Very hard.
Chapter 12
Elisa clutched the door handle as Del swung into the parking space next to Captain Matheson’s forest-green pickup. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon, but already a half dozen cars, along with at least as many Harley-Davidson motorcycles, littered the lot outside The Last Buck Saloon, their owners presumably inside. Above the door, a neon cowboy tipped his hat with each kick of his mount’s hind legs and bold green letters flashed Open.
“You are sure Eduardo came here?” she asked, climbing out of the Rover doubtfully. Broken glass crunched beneath the sole of her shoe. A woman with sunken eyes studied them from the street corner, tugging her pink tube top up and her silver miniskirt down. Despite Elisa’s suspicions about Eduardo, she could not picture him choosing this place to spend his free time.
“According to one of the other security guards at the warehouse,” Del said. “He and Eduardo stopped by for some beers after work, and the people here seemed to know Eduardo.”
The other rangers had already started for the bar. Del hung back. “You don’t have to go inside.”
“I wish I did not.” She wished she did not have to face the truth about the man she had planned to marry, the father of her child, but she was part of what was happening to Del now. She belonged at his side. “But I knew Eduardo. You did not. I might be able to make sense of something he said, or did, when you could not.”
He gave her a second to change her mind, then nodded and guided her toward the door with his hand resting casually in the small of her back. It was a comfortable, reassuring gesture. Nothing remotely sexual about it. And yet Elisa’s spine tingled beneath his fingertips as they walked into the seedy bar full of men who had little left to lose. His touch felt thoroughly male, primitively possessive, a silent warning to the beer-bellied bikers tucked into a booth in the corner and the wiry winos at the bar that she belonged to him.
Del nudged Elisa toward the table Kat and Clint had taken in the middle of the room. The captain was already at the bar, showing a picture of Eduardo to a bearded man who was wiping shot glasses down with a stained towel.
“You know this man?” Matheson asked.
“No.” The bartender never looked up from his drying.
“Maybe you want to try that again,” the captain said, leaning close to the bartender. “This time actually look at the picture before you answer.”
“Don’t gotta look. I make it a point not to know no one here. No faces. No names. Nada. Especially when it’s a cop doing the asking.”
Del held Elisa’s chair until she sat, then joined the captain at the bar. “Well, would you look at that? A psychic bartender. He knew you were a Texas Ranger before you even showed him your badge, Bull.”
“Texas Ranger?” The man set down the last shot glass and ambled a few feet down the bar. Del followed. “Don’t care if you’re freaking Canadian Mounties. I don’t talk to cops.”
He slung his towel down on the bar and began wiping. Quick as a snake, Del grabbed it, whipped it around the man’s neck and used it to pull him down. “Then you won’t have any problem talking to me. I’m not a cop. Not anymore.”
The bartender tried to rear back. Del held him down.
The bikers in back got to their feet. Clint reached beneath his jacket, pulled out a shiny pistol and laid it on the table, all without turning to look at the approaching gang. “Take a powder, boys. We don’t have any beef with you. Yet.”
The bikers shuffled back to their booth.
The bartender rolled his bulging gaze up to Matheson. “You crazy? You’re cops. You can’t let him do this!”
Matheson looked over to the table. “You hear somebody say something, Hayes?”
“Nah. Nobody in here talks to cops.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” The captain leaned across the bar, filled a glass with tap water and carried it to the table, leaving the photograph behind.
Del wound his towel noose in one fist and reached for the picture. He had such a ferocious look on his face that Elisa might have thought she had been right about policía after all—they were all bad—if she hadn’t seen him let a half an inch of cloth slide through his hand when the bartender gasped. Del had no intention of hurting anyone. Elisa just hoped the bartender did not know that.
He held Eduardo’s picture in front of the barkeep’s eyes. “Try again. You know this man?”
“Geez! You’re the crazy cop who shot him, aren’t you?”
Del tightened his grip. “You figure it out.” Del tightened his grip. “Might want to be quick about it, though. Before you run out of air.”
The bearded man swore. “So he came in here to drown his troubles. So what?”
Elisa shifted nervously in her seat. Now they were getting somewhere.
A woman wearing a white half apron with a frayed hem and carrying a round serving tray stepped out of the kitchen into the barroom. She was short, maybe five foot four and rail thin. Bleached blond hair spilled out of the clip that held a brittle ponytail off the back of her neck. She walked by Del without a second look, as if men strangled the bartender in here every day.
“Get you some drinks?” Her pen poised over a blank pad, she looked down at the table through eyes as worn as a set of bald tires.
“I’d like a cherry cola,” Kat chirped.
At the bar Del narrowed his eyes at his unwilling informant. “Who did Garcia come in with?”
“Nobody. He sat alone, most nights.”
“What about when he didn’t? You got names?” Del gave the towel a little yank.
The barkeep snarled. “No. You got more pictures?”
“Nothing for me,” Clint told the waitress, watching the show with amusement. Her gaze caught on the pistol sitting in plain view. He just smiled at her.
Bull Matheson tipped his water glass at her. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“He say anything?” Del asked the bartender. “Talk about his work? Women? Politics? Religion?”
