by Sharon Sala
Boone grinned. He’d been right in assuming the gang was about to make another big move. The shipment must be in. Denver sounded antsy, the way he always did when the stuff was on hand.
“I’ll be there,” Boone said.
“You’d better,” Denver muttered, then disconnected.
Boone set the receiver back in the cradle, then glanced at his late-night supper and knew it would have to wait a little while longer. The captain needed to know what was going on. He picked up the phone and started to dial, then paused and hung it back up. Cautious as ever, he used his cell phone to make the call. Ignoring the time, he listened as the phone at the other end began to ring. A few moments later, a low, husky voice, somewhat sleepy-sounding but nevertheless alert, answered. “This better be good.”
Boone grinned. Obviously the captain was at home and had put a transfer order on the safe line.
“It’s me, darlin’ Waco,” he drawled.
“Talk to me, good-looking.”
“You better be sleeping alone.”
In spite of the late hour and the tone of her agent’s voice, Susan Cross grinned. The man was outrageous. “And you better have some sweet words to whisper in my ear,” she retorted.
Boone felt himself beginning to relax, and knew that part of it came from being able to share the burden of what he knew with someone else.
“Something big is going down tomorrow night.”
Cross sat up on the side of the bed, grabbing for her glasses and turning on the light, all at the same time.
“Like what?”
“There was a big shipment due. I think it’s in. Cherry wants me over there tomorrow evening. Said he had a ‘job’ for me.”
“So you think they’re going to move it out?”
“Yes.”
“Will the boss be there?”
Boone tensed. “I doubt it,” he muttered. “I pushed my luck the other day by insisting that I meet the man I work for, and Cherry balked.”
Cross frowned. “Okay, here’s what I want you to do. See if you can find out the distribution points. And after you’ve got your load, call me. We’ll decide where to go from there.”
Boone frowned. “Damn it, Waco, don’t mess it up for me by taking them in yet. I’m getting close.... I can feel it.”
Cross sighed. She was walking a fine line between the law and her subordinate’s renegade ways as it was. Knowingly letting a huge shipment of methamphetamine onto the streets didn’t set well with her, but neither did pulling in a man before he’d done what he set out to do.
“Just call me,” she said, and hung up.
Boone sat with his head in his hands, his food forgotten. The whole situation stank to high heaven. He felt like a bug caught between a hungry crow and a big flat shoe. Whichever way he turned, he was bound to be had.
The image of Rachel Brant’s face drifted through his mind, and he groaned. “Not now, lady, not now.”
Yet long after he’d gone to bed, his thoughts were still of her—the sound of her laugh, the way her eyes crinkled up at the corners when she smiled, the scent of her perfume ...even the way her breathing quickened when she looked at him. She was eating him up from within.
He rolled over in bed, angrily punching his pillow and then burrowing his nose into it. Moments later, he tossed it aside. Smothering himself wouldn’t accomplish a damn thing except to take himself out of the fray, and Boone MacDonald wasn’t the kind of man to run.
Long after midnight had come and gone, Rachel was still awake, rereading the articles on reincarnation that she’d copied at the library, as well as excerpts from books that pertained to the same subject. She went to bed around 3:00 a.m., convinced that she was on the right track. But even though her instincts said yes, there was a common thread among the articles that she had yet to verify in relation to her own situation.
She needed to know if a woman named Mercy Hollister had ever existed. If she hadn’t, then Rachel was facing an entirely different problem.
But where to start? Finding something as simple as a birth certificate was an easy task now, but back before the territories became states, births had rarely been recorded. It hadn’t been unusual for a person to live out their entire life with no written record of having existed.
And then she thought of the outlaw, Dakota. Maybe he would be the link. If he’d been real, then history might have made note of his name and deeds.
Again her doubts returned. What to do first? All she knew was what she’d seen in her dream...or whatever one called the state of losing one’s mind. And then she remembered!
Trinity. Mercy had lived in a town called Trinity.
Find Trinity, or find out if it had ever existed. If so, she could start from there.
With a sigh of relief, Rachel rolled over on her stomach, shifted the pillow until it felt just right beneath her chin and closed her eyes. Sleep came, and with it the dream.
When she awoke, it was just before dawn, and she was facedown in the grass beneath her swing. Her head was splitting, and there were tears on her cheeks. She couldn’t remember a thing about what she’d dreamed or what it was that had made her cry. Disgusted and disheartened, she crawled to her feet and staggered back indoors.
This had been the last straw. She’d made up her mind. When she went in to work today, she was going to ask for time off. Until this mess was cleared up, she didn’t trust herself to care for anyone else, when she couldn’t even take care of herself.
Charlie Dutton pulled up to the station just ahead of Rachel, giving her both front and back views of his shiny new car. As he got out, she couldn’t help but grin as he took out his handkerchief and polished a spot on the lacquered blue surface.
She honked as she parked. Charlie turned, then went to meet her with a sheepish grin on his face.
“Wow, Charlie, you’re going to have to beat the girls off with a stick.”
His grin stilled. “So, are you telling me you might be susceptible?”
