Desert Exposure (15 page)

“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling the coldness of the old man’s words dissolve when the hot, sweet liquid hit her stomach.

Manuel nodded, and moved back. He stood in the doorway his bulk almost filling the space. His dark features were set in a scowl, but his big brown eyes scoured her face and they were full of pain and concern.

“One of the waitresses is watching the bar,” he said, and hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve called in my roommate. He’d been scheduled for the next shift anyway. He said he can use the extra money. I’ve been training him. He’s good on the tables, but I think he shows promise with mixing drinks.”

Rachel looked up, half-hearing what he’d said.

“You should go home,” he said firmly.

She liked his assertiveness, and his kindness. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He’d always been her most capable employee. Seeing the concern on his face, she was more than one hundred percent sure that Manuel would always look out for her.
He couldn’t be bad. Could he?
She took another drink, and then put the mug down on her desk. “I have to teach dance tonight. It’s Two Step Tuesday.” She blinked hard again, and dabbed at her eyes with a cocktail napkin.
Like that would repair the damage
.

“Can’t someone else do that for you?”

He looked toward the bar, ready to spring into action should he hear an impatient request for a drink, or an argument that got too heated. She’d seen him do that a thousand times.

“You really should take care of yourself.” He pointed over his shoulder. “I have to get back, but couldn’t Janie do both lessons?”

“Maybe. I’ll call her,” Rachel said, knowing she wouldn’t.

She and Michael had a plan. She’d do everything she normally did on a Tuesday.
Everything
. Thinking of Michael, and all that had happened in the last few days, she forced herself to toughen up.

“I’ll come back in and help you for a while. At least until you get your replacement. I really appreciate—”

Manuel waved her comments aside. “No problem, boss. We’re all here to help each other, like you always say. And that old guy…he didn’t mean nothing.”

“I know,” Rachel said, and stood. And she really did understand. “Grandpa always liked him, even though he’s odd. I know he’s harmless.”

She picked up her coffee cup and walked toward Manuel.

“Here, I’ll take that. You go clean up,” Manuel said, and then he winked.

Rachel nodded. She must look like a hairball the cat that hung out in the alley had coughed up. She wished Michael was here. He’d hold and comfort her. Warm that coldness that gripped her insides. She sure could use a hug, and a kiss or two, but she wasn’t about to hug an employee.

She handed Manuel the coffee mug, and he leaned down and peered into her eyes. “You sure you’re up for work?”

She appreciated Manuel’s kindness, but she really wanted Michael. She pressed her lips tight. She’d begun to think of Detective Michael Baxter Delaney in far more personal terms than she should. “In his own way, that man did what he thought was right and honorable,” she said, and patted Manuel’s arm. “I’m fine now, really. I’ll be back in the bar in five minutes.”

****

When Michael entered the Rabbit Ranch, or whatever the hell it was called, he couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears. A bar stretched the length of the room, there were hardwood floors, and scuffing up the boards were about fifty couples all doing some dance he couldn’t name. He slid onto a stool at the bar, and searched the crowd for Rachel.

His heart pumped as loud as the music, but he tried to stay calm. He’d had the young cop circle the parking lot at Cliffs. He’d seen her leave. They’d followed at a safe distance, and he’d watched her go inside the establishment. Then he’d hopped out of the vehicle and the cop had driven off.

He knew she had to be in here. Maybe she’d gone into the ladies room.

“What can I get you?”

“Bud,” he said, half-turning to the bartender.

The music played through a surround sound system. Couples whirled by, boots creating an interesting beat. Each couple faced forward with their bodies tucked tight together side by side, and the male’s arm stretched across the female’s shoulder, and her arm was raised, her fingers lightly touching his.

Michael turned away, faced the bar, and swallowed a huge gulp of the icy beer. Where could Rachel be? At the far end of the room a skinny middle-aged dude leaned into the microphone. His gray ponytail was short and bound with a strip of black leather. A banner behind him, read: DJ, Col Coyote, 106, FM, The Country Music Station.

