Page 18 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

“That’s not what I hear,” he said. “The Bureau’s embedded. There’s an agent inside the Coleman ranch, been on task for almost a year, finally being given access to the real operation.”

This, I realized, was the true reason for the call. The rest was just preamble. “I see,” I said, careful to give away nothing.

He pressed. “I’m not asking you to do anything, Jennie. I’m just saying, if there’s ever a time you wanted to set things right, you know where to find me.”

I let my mind run wild for a split second, pictured every way I could set things right that didn’t involve Marcus breathing by the end of it. No, I didn’t want to kill him, but if he got fired in the process, all the better.

He continued, “The Agency believes the Maddox and Coleman crews are working together.”

He wanted me to panic. He wanted me to show my hand. I kept my voice even. “What do you want from me? I’m a civilian, Marcus.”

“That’s what makes you perfect. You know the land, the people. You have relationships. You’re in a unique position to help. You know you want to.”

“Goodbye, Marcus,” I said.

He hesitated, half a breath, then hung up.

I stood in the center of the Coleman guest room for a long minute, the phone heavy in my hand, the words replaying on a loop. Missing Lance. Undercover agent in Coleman, critical op. Maddox and Coleman, together. Me, in the crosshairs.

He hadn’t called because he was worried. He’d called because he was desperate. And that meant I had leverage. That meant there was a move to make.

I ran through every conversation, every piece of intel he’d dangled. They wanted to catch the Maddoxes and Colemans red-handed, but they didn’t know how. The embedded agent was still in the dark, or Marcus wouldn’t have called me. The feds were spooked. They were flailing. Which meant I had time. Not much, but enough.

Chapter 7: Reid

Gray was waiting at the end of the drive when I pulled up, coffee in hand, and a look on his face like he'd already accounted for everything that could go wrong today. My mind was three steps ahead, mapping trouble that hadn't happened yet, the same as Gray.

We were heading into Hollow Ridge for the monthly supply run, which used to be a one-man job, but now Calder made us go two at a time. “Just in case,” he’d said, which meant, “If you get shot, I want a witness.” Fair enough.

This early, the roads were empty, a couple of service vehicles and a van with a local church’s logo peeling off the side. We took the long route, which skirted the Coleman perimeter, but today the only thing moving was a jackrabbit, suicidal and fast, who made a mockery of the F-250’s brakes.

Gray said nothing, just flicked his eyes over, then back to the horizon.

The Hollow Ridge post office was a squat limestone bunker built to survive hurricanes and people in a hurry. Gray parked and killed the engine. For a second, we sat, letting the air con struggle to keep the cab from turning into a Dutch oven. He rolled his shoulder.

Inside, the place was packed, seven, maybe eight people, which was easily half the population of Hollow Ridge, all standing in a line that barely moved. There was the usual mix of retired ranch wives, a pair of migrant workers in from the orchard, and one pale kid with a cell phone glued to his face and earbuds stuck so deep he'd need a dentist to remove them.

The real attraction, though, was at the counter. Jennie Cardin, today in black jeans and a field shirt worn thin, stood squaring off against Bill Hargrove, the Coleman foreman. Bill was hard to miss, late sixties, rawboned, with a face I could have sanded wood with. His hands were gnarled and old, but he handled a rein with careful menace. He walked with a limp that didn’t slow him down, just made a person think twice about getting in his way.

Behind Bill, in a tight cluster by the wall, waited Harlan Coleman and Levi, the smarmy son. The old man wore a suit that probably cost more than my truck, and he leaned on his silver-topped cane like a prop in a melodrama.

The woman behind the counter, Dottie Crane, postmistress since the Carter Administration, watched the standoff with the bland patience of someone who’d seen this play before and knew exactly how long it would run.

We slid into the line. Gray, two steps behind me, kept his eyes on the floor and his mouth shut, but I knew he was mapping every angle, every tell in the room. I let my gaze wander, slow and steady, to see if anyone else was paying attention.

They were.

“Miss Cardin.” Hargrove’s voice was all gravel. “Been meaning to ask you something. We’ve got a perfectly good address out at the Coleman place. Best-known property in three counties. So, I’m curious what brings you to the post office.”

She kept her face smooth. “Picking up a package.”

“Sure. But why here?” He spread his hands, patient, like he was asking something reasonable. “You’re working on Coleman land. Eating Coleman food, most nights. You’d think shipping to the ranch would be the natural thing.”

“I like to keep my business separate,” she said. “Company policy.”

“Company policy.” He repeated it like he was chewing on something dry. “For a two-week survey job.”

She didn’t answer.