Cowboy Justice

by Melissa Cutler

  Junior waved his hands. “That’s not true. I’m El Diente.”

  Vaughn painted a look of skepticism on his face and drummed his fingers on the table. “My first memory of you was the day you were bucked from that horse, when you were five. Do you remember?”

  Junior scrubbed a hand over his face, the air of superiority wiped clean away. “Don’t talk about that.”

  “Your horse threw you, and your daddy was all over that. Took you aside, real fatherly-like, and told you it was time for you to learn how to command respect from those you governed. You remember what happened next?”

  “Shut up.”

  “He put a whip in your hand. You cried, and he slapped you, called you a girl. Told you if you wanted to be a man like him, this was what you had to do. I left and called the sheriff, hoping to save that horse’s life, but the sheriff told me to shake it off because no one crossed the Meyers, especially a nobody like me. You liked whipping that horse, didn’t you? Felt real powerful—just like your daddy.”

  Junior leapt to his feet. “I hated doing that. Dirt Devil was my best friend.”

  Vaughn set his palms on the table and pushed to standing. “Don’t kid yourself. You’re daddy’s puppet through and through.”

  Junior kicked the leg of his chair. “I am not!”

  “When I told your old man you could help me find the kidnapped woman, he said, ‘My son, the screw up? No way.’”

  Something triggered inside Junior. Shaking, tears sprang to his eyes. He looked like a kid again—the scared, angry son of a monster. “He doesn’t know anything about me. He only sees what he wants to.”

  “He doesn’t see how smart you are.”

  Junior whirled around and glared at the mirror. “He never has.”

  “He thinks Elias is in charge. He figures you’re too stupid to run a business. Daddy’s puppet—you’re probably Elias’s puppet too.”

  “That’s bullshit. I’m El Diente. Just me.”

  “A fucked-up daddy’s boy like you? If you’re El Diente”—he added air quotes to the name—“you need to prove it to me. I want to see this jar of teeth. Tell me where to look.”

  Junior turned away from Vaughn and stalked to the mirror. A growling rumble emanated from his throat, then he spit a gigantic wad of phlegm at it. He stood, watching it drip, sneering at his reflection. “Corner of Troy and Allison. In Devil’s Furnace. Used to be a Laundromat. The teeth are in the dryer nearest the back door. Elias will be there too, if he took the girl.”

  There was nothing left to say. Vaughn shot toward the door. He had a hand on the knob when Junior asked, “I get to plea out, right? That was the deal.”

  Vaughn looked at him over his shoulder. “Sure. You can plea out on the Parillas Valley charges. That was the deal. Then again, my deputy’s going to arrest you right now for Gerald Sorentino’s murder, so we don’t care so much about the other charges anymore.”

  He hustled into the hallway, his walkie-talkie at his lips. Before he could signal Stratis on where to meet him at Devil’s Furnace, Meyer intercepted him, his expression pained. Vaughn had to give him credit; at least he had enough humanity to look disturbed by the revelation that his progeny was a mass murderer.

  “Change of plans, Meyer. I’m not resigning.” He kept moving, thumping Meyer’s shoulder hard with his own as he ran past. He turned and walked backward, affording Meyer one last flinty look. “Oh, and congratulations on singlehandedly creating a sociopath. Way to go, Dad.”

  Meyer stared after him with an expression of utter despair. Vaughn turned forward again and sprinted to the exit. Rachel, I’m coming for you.

  * * *

  The crumbling Laundromat in which Rachel sat, her wrists tied behind the chair back, was coated in a thick layer of yellowish dust, most likely from the shredded insulation spilling from the ceiling. The dust swirled through the air like toxic snowflakes as her captor paced. She recognized him as one of the four who’d shot at her—Elias Baltierra.

  Hard to say what part of her hurt the worst. Her skull throbbed. Her arm was wet with blood. Somewhere along the line, the scab from her bullet wound had ripped clean off. And her heart ached so bad she couldn’t see how it was still beating. Amy might well be dead. Kellan, Sloane, and Ben too. With a house as old as theirs, who knew how fast the frame and roof would burn? At least Jenna and Tommy lived far enough away to escape the blaze. That is, if Baltierra hadn’t paid them a visit first.

