Page 16 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

Levi leaned forward, hands flat on the table, and his mask slipped. “Isn’t it?” he said. “You’re not the only one collecting data.”

I decided to take the bait. “You got a list of questions, Levi, or is this all improv?”

He smiled, which meant yes. “You ever fire a gun?”

I gave him a flat look. “This is Texas,” I said. “What do you think?”

“You’ve got trigger callus on your right hand. Looks like .40 cal, maybe nine.”

I looked at my hand, then at him. “I was ROTC for a while in college. Didn’t stick.”

Wyatt’s head whipped around. “You never told me that.”

“You didn’t ask,” I said.

Cordelia’s smile didn’t break, but her jaw clenched so hard I could almost hear her molars grind.

Harlan’s voice was a slow growl. “You carry on the property?”

I nodded. “Of course. Don’t you?”

Harlan sipped his bourbon, weighing the words. “If you’re here to make trouble, it’ll end badly. For everyone.”

“I’m just here to test the soil,” I said. “Anything else is way above my pay grade.” I was a trained liar. I’d done a lot of undercover work in the FBI.

A minute later, a knock echoed down the corridor. The door opened, and a new player entered. He was tall, thin, covered in the sort of oil and dust a man only accumulates by working machines older than himself. His beard was patchy and gray. He wore a blue chambray shirt, sleeves rolled high, and his jeans were dark with grease. He looked at the table, saw me, then made a small nod to Harlan. “Sorry to interrupt, boss. Mare in the foaling pen’s colicking. Bad.”

Harlan didn’t flinch. “Vet on the way?”

“Line’s busy,” the new guy said, voice like wind in a culvert. “Want me to try again?”

Harlan wiped his mouth and pushed back from the table. “Keep trying. Use the office line. If you don’t get through, send Bill.”

“Will do,” the new man said. He gave Cordelia a long look, then Wyatt, then me. His gaze was pale blue and unsentimental, and when it found me, I felt the calculation in it. He left the room with the same absence of noise he brought in.

“Otis is our handyman,” Cordelia said, her voice now syrupy with hospitality. “He fixes things. Keeps the place running.”

Wyatt topped off his glass.

Harlan stood, steadying himself on the cane, and nodded at the table. “Enjoy your meal. I’ll be back.”

Wyatt watched him walk out, but only until the door swung shut. The mood in the room softened, just a fraction. The bourbon moved down the table, and Levi poured a splash into his tea.

I forked another bite of roast, chewed, and said, “You run a tight ship.”

Wyatt grinned, then dropped the smile. “You get why, right? People want what we have. Always have.”

Levi said, “Wyatt’s worried you’ll sell us out to the highest bidder.”

I finished my tea and let the cold glass rest against my palm. “I’m not selling anything. I’m here to run some reports and turn them in. Buying and selling are in someone else’s hands.” I fixed Wyatt with a hard glare. “And if something happened to me they’d just hire someone else, probably with a bodyguard.”

Wyatt laughed loud. “Boy, ain’t that the truth.”

Cordelia stood, gathered plates, and said, “We’re done here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I stood, thanked the table, and turned to go.

As I hit the hallway, I caught a glimpse of Otis at the end, talking in low tones to Harlan. The handyman noticed me, eyes flickering once, and then he gave the smallest, sharpest nod.