SPY IN THE SADDLE

by Dana Marton

  He cleared his throat. “Good to go.”

  She flashed a smile. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He stepped back.

  “And thank you for...before,” she added with a tilt of her head, her eyes growing serious. She filled her lungs, a consternated look coming over her face for a second. “I’m sorry if I was a difficult teenager.”

  Difficult didn’t begin to describe her. “You were something.”

  She smiled again.

  He didn’t smile back. “And by that, I mean trouble. And it was pretty obvious you’d be even bigger trouble in a couple of years. I was just hoping we wouldn’t be running in the same circles by then.”

  She watched him. “And here I am.”

  “And here you are.” He drew a slow breath, and the flowery scent of her soap hit him all over again.

  * * *

  LILLY WATCHED THE WARY expression on his face.

  Being alone in a hotel room with Shepard Lewis had been her teenage dream. To have him here now seemed beyond strange, even if under vastly different circumstances than she’d spent hours daydreaming about back in the day.

  She’d written songs about him, for heaven’s sake.

  She pushed all that away.

  “You kept insurance on the car I borrowed,” she said. Okay, stole. But seeing how they were practically colleagues now, there was no sense splitting hairs.

  He shifted where he stood. “Figured you couldn’t afford it. Driving without insurance is illegal. Didn’t want you to get into more trouble if you got caught.”

  “You never reported it stolen. That car saved my life. I lived in it the first year after I ran away.”

  He nodded.

  “How come you’re no longer a parole officer?”

  His dark eyes focused a little sharper, his jaw jutting out a little, his masculine lips tightening.

  Oh, God. “Did you quit because of me?” Had she been that bad?

  He backed away from her, to the window, and looked out. He said nothing.

  “You did?” She stared.

  He did a sexy, one-shouldered shrug. “Technically, I was let go.”

  She stared some more as she tried to make sense of that.

  “Why? You were really good. You were the only decent person I met in the system. If anyone could have made me go straight, it was you. You just got me too late. I was... Look, nobody could’ve gotten through to me by that point. Why on earth would they let you go?”

  He turned back to her, holding her gaze. “There was that letter.”

  For a long second, she had no idea what he was talking about. Then it clicked. “The email I sent?”

  “Work emails are not private.”

  “But I was thanking you for all your help and apologizing for the car—”

  And then it hit her.

  Heat flushed her face. The email... Oh, God. At the end, in a fit of teenage drama, she’d confessed her undying love. She might have even mentioned that she would be saving her virginity for him.

  She’d blocked that memory, apparently, until now. She cringed as she pushed to her feet and busied herself with packing up the first-aid kit. FBI agents didn’t blush, she tried to remind herself, too late.

  “I’m sorry,” she said without looking at him. She couldn’t just now.

  She had a fair idea what had happened. He’d probably been accused of encouraging her teenage fancy. He hadn’t. The opposite, if anything. He’d always tried to treat her as a big brother would, which used to frustrate the living daylights out of her.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said again, feeling it in the bottom of her soul.

  “Don’t worry about it. I found my place.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She put away the white box and moved out to her kitchen to put a little distance between them. “Would you like a drink?”

  “I better get going.” But he stayed where he was and watched her for a long minute. “There was one thing I could never figure out. Why did you set fire to the house?”

  The air got stuck in her lungs. “Your house burned down?”

  Again, he waited awhile before he spoke. “Could have been an accident.” He shook his head, then scratched his eyebrow as he thought. “I had the oil pan over to the side. You knocked a few things over when you drove the car off the metal ramp, come to think of it. Something might have thrown a spark.”

  She’d burned his house down.

  She sank into the nearest chair as the stark truth hit her. “I ruined your life.”

  He gave a wry smile. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  For the first time in a long time, she had no idea what to say. He was armed. Why hadn’t he shot her yet?

  She wasn’t about to ask him and give him any ideas.

  For her, coming here, seeing Shep again meant...tying up some loose ends from her past. He’d been a good memory. She might have even looked forward to showing off to him a little...look, I’ve made it, that kind of thing.

  She might have spent some extra time on her hair and makeup this morning. He’d pushed her away years ago. Now part of her wanted him to see what he’d missed and maybe even regret it.

  She closed her eyes. What a fool she’d been.

  All these years, he must have thought of her only as his worst nightmare.

  His phone rang, breaking the silence, and he answered it. She was ridiculously grateful for the chance to gather herself.

  He listened before he said, “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

  “What is it?” she asked, still a little dazed by his revelations. “Did they find the Mustang?”

  He slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Not yet. It’s probably hidden somewhere in a garage right now. It belongs to a Doug Wagner, who doesn’t seem to be home at the moment. Keith went out there. He got a list of Wagner’s buddies. A neighbor said Wagner likes to hang out with them at The Yellow Armadillo.”

  “Which is?”

  “A seedy bar in Pebble Creek. Known smuggler hangout.” He shrugged. “But he wouldn’t be out in public right now, after a hit. We’re going to run down his friends and see if he’s holed up with one of them or, at least, if one of them is holding the Mustang for him.”

