Page 8 of Trigger Happy

My burner vibrates in my pocket, and I fish it out with bloody gloves, holding the empty limoncello bottle with my teeth.

Onyx: New Contract Available: Partner Assignment

“Partner?” I mumble around the bottle. “Better be a good payout if I have to work with someone. Let’s see what you’ve got for me.”

Onyx is more secure than a president’s phone, so I unlock it with my face, do the two-factor authentication, and enter a ten-digit pin, which I get wrong. Three times.

“Can’t remember the damn password,” I mutter at the spinning screen.

It takes me ten minutes to reset it, and a hell of a lot of cursing. Once I’m in, I skim past the details until my eyes land on the payout. Six figures. Four weeks. Lodging provided. Awesome. Then I check the location of the job and groan.

Benson, Wyoming.

There are some true, honest ranchers in Wyoming, but you won’t find them there. Benson is where millionaires fly into their third homes to play cowboy dress-up; it’s all mechanical bulls, no cattle. But the payout is come-in-your-Wranglers good, so I click accept. I’ll figure out the details later.

I’m cramming what’s left of the dead arsonist into the feeding trough when Ma comes back out with a gallon of quicklime. The pigs all run to her. “Here you go, hun.”

I kiss the top of her bandana. “Thanks.”

She wipes her hands on her floral apron. It’s the one I got for her birthday last year with tiny bluebonnets. Gray curls poke out of her bandana as she gives me a once-over, her eyes lingering on the empty limoncello bottle in my hand.

She crosses her arms but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. Ma’s got X-ray vision when it comes to bullshit.

I toss the bottle in the barn trash, soaking up the sound of crunching glass. “Sorry, I’ll be better.”

Her eyes narrow. “Did you eat breakfast this morning?”

I can hear what she’s really saying, Are you okay? A couple of months ago on Walker’s birthday, she found me passed out on his gravestone, so I don’t blame her. “I’m good, Ma. I had a big breakfast.”

“What’d you have?”

I throw a severed foot in the trough. Dead guy’s got nasty feet. “I had some avocado toast. Two pieces. Swear I’m good.”

“Avocado toast? That’s an insult to guacamole,” she bursts out, shaking her head. “You and your father… I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve had avocado toast. You see how many fingers I’m holding up?”

Her hands stay on her hips.

“Zero fingers, Ma.” I never should have mentioned the toast. She thinks avocados should only be served with pico de gallo. “Can we talk about overpriced toast later? I need to finish feeding the pigs.”

Her lips purse. “Why don’t you put down the chainsaw, get out in the garden, and pick some fresh cilantro for the quesadillas? Did you see how much it’s grown?”

“Gardening doesn’t do it for me. I’d rather imagine taking this chainsaw to Chastain’s mom and—”

“Don’t talk about that woman,” she bites out.

Her eyes water, and I hate making her cry, so I wrap her in a hug.

“All right, I won’t,” I say, kissing her cheek before letting her go. “We can talk about how you’ve got enough cilantro to fill this barn with guacamole.”

She smiles. “I wrote that in my gratitude journal this morning.”

“Huh. Maybe I was doing it all wrong when you told me to give it a shot. I wrote, I’m grateful my target’s neck was small enough for me to fit my hands around.”

“That’s my sweet boy.” She tosses a severed finger to one of the pigs.

Her brown eyes, which are a shade lighter than mine, search my face. I smile for her, even though it’s hard. That’s what she needs. Smiles, it’s okays. I don’t know what I need, but it’s not a goddamn smile.

She pinches my cheek. “Hurry up. Dinner’s almost ready, and I’m making a side of fresh, honest-to-god guacamole. No more avocado toast.”