Texas Hold 'Em (4 page)

Silas stopped his rocking chair, dropping his boot to the faded boards of the porch with a
thunk
. “I care about your mother more than you’ll ever understand. And I’m not at all happy about Santos going after her. But what if he’s telling you the truth? You took an oath to uphold the law when they pinned that badge on you, baby girl.”

Her grandfather’s words reached right into her chest and squeezed her heart. He’d always been too hard on Gloria in her opinion. She’d wondered why her mother hadn’t gone to him for help when she and Rose had needed it, but she’d never asked. Most likely Silas and Gloria had as many secrets between them as she and Gloria did. Silas, just like Santos, knew nothing about the past she and her mother had shared, though. And he never would, either. No one would.

Rose looked past him at the light slanting over the mountaintops. At the edge of her dusty yard, a small brown bird flitted through the branches of a cedar tree, hopping and chirping. She spoke without looking at her grandfather.

“I guess I have to make a choice.”

“The law’s the law,” he said flatly. “There are no choices as far as it’s concerned.”

…

Santos woke up with a bad headache and a hoarse voice. Since leaving Rose, he’d been on the telephone or his computer continuously, half the time simultaneously. Austin had been trying to convince the president of a local chapter to have a sit down, and he’d needed advice and information. From the worn out ranch house, he had tried to work out all the details of the meet. To get closer to Ortega, Smokin’ ACES needed to get the real bikers to trust them. Earning that trust meant doing some things they shouldn’t. He tried to stay on the right side of the line as much as he could. Deep down, though, he didn’t really care how they accomplished their goal, as long as they found the SOB and everyone got out alive.

He went to the nearest window and stared into the distance. A braid of blue and peach ribbon cut the nearest mountain in half, the morning sun leaving it dark on one side and light on the other. He felt as if he was being divided, too. He wanted nothing as much as he wanted to find the woman he’d put in harm’s way, but when he and Rose had been sitting in her kitchen, he’d begun to truly realize just how thin the line was he was trying to walk. One wrong slip and so many people would be hurt he couldn’t count them all. He’d realized something else, too. Rose could still affect him in ways he thought he’d put behind him.

He didn’t understand why, either. They had opposite philosophies, opposite goals, opposite everything. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering how they’d ever fallen in love, much less lived together. Now they faced this dilemma.

The songs were dead wrong—love wasn’t all you needed.

…

Midnight came and went the following day before Rose finally fell into bed. She hadn’t seen Santos since he’d come to her house, but she doubted he had left Aqua Frio. He never gave up. Everything was always instantly clear for him, too. She examined every little detail and even after she had all the facts, she would continue to wonder. All he cared about was the assignment. He’d been that way when they’d both been cops, and things obviously hadn’t changed.

The lights in her bedroom had only been dark for a short time when her phone shrilled. She had the receiver in her hand before the first ring finished. “Renwick.”

“You’ve got a domestic situation at the Royal Trailer Park.” An independent service in Presidio took over their 911s when Lydia’s shift ended, and the bored voice grated on Rose’s sensibilities. She had argued against the idea, but the county commissioners wanted to save every dollar they could. She wondered how long ago the call had actually come in.

“Address is 2405 Crown Circle. Caller states strange noises were heard in the yard, possible peeping tom, not sure. See the woman at number two-thirty-two.”

Rose hung up and reached for her pants. She’d been to that particular address before and warned the man and woman living there to tone down their arguments. It sounded as if they’d done just the opposite. The couple, young and poor, had three little kids. The children had watched from the trailer’s window with scared brown eyes as Rose had counseled their mother and father on the previous call.

Her threat to call Child Protective Services had seemed to work; both of them had looked stricken at the possibility of losing their children. She really hadn’t expected to hear from their neighbor again, but now here she was, heading toward the trailer park.

