Page 47 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

"I always do," Midge said. "Now go change your boots, Navarro. You smell like fence work."

We spent the next hour clearing the table, sorting leftovers, and getting the kitchen back into fighting shape. Midge packed up a whole pan of the casserole for Buck, muttering under her breath about “men who don’t know how to text.” Tess re-braided her hair at the sink. Sloane did the dishes with tight-jawed focus and avoided everyone’s eyes. Ash sang along to a playlist on her phone, getting all the words wrong on purpose.

I went to the bathroom, washed my hands, and gave myself a second in the mirror. My hair had come undone in the heat, there was a smudge of something on my shirt. My eyes were red, not from tears but from three days of chasing leads and not enough sleep. I looked… normal, maybe.

When I came back out, Ash was already waiting by the door, boots tied tight, hat on and tilted just so. Tess and Midge had done the impossible and convinced Sloane to wear jeans instead of her usual all-black. Sloane looked annoyed, but she’d also changed her lipstick to a shade a hair more daring than her usual.

We loaded into Sloane’s truck. She drove, of course, with Tess up front. Midge, Ash, and I climbed in the back.

The drive into Hollow Ridge was nothing special, a strip of highway lit by dying sodium lights, roadkill armadillos every quarter mile, the shadows of fences stretching long over the dust. Sloane didn’t play music. Instead, she drove fast and straight, focused hard on the road.

Ash filled the silence. “So, what’s your poison, Cardin? You strike me as a gin and tonic type, but maybe you’re more of a beer snob?”

“Depends,” I said. “How bad is the beer?”

She laughed. “You’ll love the Showdown. They serve three things, cold beer, warm beer, and whatever Midge brings in her purse.”

Tess leaned back, voice soft but audible. “They make a decent margarita. If you tip the bartender enough, he’ll use actual tequila.”

“Noted,” I said.

Sloane said nothing, but I caught her glancing at me in the rearview. She had a look I recognized, weighing, judging, looking for any cracks in the armor.

We hit town in under fifteen minutes. Hollow Ridge wasn’t much, two main streets, the diner I’d been to a few times, a gas station, and a feed store. The Showdown sat on the edge of town, where the land dropped off toward the creek, and customers could park three rows deep without blocking anyone in.

The bar was exactly as advertised, a double-wide trailer with a plywood porch and a false front tacked on to fool no one. The Christmas lights ran year-round, flashing in time with a beat no one could hear. The music was loud enough to rattle the glass in the doors, and the air outside pulsed with the fug of cigarette smoke and spilled Shiner Bock.

Sloane found a parking spot near the entrance, locked up, and led the charge to the porch. Ash was right behind her, arm slung over my shoulder. Tess lagged, clutching her phone, tapping out a message before catching up.

We claimed seats near the dance floor, dropped bags on the empty chairs, and set to work. Ash flagged a waitress, ordered “a round of the usuals,” and looked to me for backup.

I said, “Whatever’s cold.”

The drinks arrived, beers, margaritas, and a whiskey neat for Midge. The noise was deafening, the air alive with the sound of boots on wood, laughter, and the cackle of an ancient karaoke machine on its last leg.

I’d never been a bar person, but this felt different. Nobody was trying to impress or seduce or hustle anyone. The regulars eyed us, sure, but there was no edge to it. Just curiosity, the way people watch a lightning storm.

Midge raised her glass. “To surviving another Monday,” she said.

We all drank.

Ash leaned in, voice at my ear. “So, Jennie, give us your backstory. Where you from, what makes you tick?”

It was such an honest question that I almost laughed. I told as much of the truth as I could.

“Houston,” I said. “Moved a lot. Did the college thing, then worked a desk job. Didn’t like it.” That was true. Next, I went into the FBI, though I didn’t mention that.

Tess sipped her margarita. “What did you want to do, if you didn’t like the job?”

I shrugged. “Didn’t know, really. Just wanted to solve things. Take things apart and see how they worked.”

Sloane cut in. "That's why you're good at, ah, what you’re doing now." Presumably Reid had told her about my real purpose on the Coleman ranch.

I nodded. “I like the puzzle. Not the paperwork.”

Midge laughed. “You’re in the right line of work, then.”

Ash wanted more. “You got any weird hobbies?” She dropped her voice. “Or is the spy stuff enough?”