Page 6 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

"Good. Now," she said, back to business, "I looked over the lease again, and sent it to my lawyer. There's no chance of evicting them. The lease is airtight. Unless I can prove gross negligence or criminal activity, the Colemans get another three years, minimum." She sighed. "God forbid anything be easy." She softened. "You're doing well, Jennie. I knew I could count on you."

I slowed for a tractor pulling onto the road ahead of me. "Hey, it's my job. When I left the FBI and opened my own PI firm, this was what I signed up for." And Lacette was paying a premium to have me on her case, solo, until it was solved.

She paused, then said, "I owe you a drink when you're back. Top shelf."

Hell, yes. "Make it two." I paused for a second. "I think they're watching me more than they let on."

"That's good. It means you're getting close."

"Or they're about to set my truck on fire."

She snorted. "If it happens, film it. I'll add it to the file."

We signed off with another round of semi-fake pleasantries, and I spent a few minutes breathing in the truck's artificial coolness, sorting through what I'd learned.

The facts, The Colemans were tenants. The Beaumonts were the real owners, but powerless until the lease expired. The only way to force the issue was to catch the Colemans breaking the law or the terms of the lease. I wasn’t really sure if Lacette even wanted the land back, but she damn sure didn’t want anything illegal going on. The local cops were in the Colemans' pocket, the Feds didn't give a damn, and I was the only one out here who thought any of this was worth getting out of bed for.

I thought about the two ranch hands from earlier, how they'd sized me up and then forgotten me. I thought about the wolf.

There were two stories on this ranch. One was surface, old money, old grudges, a generational feud that showed up anywhere the land outlived the people. The other was buried deep, gnawing at the roots.

I would have to dig it up myself.

Chapter 3: Jennie

I'd kept to myself at the ranch for two and a half days since I’d talked to Lacette, but the drone disaster had forced my hand. I needed a PO Box for the replacement, somewhere official enough to satisfy a shipper but off the books for anyone who might be checking shipped boxes at the main house. Even in the age of instant delivery and two-day air, the post office was the only place in Hollow Ridge where I could send something no one else would see.

Assuming small-town postmasters didn't gossip. Which, I'd been here four days. I had no illusions.

The Hollow Ridge Post Office sat on the north end of the town’s only real street, wedged between a faded general store and a feed outlet whose signage advertised something called Red Chain in five-foot letters. The building was low and squat, a limestone block, with a front step grooved by a century of boots and the names of three former postmasters etched into the transom window. The only upgrades were a box fan in the window and a metal sign listing the hours, both clearly installed during the Carter administration. I parked the Ford out front, double-checked my pockets for my fake ID, and took a minute to compose my face.

Inside, it was only about ten degrees cooler than outside. The air conditioning was probably as old as the woman behind the counter, whose age could be measured only by counting tree rings or carbon dating. Her shirt was government blue, ironed within an inch of its life, and her belt buckle was a filigree of brass, big enough to stop a bullet. She wore her eyeshadow thick, and her smile was easy. When she saw me, she greeted me with a nod that managed to say both “welcome” and “I don’t know your mother’s maiden name and that’s odd.”

“Afternoon, miss,” she said. “I don’t reckon we’ve met. You passing through, or fixing to stick around?”

So much for me trying to blend in. I gave her the smile I reserved for customs officials and nosy notaries. “A little of both. I’m doing some work out at the Coleman place. I need a box for business deliveries. Name’s Jennie Cardin.”

"Cardin, sure," she said, and I watched as she tucked that into the portion of her brain reserved for names and cattle brands and who owed whom a favor. "I'm Dottie Crane. Been here since Eisenhower was president, or so my husband claims." She extended a hand over the counter, her grip both gentle and firm. The handshake was the first test. I passed.

She smiled again, even wider. “We can set you up,” Dottie said. “Only got the one box left, but it’s a good one. On the end, easy in, easy out. You got any papers on you?”

I produced the license. Dottie inspected it, then set it on the scanner with a flourish. “Welcome to Hollow Ridge, Ms. Cardin. How long you stayin’?”

I shrugged, which wasn’t a lie. “However long the survey takes. It may go quick, if the weather cooperates.”

Dottie nodded. “The rain’s coming in patches this year. Good for the hay, not so good for the cattle. You working cattle, or just dirt?”

“I’m all rock,” I said. “Soil sampling. Doing some digging around for an oil company on behalf of the owners.”

Dottie made a noise in her throat, a sound that might’ve been agreement or a warning shot. “Those east pastures have a stubbornness to them. You be careful out there,” she said, filling out the rental form in a slow, deliberate hand. She slid the paperwork across and handed me a pen so worn the logo was just a rumor. “You’ll need to sign here, here, and here. That last bit is in case of emergency, or you skip town with a stack of undelivered mail.”

I signed, hoping my cover name was spelled the same way every time. “How often does that happen?” I asked.

Dottie grinned, showing teeth that came only from a lifetime of strong coffee and stronger opinions. “Not since ’87, and that was mostly a misunderstanding.” She leaned in. “We keep close tabs on strangers, Ms. Cardin, but not to worry. If you mind your business, so will we.” She folded the form and then held up the tiny, stamped PO Box key.

“Box seventy-one. Out that way.” She pointed to a row of metal boxes so old they had thumb dents in the brass. “Mail comes in before noon, except Sundays and days when the county fair’s on. If you need to send, just leave it in the slot, and I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks,” I said, slipping the key into my pocket. “Do you need payment upfront?”