  “Oh, Christ,” Baltierra muttered. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with you? Oh, hell.”

  Rachel twisted her arms and slipped her thumb into the knot of the rope around her wrists. She’d had her wrists bound enough times to know when a knot would hold, and this one was as unsophisticated as they came.

  Hope, wild and ridiculous, sizzled through her. If Baltierra left the room, she’d have herself free in seconds. Maybe she could find a phone and call to get help to the farm before it was too late. But scrambled as her brain was after the battering she’d endured, coming up with a plan to get him out of the room wasn’t revealing itself easily to her.

  “I’ve got an ATM card in the wallet in my back pocket. If you need cash, I’ll tell you the code. There’s got to be an ATM around here.” Every word clawed at the inside of her parched throat.

  “Nice try, bitch. But the money I need is a lot more than I can take out of your bank account.”

  “Is that what you were looking for at my house? Drug money? Is that the reason for the graffiti too? You wanted us out of the way of your drug operation?”

  He whirled around and pounced on her, his hands on the chair back, his body odor flooding around her like a fog, his funky breath on her face. “What do you know about that?”

  “I know my dad was cooking meth. Were you one of his customers or his business partner?”

  He pulled back, his body tense, hands fisted. Rachel braced herself for a punch, but instead he resumed his agitated pace. “Gerry cashed out of our arrangement before we was ready to let him. Junior got mad. He don’t like to be told no. We was still cooking in Gerry’s lab until the oil people came around, and then your stupid, fuckin’ dude ranch screwed everything up.”

  She grew cold all over. Her father was murdered. “Junior’s your leader?”

  “Was. Didn’t have no choice at the time. Junior was the only one who knew how to cook meth. He and Gerry had it all worked out. But it’s changed now. I’m in charge.”

  “What about Shawn Henigin? Is he still your partner?”

  He offered a wheezy laugh and rubbed the knuckles of his right hand as he prowled. “Shawn’s not doing nothing anymore. He was getting twitchy, was going to turn himself in and blab to the police. But from now on, I’m El Diente, and there ain’t nothing him or Junior can do about it. I saw to Shawn, and I guess I have you to thank for taking care of Junior.”

  Rachel had never heard the name El Diente before. Didn’t much care who he was, or what Baltierra had done to Shawn Henigin, as long as they weren’t a threat to her family. “How about you thank me by letting me go?”

  “Naw, naw. That’s no good. You could lead the police to me, easy. Or worse, the Burque dealer waiting on the payment we owe. Maybe I could trade you to him instead.”

  Raw, real fear for herself seized a hold of her gut. She’d rather die than be passed as a consolation prize to another drug dealer—probably a bigger dealer than Baltierra if he was based in Albuquerque, probably even more deadly too.

  “That’s just passing trouble to the other dealer,” she said, trying to sound logical. “People will be looking for me. I’m dating the sheriff. He’s not going to take kindly to it if I’m hurt.”

  “Shut up. I’m trying to think.” He pressed his palms to his temples and strode to one of the windows, peeling the yellowed newspaper away to gaze outside.

  It was a gamble to admit her connection to Vaughn, but she couldn’t see any other choice, even though it disgusted her to feel so helpless that her best chance of s
urvival was to throw a man’s name around and wait for him to rescue her. Then again, maybe Vaughn had been right—she was no damsel in distress. She’d learned the hard way that no one was going to save her, or her family, but herself. She didn’t need a man.

  What she needed was a weapon.

  She scanned the room. Every space was jammed with a rusted washer or dryer. To her left was a sagging hanger rod on one of those rolling baskets. It wasn’t a sure bet that it would pull off easily, but she didn’t like the way Baltierra was nervously petting his gun.

  A tug, then another, and the rope fell away. Sucking in a breath, she stood. Baltierra didn’t turn around. Three silent steps to the side and she was at the rolling basket. Carefully, carefully, she gripped the rod. It didn’t budge at her light touch. She’d have to yank, which would make a sound. But any second, Baltierra would turn around and see her standing there. Instinct told her he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.