Seven minutes later, she turned off the street and drove slowly down the gravel road lined with mobile homes. A few sparse cedar trees claimed spots along the rutted drive, but most of the landscaping involved faded plastic toys, rusted out trash cans, and cars that looked like nothing but a prayer would make them start. Usually the west Texas night smoothed out the rough edges, but that wasn’t the case here. The thick darkness that surrounded the place felt heavy and foreboding, like a blanket she couldn’t throw off.

Rose could sense a bad situation as well as the next cop, and something definitely felt wrong. Her nerves jumping, she moved her right hand to her holster and checked her weapon before gripping the steering wheel again. The residents in places like this were faded, rusted, and worn out, too. Just like the boy with the gun, when folks felt trapped, they reacted as instinctively as an animal did.

A chorus of crickets fell silent as the car rolled to a stop. The home was dark and quiet, like the ones on either side. Glancing at the notes she’d jotted down, she checked the number to make sure she had the right place. There were no street lights—since there was no real street—and she had to turn on the small flashlight she carried.

As soon as the light came on, her rear windshield exploded.

She ducked with a curse, a shower of glass pellets raining down on her back and shoulders as the gunshot echoed in the silence. Reaching for her weapon as she went down, she had the pistol out and in her hand before the sound could even stop. A moment later, she was sliding into the floor well of the vehicle, yelling into the radio she’d snatched going down. “This is Sheriff Renwick. Officer needs assistance! Send someone to Crown Circle. I’m under fire.”

She twisted onto her back and tried to think it out. The shooter had to have been behind her to make the shot—the glass had flown into the vehicle—but was he still there or had he moved?

Her answer came without any warning, the front windshield blowing out next.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she covered her head with her arms as the shattered glass peppered her. This time she felt something sharp slice into her cheek. Something wet followed. If the next shot hit her gas tank….

She didn’t want to die by herself on an unpaved street in a down-and-out trailer park.

She didn’t want to die, period.

She crouched down as far as she could, then jumped out the passenger side door and rolled toward the shallow drainage ditch that ran beside the road.

The next bullet split the air right above her head.

Her gaze flew to a nearby water tank as lights started to come on all around her. She might find better cover behind the heavy cistern, covered in rusting aluminum. A door squeaked open, and she heard someone say, “What the hell—?”

She lifted her head and yelled, “Close your door and stay inside. Call 911 and tell them to hurry up. An officer needs assistance.”

Another shot sounded, and Rose whipped her head in the direction it had come. Lifting her gun, she steadied the barrel with her wrist and squinted into the darkness. The lamplight spilling out of the homes did little to help.

She couldn’t shoot blind—there were too many people inside their trailers, too many kids. The thin metal covering the houses offered nothing in the way of protection, and a wild shot would pierce the walls like an ice pick going through butter. If an innocent civilian got hurt, it wouldn’t matter a damn if the bullet was hers or the shooter’s.

Another shot flew past her right ear, its hot breath coming closer than the time before. She dropped her face into the ground and tasted dirt. She’d been ambushed twice in a little more than twenty-four hours. What in the hell was going on in Rio County?

Chapter Four

A cascade of hot water streamed over his head as Santos braced his hands against the molded plastic shower wall. He wished he could wash away thoughts of Rose as easily as he could the bar’s smoky fumes.

The simple touch they’d shared in her kitchen had inflamed every nerve ending in his body. He’d wanted to draw her closer and do so much more than circle her wrist with his fingers. He’d wanted to push her hair aside and drop kisses up and down her neck. He’d wanted to touch all the secret places that he knew excited her. He’d wanted to make love to her then wake up in bed beside her and start all over again.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Rose ever thought about their lovemaking as he did. They’d had the kind of sex life all the guys he knew talked about but didn’t really experience. But their true relationship had gone far beyond the bedroom. She’d been the better half of him, and he hadn’t even realized that until they’d split up. He wasn’t sure what pained him more—the memories of their breakup or seeing her now and knowing he couldn’t have her.

