Riding High

by Stacy Finz

  “Hi, Flynn.” Grace Miller, who owned the feedstore with her husband, Earl, waved from the front counter.

  “Hey, Grace. How you doing?” The problem with small towns was you lost a lot of time exchanging pleasantries. Not a whole lot he could do about it. Unlike Sacramento, where capital workers were brusque and always in a rush, incivility in the country was a hanging offense. Everyone stopped to make small talk. “How’s Earl?”

  “He’s out back if you’d like to say hello.”

  Flynn suspected the barbed wire was also outside. “I’ll do that,” he said and made a beeline for the nursery. In back, there were a series of smaller Quonset huts where they kept hay, bags of grain, and building supplies. Nothing like a lumber store, but enough for small jobs.

  Earl was directing workers unloading feed sacks off a semitruck with a forklift. He waved to Flynn, who walked over.

  “Delivery day?”

  “Yep. How are things over at Rosser Ranch?”

  “Good. Just have a couple of fences to mend and came over to get some barbed wire, fence posts, and a bag of concrete mix.”

  “You should find everything you need over there.” Earl pointed to one of the buildings, too preoccupied with the delivery to chitchat, which was fine by Flynn. “Let me know if you can’t find what you need.”

  “Will do.” But Flynn found it all, loaded it on a flat cart, and paid at the register.

  “How’s your ma, Flynn?” Grace asked as she ran his credit card.

  “Good. I think she’ll be here next week for farmers’ market.”

  “We’d love her to join our cooking group, the Baker’s Dozen. Now that we’ve got a commercial kitchen . . .”

  “She might be interested.” His mother was a good cook and as far as he knew didn’t belong to any cooking clubs in Quincy. It was just that in the winter getting to Nugget in the snow could be hairy. He didn’t like his mother driving in bad conditions. “I’ll tell her to call you.”

  “You do that.”

  He loaded his supplies in the bed of his truck and drove back to Rosser Ranch. First spot was along the highway. Flynn pulled into a turnout and restrung new barbed wire where the old had come loose, then moved on to the next weak spot. That one required a new post and he mixed the cement in a spare bucket, using water from a tank he kept in the back of the truck for the cattle. It was mindless work and for this one he turned on his truck radio to the local country station, humming along to a Dixie Chicks song.

  The work took longer than he’d thought it would. But by four he’d got it done. Next, he decided to drive over to the stable, return some emails from his laptop, and make sure things were running smoothly at the office. Then he’d feed Dude and head back to Quincy, maybe pick up dinner at the little Mexican joint in Cromberg. At the ranch he stayed in a small efficiency apartment. It didn’t have much of a kitchen. Although welcome to eat dinner with his parents in the main house, he usually saved that for Sunday nights and family gatherings, when his brother, Wes, his wife, and the kids came over.

  He found a shady spot by the barn and pulled his laptop from the backseat. The computer automatically signed onto the ranch’s Wi-Fi; evidently Flynn had used it before. He scrolled through his emails, deleting the junk ones and opening those that seemed important. Wes wanted to discuss buying a new bull. A good breeding bull with the right lineage cost a pretty penny. They could weigh the pros and cons over a couple of beers. The two brothers were close, but between work, running cattle, and life, there was little time for hanging out. He returned the message, suggesting a couple nights that week for a get-together, and was about to go on to the next email when someone tapped on his window. He looked up to see Gia and opened his door.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Catching up on work. Thought I’d hang out long enough to feed Dude his dinner, then go back to Quincy.”

  “I’ll feed him for you. Just hay, right?”

  It was tempting. He could do his work from home. “I’m already here and don’t want to take advantage. You’ve been feeding him for me quite a bit as it is.”

  On the days he didn’t come, she handled Dude. Although he provided hay, it wasn’t a fair trade because he got board too. He could always pay Clay’s kids to do the feeding before and after school.

  “It’s no big deal to throw him a flake when I’m feeding Rory,” she said. “Around five, right?”

  A few days ago she’d wanted to shoot him with the Winchester. Now she seemed to want to be his friend. He assumed it had to do with him booting Jeff and the other agent off her property. That had just been a defense-attorney reflex. Next time he wasn’t getting involved.

  “That’s all right.” He held up the computer in his lap. “I need to get this done.” Hell, maybe she wanted him off her property so she could dig up her money. Donna was a kook, but she might be on to something.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “I didn’t realize cattle required computer work.”

  “It does.” Tons of it. Everything from breeding and birth records to profit-and-loss statements. It was like any other business. “This is for my other job.”

  “What’s that?” she wanted to know.

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  She jerked her head in surprise. “You are?”

  Yeah, lady, I graduated first in my class from Stanford. He rolled his eyes.

  “Uh, I just meant . . . I thought you . . . you know . . .”

  “That I herded doggies,” he mocked.

  “What kind of lawyer?”

  “Estate and corporate.” He left out the criminal defense part. Now that she knew, she’d look him up on the Internet anyway.

  “Where do you practice . . . uh, besides your truck?” That little bite was back, like she was embarrassed that he’d put one over on her.

  “Sacramento.”

  “Is that how you knew those FBI agents?”