  She took a moment to send her love out to her sisters and Tommy, along with a prayer that they be taken care of if she died. Then she sent her love out to Vaughn, for all that was worth. Even if she did make it out of this room alive, she knew their relationship was over for good. Wasn’t sure she’d ever open her heart to a man again, after all the disappointment and hurt she’d been dealt. Then she tightened her grip on the rod.

  “I know what I need to do with you. You and I are going to go for a drive,” Baltierra said in a louder voice. He looked over his shoulder at her. “You ever see the view from Hoja Pass?”

  Rachel yanked the rod down with her as she ducked behind a washing machine. It gave way from the rolling basket. But she was too late. Baltierra opened fire.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rachel made herself as small as she could. The washingmachine danced and quaked as it was pummeled with bullet after bullet. Any time now, he was going to change angles to get a clear shot at her. Cornered as she was, there wasn’t anything she could do to stop him.

  The window was too high off the ground for her to break the glass with the metal rod and escape. She shoved at the next washing machine, hoping to squeeze behind it. But Baltierra’s head came into view, then his shoulders. Another two steps around and he’d have a point-blank shot.

  He rounded the corner of the washing machine, sneering at her. “Guess we’re not going to need to go to Hoja Pass together after all.”

  He leveled the gun at her face, and she thought, This is it. Might as well go down fighting. She rose, the rod feeling heavy in her quivering hands as she wound back. Laughing, he squeezed the trigger and at the same time she swung.

  Click.

  The gun was empty. Baltierra’s mouth fell open, his eyes widened. Rachel threw her weight into the swing, releasing a primal growl as the rod connected with the side of his skull.

  He fell backward and hit the ground.

  At that moment, the door banged open and four helmeted men dressed in black and holding rifles poured in. sheriff was written in white block letters across their flak vests. Hope flared anew inside her. If they’d found her, then they must be aware of the fire too. Could it be that her family was safe and alive?

  She recognized Vaughn instantly. He rushed to Baltierra’s prone body and kicked the gun away from his hand. A second member of his team joined him, aiming his rifle at Baltierra’s body. The other two officers, one of whom Rachel now recognized as a woman, rushed past, searching the room.

  Vaughn ripped his helmet off and stepped around Baltierra to Rachel, rifle in one hand and the other arm open wide, as though to embrace her. She stepped back, flattening against the wall, the rod out in front of her, distressed at the idea of touching him. She couldn’t allow herself to fall into his arms, because then she’d be back to that needy state, back to wanting Vaughn more than was safe or healthy for her. She refused to walk into that trap again.

  He was panting, like he’d been running for miles. She could tell the instant he realized she wasn’t going to let him hold her because he lowered his arm to his weapon and stared at her in disbelief. “Are you hurt?” he asked between gasps.

  “My family. Are they . . . were they lost in the fire?”

  “Oh, baby, no. They’re all fine. Everybody’s worried about you.”

  The beginning of a sob of relief tore from her throat. She couldn’t stop nodding. He reached for her again, but she held the rod steady. “Stop, please,” she croaked. “You were right about me last night. Right about everything. I have to save myself. I can’t lean. I won’t. Never again.”

  His hurt was written plainly on his face. “What?”

  She gritted her teeth and looked past Vaughn, blinking her tears away. Stratis had rolled a semiconscious Baltierra to his stomach and was cuffing him.

  “I need to see my family,” she said.

  “Okay. The EMTs are going to check you out first, make sure you’re not hurt. Then I’ll take you home.”

  She let the rod fall to the ground and smushed her face into her palms. He wasn’t getting it. She had no choice but to hurt him again, like she had that night in the hospital parking lot so many months ago.

  He stroked her arm. “Rachel, talk to me. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m not hurt. I don’t need the EMTs to look me over. I have to see my sisters right now!” She swallowed hard and met his gaze. “And I don’t want you to be the one to take me.”

