculous camouflage pattern.

  "Come on through to my office,” Kevin said, motioning me inwards.

  I stopped gaping at the trophies and went on in, stopping short as I realized that the decor in the reception area was a tasteful introduction to what I'd find in Kevin's private office. Directly in front of the door was a large, wooden desk stacked high with papers. Above it, looming over the leather executive chair, was the front quarter of the largest example of a bighorn sheep I'd ever seen. Horns curling defiantly, it stood as proud in death as it did in life.

  "You like it? That's one of the coolest things I've got. ‘Cept for that, of course.” He pointed to our right.

  I clenched my fist, breathing hard. In the far corner, in a place of honor under a small spotlight stood a full-grown arctic white wolf. Mounted on a pedestal, its dead fur gleamed in the light, glass eyes glittering in something too close to living. Beside it, a fox carried the broken body of a quail in its mouth. I looked away, swallowing the bile in my throat. My brother Rhys often looked like that when he shifted. His twin, Ianto, would emulate him. I grew up watching two white wolves playing tag with each other, often nipping at each other in playful glee as Tucker chased them.

  Kevin, oblivious to my reaction, nattered on. “Got a guy up in Alaska. He find
s me all sorts of trophies. This shipped in a few days ago. Never thought it'd get here."

  "Shall we get on with it,” I said through clenched teeth. “I'm busy."

  "Sure, sure,” he said, bustling around to the other side of the desk and grabbing a stack of papers. “Here you go. They're marked. Mrs. Pursell finished her part. If you could have Mr. Walker initial where the stickies are."

  I nodded and turned to leave, needing to get out of there. This was nothing but a wannabe's ode to the worst of Texas macho. He didn't even hunt the trophies, ordered them like a mail order bride, props to an image he couldn't achieve on the best of days.

  "I'll get the papers back to you—” The front door opened, a burst of wind scattering some of the brochures out front to the floor.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Kevin. Dratted wind.” The blond woman shut the door quickly. “Seems to be blowing up a little out there,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt. I realized when I got halfway down the street. I forgot my phone on your desk.” The woman's breathless drawl was punctuated with an accent thick as her mascara.

  "No problem, Mrs. P, come on in. Keira, this is Mrs. Pursell. Mrs. P, Keira Kelly, she's representing the buyer."

  So this was the infamous Bitsy, trophy wife number three.

  A flash of would-be debutante smile lit up her face as she entered the inner office. She stood about five-foot-six or so and was dressed in the epitome of nouveau-riche chic. Hot pink denim jeans hugged every artificial curve and flared out over tidy white sandals. A pink and white polka-dotted cap-sleeved knit top fit like a second skin, molding to every inch of tan and showing off her extremely unlikely breasts. A diamond and platinum tennis bracelet graced her right wrist, while her left sported a diamond encrusted Rolex in white gold. A rock the size of a small monument flashed on her ring finger, more diamonds sparking on her ears, under the fashionably streaked blond mane. A wealthier version of Brandi the waitress, but no less a soul sister, down to the accent and the frosted pink artificial nails tipping each finger. Bitsy's just cost a lot more.