When Rachel flushed, Charlie hid his hurt behind a chuckle. “Calm down,” he said softly. “It never hurts to ask, right?”
Just for a moment, she’d been afraid he was serious. Relaxing as he slipped back into his easygoing manner, she thumped him lightly on the arm as they headed for the door.
But Charlie had something else on his mind besides showing off his new car. He hadn’t been able to get past the sight of Rachel and that modern-day outlaw riding together in her car. Charlie being Charlie, he circled the issue of what he wanted to know by making a joke out of the question.
“So, are you giving old Griffin a run for his money?”
Rachel stumbled, and Charlie grabbed her before she fell on her face.
“What did you mean by that?” she asked, fixing him with a cool, judging stare.
“Oh...not much. It’s just that I never knew your tastes in men were so varied.”
She gritted her teeth. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Griffin Ross and I are old news. As for my passenger last night, all I did was give him a ride. He had a blowout, and his spare was flat.”
“His kind is bad news, Rachel.”
She flushed, angry because he wasn’t saying anything she didn’t already know. “I gave him a ride, not the key to my house.”
“Little steps will take a man the same place big ones do. The only difference is, it just takes a little longer to get there.”
“Just what are you saying?”
From the chill of her glare, Charlie realized he’d already overstepped his bounds. There was no use making the situation worse.
“Oh, nothing,” he said, and looked back at his car, absently admiring the high-gloss sheen.
Rachel sighed. Charlie was her friend. She should have expected him to at least voice his opinion.
“It’s okay,” she said, and patted his arm. “I don’t think he’s as bad as he’s made out to be. Remember how he was with those people the day of that wreck. They were lucky he was there.”
/> Charlie rolled his eyes. “I must have been out of my mind to complain about a hero. I keep forgetting how women love them.”
Rachel hit him on the arm and pointed toward the car, determined to change the subject.
“That last raise they gave you must have been a doozie.”
Charlie’s expression underwent a dark metamorphosis, but Rachel didn’t notice. As they entered the garage, they stopped short, staring in disbelief at the crumpled fender, missing bumper and shattered windshield of one of Razor Bend’s two working ambulances.
“Oh, no!” she moaned, and grabbed Charlie by the arm.
“It’s the new one, too,” he said, eyeing the dented hood. “Because of an accident we’ll have to make do with the old one until this is fixed. Man, I hope the good citizens of Razor Bend don’t have themselves a run of bad luck.”
As they entered the office, Rachel couldn’t help thinking that while the ambulance’s condition was unfortunate for the town, it was quite convenient for her. With only one ambulance to run, and two paramedics and three EMTs besides herself, she wouldn’t be missed.
Chapter 8
The bass boat slid into the bed of Boone’s pickup truck as if it had been made to fit. With Tommy Joe on one side and Boone on the other, they walked the length of the truck, tying the boat down as they went. As he tied the last knot, Boone gave the rope a sharp tug, just to make sure it was holding. The last thing he needed was to lose that boat and its belly full of meth along the highway.
The false bottom should work. Oklahoma was full of people who lived for the great outdoors. About half the residents of the state either owned or rented boats. And at this time of year, die-hard fishermen everywhere were making last-minute runs to the lakes, rivers and creeks, taking advantage of the good fishing weather before winter set in. There wouldn’t be a cop on the road who thought anything unusual of his rig.
“I guess I’m ready to roll,” Boone said, and looked around for Denver. “Where’s Cherry?”
Tommy Joe shrugged. “He’ll be here directly. Want a beer?” Without waiting for Boone to answer, he tossed him a cold, dripping can.
Boone’s hard-ass mode was in place as he caught the can in midair. “No thanks,” he drawled, and tossed it right back. “Tonight I’m the designated driver, remember?”
Tommy Joe snickered, then popped the top, unmindful of the froth that spewed and spilled out of the hole and down the sides of the can, coating his fingers, then dripping onto his shoes.
Boone leaned against the bed of his truck and took a slow, deep breath as he settled down to wait.
Come on, come on, he fumed, wondering where Denver Cherry had gone. The man was like a caged cat until the meth was moved off his place, and now that the moment was at hand, he’d disappeared.
A short distance away, Denver was making last-minute plans with the boss. Their conversation ceased in midstream as the boss started to curse.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
“Who?” Denver asked.
“That cowboy.”
Denver winced. The derision in the boss’s voice was impossible to miss.
“That’s my new man, Boone MacDonald.”
“You’re not serious.”
Deriver nodded.
“Can you trust him?”
Denver nodded, then backed off, reluctant to be blamed should something go wrong. “Well, as best as I can tell, he’s okay. You know, there’s no surefire way to tell until a deal goes down.”
The boss grunted, and Denver got nervous, watching the way his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.
“Something wrong?” Denver asked.
“No. Which route is he taking?”
Denver told him and when he made no comment, added, “I’d better get going. I need to send them on their way.”
“hem?”
Denver shifted his stance, readjusting his belly above the belt buckle poking into his soft flesh. “Yeah, Tommy Joe is going with him, just to make sure everything goes okay.”
“Send him alone.”