  He flinched, and she felt wretched, bringing that pain down on him. But it was the only way they could move forward. He’d already told her he couldn’t be with her, couldn’t even spare her one morning when she’d been desperate for his comfort. And that had hurt her something fierce, but it had taken being kidnapped for the lesson to truly sink in. All along, she should’ve planted her feet and stood tall and proud and alone instead of wasting time wondering if the men in her life were going to come through for her.

  “I’ll take you,” Undersheriff Stratis said. He shot Vaughn a sidelong glance. “It’s the way it should be anyway.”

  She nodded. “Yes. The way it should be. Thank you.” She lurched toward the door.

  “Don’t do this,” Vaughn called after her. “Rachel, please . . .”

  Then she was outside, stumbling through the early-morning darkness, Vaughn following close, Stratis at her side. The street was crowded with patrol cars, fire trucks, and ambulances. Beyond the vehicles was a gathering crowd of onlookers.

  Stratis directed her to his squad car.

  “Let me drive you home, Rachel. Don’t cut me out like this,” Vaughn said, his voice strained, desperate. “Please, give me a chance to talk to you.”

  With her hand on the passenger door of Stratis’s squad car, she met Vaughn’s gaze. “We’re out of chances. When I’m with you, my life falls apart. Bad things happen. Like when I leaned on my dad. You and me, we’re really over this time.”

  She thought she might throw up, saying it. Mashing her lips together, she lowered into the seat and closed the door. When Stratis pulled away from the curb, she chanced a look out the rear window.

  Vaughn was on his knees in the road, his head in his hands.

  She closed her eyes and hugged herself tight. Her family was safe, the bad guys would never bother them again, and she was alone. From here on out, her life was family and alfalfa. When she felt lost, she’d have to find her own way out from under the feeling. No more waiting around for men to slay her monsters. No more leaning.

  No more Vaughn.

  * * *

  It took all day long for Vaughn and his deputies to sort through the case against Elias Baltierra. Nathan Binderman and Torin Kirby spent the day at the Sorentino farm processing the scene. Damn near killed Vaughn to hold back from asking them how Rachel was faring.

  When he’d found her at the Laundromat, all he’d wanted to do was hold her, to feel her breath and heat, and assure himself she was okay. But she’d pushed him away. On some levels, he understood her fear. Twice now, terrible events had happened after she’d been with him.
But the hour he’d spent not knowing if she were alive or dead brought Vaughn’s priorities into stark focus.

  Nothing mattered to him as much as Rachel. But proving to her that his love was worth facing her fears was an overwhelming proposition. He had no idea how to go about it. What he needed was some solid advice.

  He pulled his squad car into his parents’ driveway around dinnertime, hoping he wasn’t interrupting their meal. He didn’t smell any tasty dinner aromas wafting over the front yard, so there was a good chance he’d timed it right.

  He knocked on the kitchen door as he opened it. His mom looked up from dusting the window blinds. Dad was at the kitchen counter, tossing a nasty-looking salad.

  With a wave to his dad, he went straight for Mom and snagged her in a hug. “What are you doing, cleaning the blinds? You already cleaned the house from top to bottom yesterday. You should be relaxing, maybe watching one of those daytime talk shows you tape, a glass of wine in your hand.”

  She patted his arm. “I know, I know, but the house doesn’t feel clean yet. Maybe when I’m done with the living room I’ll take a break.”

  It was no wonder the house felt unclean to her. The police had invaded her private space, pawed through her clothing, touched everything in the house. Every time he thought about it, his anger toward Meyer started winding up again.

  “Why don’t you let me hire some cleaning people to come in and scour the place?”

  She shrugged. “You already offered that, and it’s sweet of you, but the thought of more strangers in here doesn’t sit well with me.”

  Vaughn hugged her tighter. “I’d do anything to go back and prevent what happened to you yesterday.”

  She reached up and cradled his cheeks in her palms. “You already told me that too. What you’re forgetting is that my people are from Sicily. So I know how to handle hard times. It’s in my blood. I’m no weakling, honey. Don’t insult me like that.”

  “Of course you’re not, Ma. I didn’t mean to imply—”