“Well, it’s not very funny, but these days that’s how some kids think.”
“Why did the note mention Cain?”
The deputy just shrugged. In dark brown pants and a beige uniform shirt with a Texas state badge on the sleeve, he was beanpole thin, his ears sticking out beneath a tan felt cowboy hat.
“Cain’s the richest guy around,” he said. “Maybe the kids just figured, Cain being in the trucking business and a friend of Joe’s, he’d be making you an offer.”
“That’s crazy. No way would a kid think something like that.”
The deputy just gave another shrug. “We might get prints. That could give us some answers. We’ll let you know if anything turns up.” The deputy helped her board up the window, then drove off in his white county sheriff’s pickup as if nothing of any importance had occurred.
It seemed so anticlimactic, Carly wished she hadn’t called.
By two o’clock she was back at the office. She told Donna about the break-in but asked her not to tell anyone else. The company was hanging on by a thread. She didn’t want to give the employees anything more to worry about.
By seven-thirty, everyone had gone home and Carly was completely wrung-out. She’d made a few more marketing calls, but Saturdays weren’t the best day to try to drum up business.
She was just packing up to leave when her cell phone rang.
“Hey, Carly, it’s Row. How you doin’, girl?” Rowena Drummond was another high school friend. They had reconnected since Carly’s return and were rapidly rebuilding their relationship.
Carly sighed into her cell phone. “I’ve had better days if you want the truth. I feel as beat as a pounded steak.”
Row laughed. “I’ve got a cure for that. My shift at the roadhouse ends in twenty minutes. Meet me there and I’ll buy your first beer.”
Besides her part-time job as a bookkeeper—the only work in the areaRowena had been able to find—she bartended at Jubal’s Roadhouse, a local joint a few miles out of town.
“I really shouldn’t,” Carly said. “I have to work tomorrow and I still haven’t got the house sorted out.” Which made her think of the break-in and the window that wouldn’t be fixed until Monday. She ignored a little chill.
“Come on, Carly. You can’t work all the time.”
She took a deep breath, slowly released it. God, a night to relax sounded so good. “You’re right. It’s Saturday night. Make it a shot of tequila and you’re on.”
Rowena chuckled. “You sure about that? As I recall, tequila makes your clothes fall off.”
Carly laughed. “It only happened once and it was a long time ago. I’ll see you in twenty.”
Jubal’s Roadhouse was one of Joe’s favorite hangouts. A lot of truckers went there after work for good cheap food and pitchers of beer.
She thought of the threatening note. The roadhouse could be a little rough sometimes and it was a ways out of town. But the Glock was under the driver’s seat of the pickup. If she was really worried, she could take the required courses and get a concealed carry permit.
She slung her purse over her shoulder. Was she really thinking about it? What had happened to the first-class flight attendant who spent too much on clothes, wouldn’t be caught dead without makeup, and had a standing appointment at the spa?
A lot had changed since she had come home, none of it good. Joe was gone. Miguel Hernandez was dead, her house had been broken into, and she was receiving threatening messages.
None of that mattered. She was back in Texas and she wasn’t leaving. Carly took a deep breath, thought of the gun in the truck, and walked out the door.
* * *
The buzz of raucous laughter and conversation was revving up by the time Carly got to the roadhouse. She settled herself on the bar stool nextto Rowena, a shapely, outspoken redhead just the opposite of shy, willowy Brittany, though all three of them were good friends.
After she’d left the yard, Carly had worked up her courage and stopped by the house to change. No intruder lurked inside as she pulled on a pair of dark blue skinny jeans with rhinestones on the back pockets, a red tank top that showed a little cleavage, then slid her feet into a pair of red cowboy boots.
Hey, it was Saturday night at the roadhouse. She might not have lived in Texas for the last few years, but nothing ever really changed.
She glanced at the bartender, a guy named Ricardo, a good-looking Latino with thick black hair and a sexy smile. He set the shot of Patrón that Row had ordered for her down on the bar, set a Jack and Coke down in front of Row.
“Salud,” he said with a grin, the Spanish version ofcheers.He had to be at least five years younger than Carly, but the black eyes that measured the shape of her breasts said he didn’t care.
