Page 5 of Ransom
And now I was going to have to give him to Coyote.
God dammit. Why'd you have to go and run your damn mouth, Winston?I sighed and glanced at his hat. At least it'd go with the boots.
"Cartel would've taken the boots," I said. "Robber would've too. Whoever did this wasn't hungry."
"No," he said. "They weren't. I know that much." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, water still in his eyelashes, and I looked at the boot in my hands instead. "What I don't know is why you care."
"Who says I do?"
"You put a dead man on your horse and carried him all the way here," he pointed out.
I sighed. "This is my land. Somebody crossed a line and left a message on it. I don't like people leaving messages on my land."
"And."
"And I liked the judge. He wasn't a good man. But he was a fair one, which is rarer." I held his gaze. "Whoever killed him is going to find out this land has a long memory."
Winston broke into a wide grin. "Rafe said you'd be helpful. He wasn't wrong."
"Thanks."
"He neglected to mention you were handsome."
"Rafe's half blind in one eye," I said.
He laughed, just a little, just enough. "At any rate, I appreciate the hospitality. Could do with a worse view."
I snorted.
"Come on. That was a good line."
"It ever worked before?"
"First time I tried it."
"Well, you better work on it," I said and dropped into the only other chair in the building.
The rain came down. The stove ticked. I looked at Winston Valverde across the table and thought about the Glock on the shelf behind him, three feet from my hand and four from his. I could have it before he stood up. I didn't move.
It was such a shame he couldn't keep his damn nose out of Pae Saco's business.
A damn cryin' shame.
I couldn't stop lookingat him.
The rain hit the roof like a handful of gravel thrown by God. I was wearing a dead man's boots, sitting in the room next to his corpse. Something about that should've bothered me. Instead, I couldn't stop thinking about his hands.
Ransom kept his hands flat on the table where I could see them and stared out the window. I knew that look. My daddy taught me to read it before Young County took him off my hands for good, and I'd had occasion to practice since. He was deciding on something violent, but hadn't yet landed on an answer.
The wood smoke was thick enough to taste, and the shack was the kind of small where you breathed the other person in. I'd driven four hours from my crappy apartment in El Paso, walked into a murder scene, and ended up here, across from this, with my pulse kicking hard at the base of my throat.
I'd be lying if I said the thought hadn't crossed my mind on the walk down. Rafe had told me the man was unattached and unfriendly, and I'd have to work for whatever I got out of him.He hadn't told me about the cut of Ransom's jaw and the way the stubble sat on it like a shadow. He hadn't said a word about the eyes — pale blue, the cold end of the spectrum, set deep enough that they read as a warning before they read as a color. He hadn't told me about the way he handled a horse like he was born to it. Sure as hell hadn't mentioned those hands and how badly I might want them on me.
I shifted in the chair, and my boots creaked. Ransom looked up for half a second and back at the window.
A rifle sat propped against the wall two inches from his right hand. He'd put it there casually when we entered, like it belonged there. I'd caught the scope glint off the ridge on my way down to look at the body and figured I'd take my chances. At the time, part of me had wondered if Rafe sent me out there hoping Ransom would take the shot. I wondered what Rafe would make of him choosing not to.
I stood and crossed the room, but the weight of Ransom's gaze didn't fall on me until I picked the rifle up.