“Next up, The Electric Slide,” Coyote announced in a deep voice.

From what Michael had read on the notice board out front, the dance was broadcast live.

He took another swig of beer. The dude had a great voice. There seemed nothing amiss inside the establishment. Nobody looked out of place. Not that that meant anything.

A couple danced past him and Michael looked down. Everyone wore boots, flashy boots. Some of the gals had a bandana tied around one leg of their jeans, or high on one bare arm. Others wore short frilly skirts and boots. The guys wore boots and cowboy hats. It was winter time and cold outside, but everyone had stripped down to tank tops and tee shirts, obviously because the dancing made them overheat.

He turned back to the bar. A woman beside him let out a loud, “Eeee haw. Hook ‘em horns.” Then she made the sign with her fingers. He watched her for a moment.

“Texas transplant, eh?” he asked.

“You betcha’.” She offered her hand. “I’m Candy.”

Michael shook hands. “Michael,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I love this dance. You wanta get up?”

“Ah, no. No thanks. Think I’ll watch for a while and see if I can get the hang of it.”

“Good idea.”

He watched more swirling couples, and then he noticed Rachel. She wore skintight blue jeans, and a lime green bandana tied around one thigh, cowgirl boots, and a white close-fitting shirt. Her red hair had been scooped up into a ponytail and tied with another matching bandana. She danced past him with some little dude with straight posture, and a puffed out chest. He wore black high-heeled cowboy boots, and Michael looked down.

Excellent footwork.

The woman followed his gaze. “Yeah, some couples take this stuff way too seriously. She’s good. She’s the instructor, but him, can’t stand the guy.” The woman whacked Michael on the upper arm. “It’s all about the boots and the hat, darlin’. You ain’t got no hat, no fancy footwork, might as well stay at the bar.”

Michael grinned at her. He’d be missing more than the hat. A big guy sauntered toward them. The woman from Texas sighed, and then she slid off her stool and took the guy’s outstretched hand. Not a word had been exchanged as they swaggered to the dance floor. She was a good dancer, but not as accomplished as Rachel.

Damn,
Rachel’s hot
.

About to remove his jacket, and join the crowd on the dance floor, Michael remembered his shoulder holster, and the gun. He listened to the music and hummed along, his foot tapping out a rhythm on the brass footrest of the barstool. He’d always liked country music. Maybe he’d include a couple of sets at the bar tonight. Rachel danced past again, and this time she looked his way, and winked. He couldn’t wait to get her home.

“All right ladies and gentlemen, listen up,” Coyote said into the mic. “Our very own Rachel is giving lessons during this next number. You can meet her up front.”

At a few minutes to eight Michael left the bar. He stood outside and to the left of the entrance canopy, like they’d planned. Shielded by several large plants he waited, noting the comings and goings of other people. Nothing out of the ordinary. A car load of four young Latino guys drove by several times. Michael stiffened and moved back further into the shadows. The dark blue Honda had been lowered and it had a noisy muffler. The windows were down, and the young men yelled comments and whistled at the costumed country western dancers coming in for the next lesson.

Michael watched the scene unfold, his hand inside his jacket resting on his gun.

Rachel walked past him, without looking in his direction, chatting on her cell phone. He called her name softly, not looking away from the car. She didn’t hear him. Her familiar scent, augmented by the warmth of her body from the dancing, floated toward him in the cool night air. He looked for the Honda; it had turned down between the rows of cars.

“Sorry, I have a date,” Rachel said.

Michael wondered who she spoke with.
Another guy, some dude trying to hook up?
A twinge of jealousy shot through him. She wasn’t his to be jealous about. He pushed away the thoughts and concentrated on the car. The Honda came toward them as Rachel stopped at the curb. She waited for the Honda to drive by. His whole body tensed.