The scanner on his bedside table squawked to life, and he twisted off the shower faucet.

“Officer needs assistance. Crown Circle and County Road 24. Repeat. Officer needs assistance—”

This didn’t sound good.

“Shots fired,” the radio reported. “Repeat, shots fired. Unit One. Unit One.”

Rose only had two deputies. She was Unit One.

He jumped out of the shower, his shoulder bouncing off the mildewed tile, his heart in his throat. Barreling into the bedroom, he raced to the scanner and rotated the volume with soapy fingers, grabbing his clothes with the other hand. The rest of the broadcast became a jumble of information, an address repeated, a cross street mentioned.

Dripping wet, he threw on his jeans, grabbed a shirt, and strapped on his gun, running for the front door. The second he stepped outside and his feet hit the porch, he realized he didn’t have on his boots. He turned and snagged them from their spot just inside the door before sprinting for his cycle.

He had the Harley rolling while he was still pulling on one boot.

But he had to slam on the brakes just as he reached the entrance to the highway.

A black dualie swooped by, racing down the interstate in front of Santos as if the devil himself was driving. He caught the blurred face of King Landry through the windshield of the F450. The taillights of the huge truck quickly turned into pinpricks then disappeared into the darkness.

The Harley screamed as he pushed the engine for all it was worth. He caught up with the truck a minute later.

…

She couldn’t just wait there and get herself shot.

Rose gripped her pistol tighter and burrowed deeper in the ditch. When she felt she could look and still keep her head, she squirmed sideways and stared into the direction from where the last shot had been fired. Nothing happened. But she couldn’t see anything, either. Maybe the shooter couldn’t see her.

Unless he had night vision. Or was crouched on one of the roofs. Or was using a sniper rifle from one of the rocky ledges jutting out behind the rise.

Besides being on the track team, she had been a member of the rifle squad in high school. She didn’t have the range she needed with the peashooter in her hand, but if she found a good spot that didn’t put anyone in danger, she was willing to give it a try. She glanced once more at the water tank behind her. This time she saw the ladder she’d missed before. The tank couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet tall, twenty at the most. Distract him enough and draw his fire in a different direction, and she could double back and climb to the top. A narrow railing ran the circumference. It might be her best chance.

Her fingers found a brick someone had thrown into the ditch, and she hoisted it above her head. Tossing it against her cruiser, she sprang to her feet and ran.

Coming here tonight, Rose hadn’t expected a trap.

Naïve
, she thought, sprinting toward the stairs of the water tower.
Naïve and stupid
. How could she have been so careless? Especially after the kid in the parking lot the other night.

She hit the first rung at top speed and reached out for the railing, wrenching her shoulder as she swung herself up and bolted for the top as quietly as she could. The stairs gave way to the catwalk that circled the tower, and she dropped to her knees, following the metal landing to the opposite side.

The fusillade hit the tank just above her head. Throwing herself to the open gridwork under her knees, she cursed as the bullets blasted a line straighter than her Aunt Lavina could quilt. A second shooter was hiding on the other side, and this one had a rifle. They were doubling up on her from two different directions. She scrambled back the way she’d come, shocked that neither had hit her, more shocked that the tank had held. A dark form darted around the nearest trailer, hugging the thin siding. She lifted her gun then lowered it once more. The shot was too dangerous to take.

The men who had her trapped weren’t as concerned for the residents of the park. They began to shoot in unison, tattooing a line of holes on both sides of where she crouched. Ducking her head to lower her profile, she tried to decide her next move, then shock washed over her, confusion following. The rain of bullets continued to fall around her, but none of them hit her.

They weren’t trying to kill her.

So what in the hell were they trying to do?

She didn’t have time to answer the question. A moment later, the tank gave way and the rusty railing collapsed. She clung to the metal as long as she could, then a rush of cold water drove her hands away. She tumbled over the railing and fell. Twelve feet. Straight down.