“No, man. He was real quiet. Now get the hell off me!”
“Give me reason.”
A string of curses sizzled in the air. “He used the phone sometimes, man. The pay phone in the hall. That’s all I know.”
Del let go of the towel so suddenly the man’s head almost hit the bar. He started toward the table. The bartender glared at his back a moment, then went back to work wiping down the bar. Or at least spreading the filth more evenly.
Del pulled a chair next to the captain. “What do you think our chances are of getting the records on that phone?”
Matheson frowned. A lock of black hair fell over his forehead. “I can try. It’ll take a warrant.”
Clint holstered his weapon and leaned forward. “Gene might be able to help. Surely there’s a judge or two that owes him a favor. And he sure owes you one.”
Del rubbed his left thigh. “That was a long time ago.”
“Man doesn’t forget when someone saves his life.”
“It’s the only lead we’ve got,” Kat said.
Del took a deep, considering breath. “All right. Ask him.”
The waitress brought out Kat’s cherry cola and then walked to the bar. As she passed, she stopped to look at the picture of Eduardo Del had left there. Was it Elisa’s imagination, or did the woman’s shoulders tighten?
A moment later she tossed the picture down with her serving tray and hurried down the hall toward the bathroom.
Leaving the rangers to their strategizing, Elisa followed.
She found the woman bent over a sink, splashing water on her face. “Are you okay?”
The waitress started as if she had not heard Elisa come in. “I…I’m fine.”
“Did you recognize the man in that picture?”
Subtle tension gathered again in the woman’s body. “Lalo? Sure. He is—was—a regular here.”
Elisa frowned, not sure how to proceed. Interrogation was not a skill she had practiced. She was not sure if the woman li
ed or was sincere. But something bothered her….
“Did you know him well?” she tried.
The woman shrugged, grabbed a paper towel and patted her face dry. “I served him drinks and sympathy, just like every other guy in here.”
“Sympathy for what?”
“Look, I gotta get back to work.” She threw her rumpled towel in an overflowing can.
Elisa opened her mouth to ask another question, but the bathroom door popped open. Kat came in, and the waitress left.
“Elisa, are you okay?” Kat asked. “Del was worried about you. He thought you might be…you know…sick.”
Still thinking about the waitress, she said, “I am not sick.”
“Well, that’s good. I told him you were probably fine, but he insisted I come in here and check.” Kat squeezed her shoulders up toward her ears. “It was kind of cute, actually. Seeing the tough guy all worried about you.”
To Elisa, thoughts of Del and “cute” were incongruous. He could be primitively male, intense, dangerous, even seductive. But not cute.
“Look, I never got to tell you how neat I think it is that the two of you—”
Suddenly Elisa was tired of the lies. The pretense. “You know he only married me because he thought it was his duty.”
“Duty-schmooty,” Kat said. “I think it’s all about ego. Men just can’t stand to admit they might be slightly less than perfect.”
“You sound as if you speak from experience.”
“Boy, how.”
Elisa wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but she took it as a yes. “So who is this not-so-perfect man in your life?”
Her gaze on the floor, Kat toed the tile. “Let’s just say he’s someone whose sense of duty would be much happier if I was a sheep herder in Nova Scotia instead of a Texas Ranger.”
Interesting. But before she could ask another question to narrow down the possibilities for Kat’s love interest, a knock sounded on the bathroom door.
Del poked his head in. With a look, he sent Kat on her way. “You okay?” he asked when they were alone.
She nodded.
“Good. Then let’s roll. We’ve got all we’re going to get here.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and the pay phone records will show Eduardo rang right through to Sanchez’s private number.”
It was the first thing she’d said in fifteen miles. Del took his eyes off the road long enough to look at her, and cursed himself. She was pale. She hadn’t eaten all day. She probably needed a nap.
And yet she was making jokes for his benefit. Only, there was nothing funny about this situation, and they both knew it.
“And maybe Santa Claus will bring me a new life for Christmas this year.” He hated that he sounded so pathetic.
She rested her head on the back of the seat. “Make it two. One for each of us.”
“Only if I still get to know you,” he said softly.
She rolled her head toward him. “Not everything about this life is so bad.”
“No. Not everything.”
“If you can find Eduardo’s accomplices, will it be enough?”
“If Eduardo was involved.” It galled him to know that the evidence that might clear him would also prove Elisa had been betrayed by someone she cared about. The father of her child. “It might. But there are no guarantees.”
They’d made a good run at clearing his name, but what chance did a handful of rangers and one Amazon princess really have at cracking an international arms conspiracy in less than twenty-four hours?
Knowing he might not have much time with her created a poignant ache in him. He studied her, trying to memorize the elegant shape of her nose, the proud angles of her cheeks. The twenty-four hours Mr. Baseball had given him were almost gone. If Del was going to jail tomorrow, his last night of freedom ought to be one worth remembering.
She caught him watching her. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing. You’re perfect.” He knew how he wanted to spend the evening. The question was, did she want the same thing?
She smiled self-consciously. “Where are we going?”
“Depends. You feeling tired, or are you up for a little fun and entertainment?”
“I am fine. The fatigue is not so bad as it used to be.”