  He held out his phone for her, with a mug shot on the screen. The man in the picture was average-looking— beady dark eyes, greasy hair, giant chin.

  She’d seen only a little of the Mustang’s driver, but enough to match him to the photo. She pushed to her feet. “That’s him. I’m coming with you.”

  “No.” He said it as if he meant it, in that stern, disapproving tone she knew only too well. “You just got shot. You’re probably still tired from flying out here. And now you’re injured. Stay and rest. Just take the rest of the day off, all right? Give your body a chance to recover.”

  She bristled for a moment but then, just this once, she decided to give in to him. A few hours of distance might be just what the both of them needed to put the past behind them. They needed to do that so they could move forward.

  “I’m really sorry about before. Do you accept my apology?”

  He nodded without having to think about it. “I’m glad it all worked out for you in the end. It’s good to see you doing well.”

  “You, too.” It was a relief that she hadn’t driven him to alcohol or something. “When I come into the office tomorrow morning, we’ll start over. Could we do that?”

  “It’s a deal.” He walked out the door with a brief nod at her, then closed it behind him.

  She had to give it to him, he wasn’t one to hold a grudge. She wasn’t sure she could have been as understanding. She thought for a minute about their past, about where they were now, and tried to put things into perspective. Think positi
ve.

  She did that, and she also thought of something that would let her show Shep that she’d changed, that she wasn’t the same person who’d nearly ruined his life, that she was good at what she did now.

  The sudden need to prove herself to him took her by surprise.

  When she’d received the assignment, she got a list of the team members and a one-page memo on each. She knew she would have to face Shep and she didn’t really think she’d have any problem with it. She’d expected an awkward moment or two, maybe, but then they’d get over it.

  Reality, however, turned out to be a lot more complicated.

  She looked up the address of The Yellow Armadillo on the internet, then walked to her closet. Just because she’d agreed to stay away from the office for the rest of the day, it didn’t mean she was done with investigating. She wasn’t here on vacation. She wasn’t here just to observe and evaluate the team.

  She was here to help them achieve their objective.

  She’d come prepared, brought undercover clothes in addition to her FBI suits. She pulled on blue jeans, cowboy boots, left the tank top and combed her hair out, then pushed a cowboy hat over her head. Ready. She would hang out at the bar, nurse a beer and get a feel for local activity.

  Wagner was the key. The Coyote must have sent him to take out Jimmy, a loose end. Wagner could lead them straight to the Coyote, who could take them straight to the terrorists. They needed Wagner.

  Her car was at the office, but The Yellow Armadillo was just a few blocks away. A chance to clear her head was more than welcome. And she could use the walk to get a better feel for Pebble Creek. She took the stairs, adding a little more to the exercise.

  Her phone rang. Unknown number.

  “Hey, it’s Jamie. Shep said you got shot. How are you doing?”

  Okay, that was weird. She wasn’t used to family checking up on her. “Just a scratch. Not to worry.”

  “If you need anything—”

  “I’m fine.” As a rule, she handled her life on her own. She didn’t depend on people.

  Jamie paused for a second. “Okay. Just wanted to check in.”

  The day was hot but not unbearable as she hung up and walked out onto the street from the hotel lobby. She turned right after the bank and walked down the side street until she found the bar.

  Its sun-faded, chipped sign hung over a reinforced steel door, every inch scuffed, crying for a paint job. The parking lot was half-empty. Still, considering that it was before noon, that didn’t seem like bad business. But if the bar turned a profit, the owner sure didn’t invest in appearances.

  When she stepped inside, the smell of beer and unwashed bodies hit her. At least a dozen people were drinking and talking at the tables. Could be they’d been out on the border, smuggling all night, then came here to grab a drink before they went home to sleep. Their gazes followed her as she cozied up to the bar.

  The bartender towered more than a foot over her, drying glasses. Definitely a bruiser.

  “Howdy.” He glanced at the bandage on her arm, but said nothing about it. The bar wasn’t the kind of place where people would ask questions about something like that, apparently.

  “Hey.” She sat by one of the columns that extended from bar to ceiling, holding a dozen ratty ads for local services and whatever. That way, at least one side of her was protected. She scanned the short hallway in the back, could see a turn at the end that probably led to the office, then the back exit.

  The bartender looked her over. “What’s your pleasure, little lady?” He raised a bushy eyebrow. She didn’t belong here and they both knew it.

  She thought about a beer before lunch, and her stomach revolted. “Wouldn’t mind starting with coffee.”

  He pushed a bowl of peanuts a few inches closer to her and turned to the coffee corner. He was back with her cup in two minutes, powdered creamer and sugar on the side. “You new in town?”

  “Traveling through.”

  A waitress sailed by and winked at her. “Looking for your next heartache?”