Chapter Five

His motorcycle slewed sideways as Santos spun into the trailer park. He wondered how he would find Rose in the maze of narrow streets, then the furious echo of flying bullets reached his ears, the sound hitting him as painfully as if the real thing had. In his rearview mirror, a pair of headlights loomed large. He had passed the truck a few miles back, and now he felt his bike bounce as the truck’s bumper connected with his. Wrenching the handlebars to his right, he was an inch away from going off the road when he wrestled the motorcycle under control. The truck flew by, and once more, Kingson Landry’s clenched face stared back at him. He should have been happy to have the backup, but for reasons he didn’t want to examine, the presence of the deputy rubbed him the wrong way.

His reaction had nothing to do with the son-of-a-bitch almost running him off the road—and everything to do with Rose.

He spotted her cruiser, the driver’s door open. All the porch lights in the neighborhood were blazing, and the scene was lit up like daytime. A second later, he saw the leaning water tank. Rose was stretched out on the ground beside it, and two men loomed over her, lifting their heads as the bike and the truck barreled toward them. Each held a weapon, one man’s an automatic, the other a pistol. Before his years of training could kick in, he felt a flash of panic at the sight, his heart stopping in mid-beat. When it started again, the roar of his pulse was as loud as the Harley. As he sped forward, the two men looked at each other in horror then fled, vanishing into the darkness.

The dualie slid to the left, bounced over the ditch, and stopped three feet from where Rose lay. She waved an arm as the deputy fell out the truck’s open door and raced to her side, forcing her back to the ground and covering her with his body. Confirming she was okay, Santos blew past them and headed down the rutted street in the direction the men had gone.

He was going almost sixty when the first man darted out from the shadow of a nearby trailer. Moments later, the second one flew out. Concentrating on getting away, the shooter jumped directly into the Harley’s path. Swerving wildly, Santos almost lost control of the bike for the second time that night. In a second that felt like an hour, he met the man’s gaze just before the Harley thumped over him. Instead of the alarm he expected, the thug’s eyes held something that strangely resembled relief. The only reason he would feel that way was if someone else had sent him to do his dirty work, whatever it was. He would rather be dead than go back and be held accountable for failing, Santos realized instantly. Either way the outcome would be the same—he’d die. At least this way would be quicker and less painful.

Santos brought the bike to a stop, a cloud of gravel swirling around him like a mini tornado. With his gun gripped between his hands, he ran toward the motionless body in the middle of the road and dropped to his knees, pressing two fingers against the gang member’s neck.

He had gotten his wish; he was as dead as dead could be. Pivoting quickly, Santos jumped back on the motorcycle and continued in the direction the other man had taken, but he was nowhere in sight.

He circled the trailer park three more times to make sure. Finally he returned to the front of the park where King Landry was trying to hold Rose’s elbow. She jerked her arm away. “Stop fussing with me, King. I’m not hurt.”

“Damn it, Rosie, just let me help you—”

Rosie?

Santos swung off his cycle and strode straight to Rose. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, good grief—I’m fine.”

King sent out a beefy arm. “Hold up there, buddy—”

Santos wanted to punch the deputy to the ground, but he settled for thrusting the man’s arm to the side. “Get the hell out of my way.”

He was prepared when King pushed back. He grabbed the lawman’s wrist and started to twist it behind his back.

“For God’s sake.” Rose hobbled forward, stepping between them, her expression disgusted. “Stop it, King. Just calm down.” Her gaze went to Santos. “You, too, Sa—Sam.”

King’s eyebrows shot up, his expression confused. “You know this guy?”

Santos glared and didn’t move. King stayed where he was and did the same.

“Yes, I know him,” Rose said. “He’s an old friend. And that’s all
you
need to know.” Ignoring the deputy’s sputters, she spoke to Santos again. “I take it they’re gone?”

“One got away.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder without taking his eyes from King’s. “The other’s back there.”

Rose pointed to his blood-splattered pants when he finally faced her. “Where did that come from?”