She laughed, and said, “Debbie. Knock it off.”

The boys in the Honda slowed, whistled, and cat-called. Michael instantly went into alert mode, ignoring the happiness that she’d been speaking with her best friend, and moved closer yet still giving the impression they were not together. First sign of a weapon and he’d throw himself at Rachel and knock her to the pavement. Rachel laughed again, and she waved at the young men.
Good. She must know them.
Maybe it wasn’t his guys. They did look young.

When the Honda had left the parking lot, Michael hurried over and slid into the passenger seat of the Mustang. He wanted to touch Rachel, to kiss her, but that would have to wait.
He sank low in the seat and watched for the return of the Honda. No car followed them. They needed to swing by the PD where he’d left the plywood and supplies.

Twenty minutes later they entered the highway, headed back to Henry’s cabin. He shot Rachel a quick look. He hadn’t told her about the Honda. Maybe he should. He wouldn’t mention her potential date. The one she’d spoken to Debbie about. Could be him.

Her focus had fixed on the road ahead
. Good.
Maybe the Honda drive-by had been young guys out for a joyride. The mechanic had said Latinos in the area favored Honda’s. He took nothing lightly, and tonight he’d question Rachel.

Chapter Eight

Two hours later, Michael felt the heat of Rachel’s unspoken anger wafting his way. He’d stayed busy, taken care of the darkroom repairs, put up the window coverings, changed the door locks. It had been easy work for him.

“I think I’m done with everything,” he said.

She thrust the printed photographs at him with a thunderous look on her face. He took a quick look at the snapshots as Rachel stormed to the kitchen counter.

“I know him,” Rachel said.

The shots were all of Jack, the retired undercover agent. The guy he was trying to prevent from being killed. Why the hell had Jack gone sniffing around the old bait shop? If he had indeed retired, he should stay the hell away from the Suarez brothers’ hideout.

“Good. If you tell me everything you know about him, it could help me determine—”

“Why didn’t you tell me that Jack is involved in this—” Rachel lifted one hand off the vegetables she’d been cutting, and then waved the knife at him, “—this fiasco?”

“It isn’t information I can share,” Michael said, keeping an eye on the knife.

He knew full well his words would not be enough to placate her.
And why is she cutting vegetables at almost ten o’clock at night?
He rearranged the photos. At least she’d been good to her word and had printed up the photos from the negatives. And, much as he’d wanted to ask Jack personally for pertinent information, anything that could help with his assignment, he hadn’t. He’d gone strictly on the information from his chief. He hadn’t wanted to risk exposing Jack. After all, the guy had done his service, and he deserved to retire with anonymity. But then the guy had gone and gotten himself into the midst of things. Why?

He took a quick look at Rachel.

She’d already been angry that he’d dropped her off near the cabin, along with the supplies, and then hidden the car a mile away and jogged back. He’d given her a gun. And unable to squelch how hot she’d looked doing that country western dancing, he’d kissed her soundly, but not for near long enough. She’d argued that they should stick together, always. He’d had no idea of her ability to jog. And he’d had to consider Ralph.

So he’d stuck with his plan. He glanced over at the little guy snoozing on the couch. But if he’d thought she was pissed about that, he sure hadn’t expected the anger she now displayed.

“So, explain again this cold shoulder treatment,” he said, waving a hand between them. “And what is it you’re making?”

She snorted. “Soup.” She stared him down for a minute, but finally gave up and chopped furiously at vegetables. Michael wondered how the hell many people she’d prepared food for.

“Jack’s a friend of mine,” Rachel said, after a few minutes of silence. “He’s married to my best friend. They’re family. If either of them are in trouble, or if anything happens…”

“It won’t.” He shuffled through the photographs again, looking at several with a magnifier. He kept his head down, warmed by the fact that Rachel had spoken. Why had Henry snapped these pictures? Jack at sunrise with a gun drawn; Jack inching around the bait shop; Jack peering into broken windows?