On impulse, he turned south on MacArthur Boulevard. “Then I think it’s high time I introduced you to an old Texas tradition. Barbecue.”
The Spit-n-Hole looked like a condemned barn on the outside. The inside was even worse. Dusty portraits of famous breeding horses decorated the plank walls. Patrons sat on rough-hewn benches tucked up under the sheets of plywood spanning sawhorses that served as tables. No two plates matched, half the silverware was plastic and the sauce was served in recycled ketchup bottles, but the barbecue was the best in the state. Even on a week night they waited twenty minutes for a table.
“Are you sure about this place?” Elisa asked dubiously as she took her seat in a wobbly chair.
“Positive.”
A waitress in a red-and-white-checked blouse, white shorts and white cowboy boots, appeared beside them, menus in hand. Before Elisa could take one, Del said, “We’ll have the large meat-eater’s platter, corn on the cob and baked beans. A root beer for me, and milk for the lady.”
The waitress scuffed away, and Elisa raised an eyebrow at his presumptuousness. “Eat here often?”
“Every chance I get. You mind?”
“I’ll let you know after I taste it.”
Del didn’t sweat that. One bite, and he figured the Spit-n-Hole would have another convert.
He was right. Bliss on her face and barbecue sauce on all ten fingers, Elisa ate half the sliced beef and more than her share of the pork ribs.
As they gorged themselves, they talked about her twin brothers, Miguel and Raul, and his brother, Sam, though that topic was too sad to linger on for long. Del told her about riding horses on his grandparents’ farm as a kid. Elisa regaled him with the story of the time she’d tried to ride a pack burro. With every anecdote, she enchanted him more. By the end of the evening, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“That was wonderful,” she said, wiping the last of the sauce from her lips with a rumpled napkin. “But I don’t think it was listed in my prenatal nutrition plan.”
“Call it part of her cultural education, then. That kid of ours is going to be a proper Texan, we gotta start her early.”
Elisa’s hands went still. “Ours?”
“I…I mean yours,” he said, backpedaling. Damn, what had he been thinking? One slip of the tongue and he’d put a damper on the whole evening. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” She smiled at him, and the light from it went straight to the dark recesses of his heart. She reached across the table, her fingertips just brushing his. “I like the sound of ‘ours.’”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His heart thumped ridiculously hard. Was it his imagination, or had she just acknowledged him as more than a make-believe husband? If he was misreading her, he was going to make a gigantic fool of himself, but the invitation in her coffee eyes was hard to mistake.
“Well then, seein’s how this is culture night, how about we give a whirl to another cornerstone of Texas living? It’s called the two-step.” Linking his fingers with hers, he pulled her up from the table and toward the fifteen-by-fifteen bare patch of hardwood in the corner that passed as a dance floor at the Spit-n-Hole. On the way there, he sunk three quarters in the jukebox.
When the first song came on, a George Strait ballad, he lifted their linked hands to the side, rested his other hand on her hip and gave her a quick lesson in the one, two and three shuffle that formed the basis of country and western dancing.
She stared down at her feet as he set off in slow motion, counting for her. “You’re going to make me try this in front of all these people?”
“Nobody’s watching,” he lied. Every male in the place was staring at her. Elisa was the kind of w
oman who naturally drew attention. She seemed to be the only one who didn’t know it.
She made it through the first whirling turn, and Del felt her relax into the motion. She was a quick learner. “Why do they call this the two-step when there are three steps?” she asked as he counted off another set for her.
“I don’t know.”
“It should be the three-step,” she insisted.
He laughed at her seriousness. “That’s a different dance.”
“How many steps does it have?”
“I don’t know. Four probably.”
“Humph,” she said, taking the next turned with a little extra flair that said she’d definitely found the rhythm. “Texans.”
By the end of the tune, Elisa danced as if she’d been two-stepping all her life. Which was a good thing, since the second song he’d punched up on the jukebox was a bit faster. A lot faster, actually. Del added a twirl to their routine that had her spinning out to the end of his grip, then reeling back in so fast that her hair flared around her as she twisted, tangling them both, tying them together.
They were both in need of a little oxygen when the song ended.
“Was that a dance?” Elisa asked between gusty breaths. “Or a training exercise?”
He struggled to regulate his own erratic breathing. “What’s wrong? Can’t keep up?”
“I’m dancing for two.”
“In that case, I think you’ll like the next song.”
Garth Brooks crooned from the speakers. Elisa cocked her head and listened to the first few strains. “If tomorrow never comes?”
“Seemed fitting,” he said, suddenly wishing he’d picked something different. He hoped she didn’t read too much into his choice of music. Or maybe he hoped she did.
Whichever the case, he wasn’t complaining about the results. Elisa leaned into him, rested her cheek on his shoulder. He tightened his hold on her, bringing their bodies into the kind of steady contact he’d craved all night.
Awe lit up his nerves at the feel of her heart kicking against his ribs. Her pulse bounding off his fingertips as he changed his grip and curled their linked hands inward to cradle against his shoulder. Awe changed to reverence as the friction between them built, and her breasts flattened against his chest, her hips caressed his.
The Last Honorable Man Page 16