“He jumped in front of the bike—” Santos started.

Turning back to King, her orders were crisp, her description of the two men concise. “You know what to do. Go make the calls, and get an ambulance and a tow truck here, too. Get that report out before you do anything else.”

King eyed Santos then turned to Rose. “Do you really think that’s for the best?”

“Leave us alone, King. Go do what I told you to do, and let me handle this.”

The deputy stalked back to his truck. Keeping their weapons ready in case the other shooter came back, Santos and Rose carefully made their way to the rear of the park one more time, sweeping their stares over the shadows. They stopped beside the man in the street.

“How bad is he?” Rose threw a look at him. “I want to talk to this guy before he finds a lawyer—”

“That questioning thing’s not going to happen.” They’d reached the body, and he pointed to it with his gun. “Not unless you follow him to hell.”

…

The EMTs loaded the body into their ambulance then demanded Rose let them take her to the hospital. She refused, promising instead that she would check in with the urgent care clinic in Aqua Frio. A nurse came in twice a week and set up shop in the back of the drugstore. Everyone used her for their ailments. Santos’s actions upset her more than her ankle did, anyway.

King insisted on driving her back to the station in his truck, and he peppered her with questions about Santos all the way. She told him nothing. All she could think about was the expression on Santos’s face when he’d spotted her lying on the ground. He hadn’t been able to disguise his concern, and as silly as it sounded, she’d felt a rush of warmth. If he still had feelings for her…

The three of them entered the building as King sent Santos a silent message she could easily read:
it wasn’t over between them
. Leading Santos into her office, she closed the door and turned to him, hiding her earlier thoughts. “Did you
have
to kill the guy?”

“He cut in front of the bike. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to.”

Rose took a deep breath then winced. “I’m glad you were there, and I appreciate what you did. This is the second time you’ve ridden in to save the day. Talking to that guy would have been more helpful than planting him, though.”

“I tried to avoid him, but I couldn’t. End of story.”

The highway outside shimmered in the moonlight. In another few hours, a ray of heat would stab through the blinds as the sun rose over the mountaintops. The taste of dust was still in her mouth, and fear was there as well. She pulled the cord to lower them harder than she needed to, and banished the dark.

She turned back to Santos. “No, that’s not the end of the story. You’re involved now—King saw you, you ran over the guy, you have to give us a statement…”

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“Then write the damned report yourself and bury it as deep as you can for now.” His intensity didn’t waver as he dropped his voice. “When this is all over, you can dig it up. In fact, I’ll put the handcuffs on myself and meet you at the courthouse.”

She hesitated. Santos was right to have done what he did. When an officer was under fire, like deserved like. At least the man had been a stranger, the name of a small-time gang inked on his back, a declaration of love written in Spanish to Concepción underneath a poor rendition of a woman’s face.

Rose wanted to say no to Santos’s solution, then she remembered the heat of the bullet that had flown past her face. Both of them knew she didn’t need rescuing; she could take care of herself. Between the budget cuts and the dangerous situation, though, she’d been grateful for the help.

Meeting his eyes, she saw a darkness she’d never seen before, his legendary disregard for danger as obvious as his concern had been earlier. Turning to her desk, she gave a curt nod. “Start talking.”

Two hours later, with his statement lying on her desk, Rose watched him walk out of her office and turn down the hallway. How could he look so damn good in threadbare jeans and a battered vest? She took a shaky breath as a delayed reaction swamped her. Something really bad was brewing in Rio County. Had Timothy Santos brought it with him, or was he really here to fix it? And what part did her mother play in all this, if any?

Rose was still sorting the tower of paperwork the episode generated when Lydia Gomez opened the office door and let in the morning light. The dispatcher’s forehead was wrinkled with worry, and her fingers were twisted before her. The tiny town’s gossip downloaded faster than any Internet connection could ever hope to be; she clearly knew what had happened during the night.