  “Yes. How’d you know they were FBI?”

  “They left their cards on my door. They’ve been calling ever since.”

  “My advice to you is that you don’t talk to them without representation.” And here he was, sticking his nose in it again.

  “I thought that once the grand jury didn’t indict me it would be over.” There was a weariness in her voice that tugged at him.

  “You want it straight?” He studied her face. “Until the authorities find Evan Laughlin it’ll never be over, Gia. Get yourself an attorney.”

  “You think I was involved, don’t you?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m going to say it again . . . a lawyer, Gia. Get yourself a good lawyer.”

  “I wasn’t involved and they’ll never find Evan because—”

  “Stop! There is no privilege here.” He wagged his hand between them. “We are not attorney-client. Anything you tell me could eventually be used against you.”

  She shot him a menacing glare. “I’m innocent! Try using that against me.” Gia turned back to the house in a huff.

  Guess they weren’t going to be friends after all.

  Chapter 6

  That was the last time Gia would try to be nice to Flynn. She thought they’d reached a turning point when he’d run the FBI agents off her ranch. Clearly his lawyer genes had just kicked in. He probably thought he’d get sued for malpractice if he didn’t do it. In the future she planned to steer clear of him. Gia had had about as much judgment as she could take.

  Obviously there was no controlling what people thought of her, but for sanity’s sake she wanted to avoid the haters. Nugget was all about peace and safety and finding friends who were trustworthy. Men, it just so happened, were very low on that list.

  In the house she showered and changed into a pair of designer jeans, a white blouse, and a fitted blazer. Residents in Nugget didn’t dress up the way they did in Manhattan to go out. Still, Gia saw no reason not to clean up and at least look somewhat fashionable. She was meeting Harlee and Darla, the local hairstylist, a
t the Ponderosa for happy hour. Dana had introduced them last summer, when Gia had been looking for land. Dana would’ve come too, but she was busy with wedding stuff.

  She did one last check in the mirror before leaving and made the fifteen-minute ride to town. There was a parking space right in front of the restaurant, something so foreign to a New Yorker that it made her want to auction the spot off to the highest bidder. Inside the Ponderosa, country-western music played on the jukebox and Harlee and Darla waved excitedly from a table across the dining room. The place was full and a few diners stared and whispered as she made her way back.

  “That felt like walking the gauntlet,” she said as she plopped down in one of the chairs.

  Darla immediately poured her a margarita from an icy pitcher. “They’re just curious . . . you being new and all, right, Harlee?”

  “Of course.”

  They all knew that was a lie, but it was generous of Darla and Harlee to try to spare her the humiliation of being a suspected criminal in her new home. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  “When do I get the story?” Harlee prodded.

  Like everyone else last summer, Harlee had found out that Gia was the mysterious T Corporation. Being an intrepid reporter, she’d planned to rush the scoop to print. Instead, Gia had offered her a deal. An exclusive interview—the first one since the shit hit the fan—as soon as the criminal investigation cooled down. In return, Harlee had promised to hold off writing anything. Because of the death threats, Gia hadn’t wanted the public to know where she was moving. Still didn’t.

  “I’d give it to you now,” Gia said, “but the FBI has started snooping around in my life again. They came to Rosser Ranch the other day.”

  Harlee and Darla moved in closer so their heads were nearly touching.

  “What do you think they want?” Harlee asked.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing they’re looking for Evan and they think I know where he is.”

  “Do you?” Harlee asked.

  “Of course not.” Gia’s voice rose above the music. “If I knew, I’d bring him in myself.”

  Harlee held up her palms. “Sorry, but I had to ask.”

  “Flynn says I need a lawyer.”

  “Flynn’s a lawyer; hire him,” Darla said.

  “Wrong kind.” Not that she would hire him anyway. Gia took a fortifying slug of her margarita. It was so icy it gave her brain freeze. “He prepares wills and living trusts.”

  “He used to be an FBI agent.” Darla refilled Gia’s glass.

  Gia’s stomach knotted. FBI? Oh boy. It all made sense now. That was how he’d known the agents who’d come to the ranch. It had nothing to do with him being an estate lawyer. Ah Jesus. The FBI had made her life a living hell and he was probably an informant for them. A snitch.

  Anything you tell me could eventually be used against you.

  “How do you know that?” Harlee asked Darla.

  “He came in last month for a trim and mentioned it.”

  Gia knew Darla and her father’s barbershop was gossip central.

  “Maybe he could help you,” Harlee said.

  He’d made it pretty clear he wanted to do just the opposite. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then you’d better get someone. Someone good.”

  Fat chance finding a top criminal defense attorney in Nugget. The town had a population of roughly six thousand people, mostly ranchers, railroad workers, and small-business owners. Not a lot of white-collar crime here, at least not that Gia knew of.

  “You know anyone?” she asked Harlee, who’d been a big-time reporter in San Francisco before buying the Tribune.

  “I could make a few calls.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” In the meantime, Gia would call her old attorney for a reference. Even though he could continue to represent her, his services cost an arm and a leg, and it would be better to have someone in California now that she lived here.