  Lilly gave a smile, hoping like anything that she hadn’t already found it. “No, definitely not.” Letting her teenage crush with Shep reemerge would be beyond stupid. “Nice town, though. Might stay awhile,” she added, suddenly inspired by the bottom ad on the post that caught her eye. The bar band was looking for a new singer.

  “If I can find a gig.” She nodded toward the ad and tried not to think how many years it’d been since she’d been onstage. But hanging out at the bar wouldn’t give her half the chance to snoop around as working here a few hours a night would. It’d make her an insider.

  “You sing?” the waitress asked as she waited for her orders to be filled. She was in her early forties, a bottle blonde, slim, wearing a white T-shirt with the bar’s logo on it and a short black skirt with an apron.

  “Ain’t much else I can do. I got just the voice the good Lord gave me.” Lilly tried to sound country, as if she might just fit in.

  The woman looked doubtful, but she said, “Come back tonight. Brian’s the boss. He’ll be holding tryouts.”

  “Thanks—”

  “Mazie. And this one here’s Shorty.” She snorted as she indicated the bartender with her head. He fairly towered over the both of them, busy with the beer tap.

  “Lilly. I think I might just try for that gig.”

  Even if Shep was totally going to kill her for it.

  Chapter Three

  Night had fallen by the time Shep and Keith made their way into town and pulled up in front of The Yellow Armadillo, after a long and dusty shift on border patrol that netted them nothing whatsoever. Normally, they would have taken a break before going into the office in the morning. But as close as they were to D-day, they’d decided to snoop around the bar a little first.

  Lilly’s hotel was just up the road. Not that Shep planned on stopping by for a visit. He watched for an empty space in the parking lot. He had to drive around to find a spot.

  “Looks like they do good business.” Keith scanned the cars, then turned to Shep. “So, did Lilly Tanner really burn down your house and steal your car and all that?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it.”

  But Keith kept waiting.

  Fine. “It was an accident.”

  “How does somebody steal a car by accident?”

  “The fire was an accident. She needed the car and...” He shrugged. There was really no good way to explain. “She wanted to start over.” He’d never really held a grudge. “She was a messed-up kid and with reason. She had rough beginnings.”

  “True that. Sold for drugs by her own parents. That’s harsh. Can you imagine?”

  “Not really.” He’d grown up in a happy, loving family.

  “That’s why you never reported the car stolen?”

  He parked the car and shut off the engine. “She was just turning eighteen—she would have gone to jail. Being locked up would have broken her. She’d always been special, always stood out. I didn’t want to see her broken.”

  He was glad she’d turned out okay. He would be even gladder when she left again. He stopped for a second and turned to Keith. “And now we’re done talking about her. She’s only here for a few days. It’s not important.”

  Keith flashed one of his quick grins. “Whatever you say.”

  The bar sat on a side street a little back from the main drag, among service-type businesses: dry cleaner’s, key copying and photocopying, a car mechanic a little farther down. The road back here was narrower and darker, the streetlights smaller and not as fancy as Main Street’s, no lone-star flags, no advertising posters on the poles.

  Keith got out. “Hope Wagner is here.”

  Shep followed. “Or the guy who was with him at the shooting. Look for anyone with a damaged wrist
.”

  They’d put out a call to the local hospitals, but none had a patient with a gunshot wound like that. He might have gone to one of the underground clinics that served illegal immigrants. If so, they’d have no way of finding him through the health-care system.

  Music filtered out to the street through the front door as they walked up, the smell of stale air and beer hitting them as they stepped inside.

  Mostly men filled the bar, very few women. It seemed like the kind of place where farmhands would go to get sloppy drunk at the end of the day. A scrawny cowboy wailed on the stage, a sad song about losing his girl. The clientele paid little attention to him.

  Shep and Keith bellied up to the bar and flagged down two beers. They were dressed as rodeo cowboys. With all the cowboy shirts, jeans and cowboy boots surrounding them, they fit right in.

  He didn’t spot anyone suspicious at first glance, except a bookie in the far corner doing some business, probably taking bets on the rodeo that would start later in the week.

  The bartender slid their beers in front of them. “In town to try your luck?”

  “We’re in it to win it.” Keith gave an enthusiastic grin. “Hoping for a break in the weather. No fun trying to train in over hundred-degree heat.”

  The bartender nodded with sympathy. “Where you boys from?”

  “Pennsylvania.” Keith puffed his chest out a little.

  The man gave a whoop of a laugh. “There ain’t no rodeo in Pennsylvania.” He shook his head as a pitying look came into his eyes.

  “There sure is.” Keith grinned. “There are crazy bastards everywhere.” He managed to sound proud of it.

  An older guy on Keith’s other side toasted them with his beer. “Amen to that.”

  The bartender kept laughing as he walked away.

  Shep didn’t mind some mocking. Being considered the village idiot was the perfect cover.

  He pretended to watch the band and the out-of-tune singer onstage while he continued checking out the customers. He looked for specific faces, not just something suspicious in general. That helped. If Doug Wagner or his partner showed up tonight, they could grab him, take him in and ask him who’d paid them to shoot Jimmy.