“But I—”
An ominous quality infiltrated the boss’s voice. “I said... send him alone.”
“Yes, sir,” Denver muttered.
“Now. Do it now.”
Denver scuttled away. He’d heard enough to know that the boss was mad; he just wasn’t sure why.
“Hey, here comes Denver,” Tommy Joe said, pointing off to their right.
Boone turned just as the old biker waddled out of a thick stand of trees. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully; he wondered exactly what the man had been doing in there besides taking a leak.
“We’re ready,” Tommy Joe said. He started toward the passenger side of the truck, but Denver stopped him cold.
“You’re not going,” he muttered, and waved him away.
Boone went from a careless slouch to a careful stance. Sudden changes in plans made him nervous. He gave Denver a calculated stare. “Why not?”
“Yeah, why not?” Tommy Joe echoed.
“Because I said so,” Denver shouted. “Now get back inside.”
Tommy Joe scuttled away.
“Are there any other changes I need to know about?” Boone asked.
Denver met him stare for hard stare. “No.”
Boone glanced over Denver’s shoulder into the darkness of the trees. Then he grinned. “You’re the boss,” he said softly, and crawled into his truck. “See you when I see you.”
Denver shuddered as Boone drove out of sight. Something didn’t feel right, but there was no way of stopping things now.
Boone wasn’t wasting any time waiting to be shot in the back of the head. Instinct told him he was being tested again, only this time he sincerely doubted it was Denver who’d set up the test.
As he started down the mountain, he passed the road leading to Rachel’s house and had a sudden urge to ditch the whole night and hide within the shelter of Rachel Brant’s embrace.
But it was a wild, impossible thought, and Boone wasn’t the type to waver from what he’d set out to do. Instead, he picked up the phone. He’d promised Waco a call.
“Talk to me, baby,” Waco crooned.
Boone grinned. “You can turn off the heat, sugar. I’m all alone.”
Captain Cross reached for a pen. “What do you know?”
Boone swerved to miss an armadillo waddling across the road and then glanced back at the boat, making sure it was still in place.
“I know I wish it was Christmas and I was under your tree, sweet thing.”
“Shut up and get down to business,” she muttered, then grinned in spite of herself. “Did the whole load go out?”
Boone sighed. She wasn’t going to like this one bit. “Yeah, but I couldn’t say where. Denver made a run earlier that I didn’t expect, and Snake was already gone when I got there.”
“Damn.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Boone said, knowing he hadn’t been quite honest with her.
If the captain had known all three locations, chances were she would have opted for the busts, arresting him along with the perps. It wouldn’t have blown his cover, but it would have ended his quest to find the man behind Denver Cherry’s operation.
“Where is he sending you?”
“Dallas.”
“Where in Dallas?”
“Some joint called ReBob’s Boat Repair, just off I-35, on the freeway.”
“I’ll let the proper authorities know.”
“Damn it, Waco, don’t get me busted. I’m not ready to quit this town.”
Susan Cross frowned. “What do you mean...not ready?”
Boone took a deep breath. He’d said the wrong thing, and like the bulldog she was, the captain had jumped on his slip of the tongue.
“I don’t mean anything,” he muttered.
“I told you to get laid and get over it,” she said sharply. “You damn well better not be messing around with some woman. It’ll all blow up in your face and you know it.”
“I’m not.” And then he muttered, more to himself than to her, “Besides, she’s not the laying type.”
The captain groaned. “Why couldn’t you go find some bimbo? What on earth possessed you to get mixed up with Snow White?”
Boone sighed. “It wasn’t by choice. I couldn’t help myself.”
“God help us all,” she groaned. “I ought to pull you out now, before you ruin the entire operation, and send Wayland in instead.”
“Like hell,” he said sharply, disconnecting before she could make any more threats.
An hour passed. Boone guessed he was no farther than five miles from the state line when his cell phone rang. The sound startled him. The only person who knew this number was...
“Waco?”
“You’ve been set up.”
Her words jolted through him like a bolt of heat lightning. Now it made sense. This was why Tommy Joe had been pulled off the run. But why would Denver risk losing this load?
“How did you find out?”
“Don’t question me, just listen. Where are you now?”
Boone gave his location.
“Good,” she muttered. “Then there’s still time to make the switch.”
“What switch?”
“You aren’t listening,” she said sharply.
He listened, and hours later, when he pulled into Re-Bob’s Boat Repair, he was driving a rickety old Jeep with a canoe tied on top. The meth was in backpacks under a tarp on the back seat, along with a motley assortment of camping equipment. It took less than fifteen minutes to do what he’d been sent to do, and when he was finished, he lit out of Dallas without looking back.
Just across the border into Oklahoma, he switched back to his own truck, thanking the pair of sheriff’s deputies who’d patiently waited for his return. But his truck wasn’t the only thing they traded. He headed toward Denver Cherry’s house with the payoff. A bag full of marked bills.
A new sun was just coming over the treetops as Boone pulled into Denver’s front yard. Denver came to meet him, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a sausage biscuit in the other. For once, he seemed amiable, even jovial.