  A server came and the girls ordered nachos with the works, potato skins, an order of chicken wings, and another pitcher of margaritas. Gia could barely eat. She was too sick over the latest revelation about Flynn. It was like having a spy on her property. Even though she had nothing to hide, it was an invasion of her privacy. Her life had already been examined under a microscope. By the feds, the press, the grand jury, and the public. She’d moved here to find solitude because she couldn’t take anymore. Flynn might be in private practice now, but he’d been part of the agency that had helped tear her life apart.

  The thought weighed so heavily on her that she could barely sleep that night, and the next morning she knew exactly what she had to do. After a quick shower she searched through her contact list to find Flynn’s cell number, called him, and got his voice mail.

  “This is Gia. I’m not sure if you’re coming to the ranch today, but I need to talk to you as soon as possible. Please call me.” She left both her cell and home numbers.

  After pouring a cup of coffee she headed to the stables, hoping to run into Flynn there. Trading today was out of the question; not when she felt so blindsided. Realistically, Flynn didn’t owe her any information about himself. But it seemed that he’d gone out of his way to withhold his background from her. After Evan she only wanted to surround herself with people who were absolutely trustworthy.

  There was no sign of Flynn at the barn so she threw both horses flakes of hay and returned to the house. At noon, tired of waiting, she jumped on her computer and found the number for his law office in Sacramento, called it, and asked for Flynn.

  “He’s in court today. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Will he come back to the office after court?”

  “Yes, he has a four o’clock appointment.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll try back later.”

  Better yet, she’d surprise him with a visit . . . confront him about the whole thing. Lay down some ground rules. She jotted down his office address, changed into something more suitable for the city, and made the three-hour trip to Sacramento. She’d never been to the state’s capital, but it was a cakewalk to maneuver compared to Manhattan. There was even a parking lot.

  Flynn’s building was old but well maintained. She took the elevator in the lobby to the fourth floor. His office, which had two other attorneys listed on the door, occupied the entire space.

  A woman with a gray bob and soft blue eyes greeted her at the front desk. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Flynn Barlow.”

  “Uh, do you have an appointment?” She started scrolling through her computer monitor and Gia considered telling her she was Flynn’s four o’clock.

  “No. He runs his cattle on my ranch . . . an emergency has popped up.”

  “Oh my.” The woman, who according to her desk plate was Doris, glanced at the clock. “He should be back from court any second but has a meeting.” She pointed at a glass conference room where a distinguished middle-aged man sat. Gia hadn’t noticed him when she first came in.

  “That’s okay. I’ll wait.”

  “But if it’s an emergency—”

  Doris didn’t finish her sentence because Flynn came through the door.

  He was in a suit and tie and carried an expensive briefcase. Gia tried to distinguish him from the faded-Levi’s, Stetson-wearing cowboy. As much as she hated to admit it, both looks suited him well. He was without a doubt an extraordinarily handsome man, even if he was a duplicitous one.

  “Gia?” He did a double take.

  “There’s been an emergency with the cattle,” Doris said. “You want me to cancel your four o’clock?”

  A flush crept up Gia’s neck. She could feel the heat like a sunburn. It wasn’t an emergency with the cattle, though she’d sort of intimated that it was. Out of guilt she said, “It’s not that big of an emergency. Go ahead with your meeting. I’ll wait.”

  He put down his briefcase and folded his arms over his chest. “Exactly what kind of an emergency?”

 
; “It’s more of an emergency between you and me,” she said and gave him a moment for it to sink in. I know who you are . . . or used to be.

  He scrubbed his hand through his hair. He knew she knew. “You drove all the way here for that?”

  “You should’ve told me, Flynn.” She tried to rise to his height, but even in her three-inch heels he dwarfed her.

  “It’s on my website, Gia. All you had to do was look. Why don’t you go home while you still have sunlight and we can talk about this later?” He glanced at the conference room and gave the man inside the one-minute sign.

  “I’ll wait.” She needed to get this off her chest.

  “Suit yourself.” Flynn picked up the briefcase and went inside the conference room. She watched him take off his jacket and hang it on the back of a chair.

  Doris, whose interest had been piqued, asked if Gia wanted a drink.

  Yeah, a good stiff one. “A glass of water would be nice.”

  Doris got her the water and Gia wandered the office, examining the artwork—Western scenes of cowboys and cattle. She read Flynn’s bio: the one she should’ve memorized on his website. It really was a nice office. Tasteful and masculine without being stuffy or overly muscular.

  A man came out from behind a closed door. Unlike Flynn, he was wearing jeans and a golf shirt. Truth be told, he looked sloppy. The shirt was loose and Gia suspected he was trying to cover his prodigious gut. It wasn’t working. The jeans were saggy and his tennis shoes looked well worn. He turned and gave her a once-over. Not in a disrespectful way, but like he recognized her.

  “Hey, you’re Gia Treadwell. I love . . . used to love . . . your show. How you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  He smiled at her with tobacco-stained teeth, the grin so warm and genuine she couldn’t help but be drawn in. “You waiting for the big guy?”

  She presumed he meant Flynn and nodded.

  “I’m Toad.” He stuck his hand out for a shake.