“
Dios mio
, Sheriff Rose. I’ve been worried like crazy. You need to go home. We will cover here.
Por favor
.”

Lydia had been running the phones—and the station—for years. She’d even worked for Rose’s grandfather before he’d retired. Caring for the officers came naturally to her. She had six children and twice as many grandchildren.

“I’m fine, Lydia.” She gently steered the older woman back to the front of the station. “You take care of the phones, and I’ll take care of everything else, okay?”

Rose talked to King about what to do next until Lydia finally threatened to call Silas. It was easier to go home to clean up and return, rather than fight the concerned woman. Her mind spinning, her body aching, she reached her house to find Santos waiting once again, this time on her back porch. Her mouth went dry as she stared at him.

He’d had a shower and changed clothes, his wet hair leaving streaks that looked like tears dampening his fresh t-shirt. His jawline was still dark with stubble, but he looked good and he smelled even better. He took one look at her tattered uniform and swelling wrists, and motioned for her to go inside. He followed her.

“Go get a couple of aspirins, then take a hot bath.” He guided her toward the hall. “You need to soak. We’ll put ice on your ankles as soon as you get out.”

To her surprise, her head began to spin, a mental and physical shakiness taking control of her body that almost made her doubt she’d get down the hall. Santos slid his hands over her forearms and steadied her, his touch arousing more than just memories.

“Do you need some help?”

She shook her head, took a breath, and headed for the back of the house. The kind of help she wanted from him right now would only make her dizzier.

She was still sitting in the tub when he knocked on the door and opened it slowly.

Their gaze met for a single moment. He let his stare slide down her body, then he brought it back up so slowly she felt as if he’d used his hands instead of his eyes. She didn’t bother to cover herself up, and she didn’t move, either. She was paralyzed. Without a word, he put a steaming cup of hot coffee on the edge of the tub, then stepped back, the door clicking behind him. The bath water rippled as she slipped beneath the surface and let the warmth envelop her. Her disappointment that he’d left her alone almost rivaled her knowledge that what he’d done was for the best.

She deliberately forced herself to think about what had just happened instead. She’d been in and out of tough situations before. Had even been forced to wound a fleeing suspect once, but she’d never been shot at like this.

She emerged wearing a faded track suit, the fabric soft against her aching body and thick enough to protect her from his gaze and his touch should either fall upon her again. He was standing by the wall of photos of her and her mother. Turning at her footsteps, he took in the scrape on her right temple, and she brushed her fingers over it self-consciously.

Determined to keep the interaction neutral, she lifted the mug. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“No problem.” He tilted his head to indicate his surroundings. “The place feels like you.”

“I’m renting it from Silas.”

He faced the wall of photos again. “I like these, too. You were a cute kid, you know.”

“I dragged them out when I moved here.”

“Why didn’t you hang them in our place?”

The words—
our place
—made her blink. “I didn’t think you’d want to see a picture of my mother every day.”

“I’ve never had a problem with your mother. It’s what she does and who she hangs out with that bothers me. Her friends aren’t the kind of people I like.”

Rose pivoted sharply and went into the kitchen.

When he spoke again, his voice was deep and close. Too close. She swayed as she turned. Grabbing the edge of the counter, she hoped he didn’t notice.

“This thing has gotten bigger, Rose. You can’t ignore what happened tonight.”

“If those men had wanted me dead, they could have shot me.”

“Just like that kid could have shot you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“If that’s what you think, then what’s your theory on why you aren’t in the morgue instead of standing here talking to me?”

“I don’t have one,” she admitted. “But I will once I start to investigate.”

He ran his hands through his hair and looked at her with disbelief. “You don’t have time to investigate, Rose, and my source doesn’t have time for that, either. If anyone finds out who I am and why I’m here, all three of us could end up dead. The guy I ran over had tatts from a drug cartel just over the border—”

“I know all about that gang. They stay out of my jurisdiction.”

“Did you see his weapon?”

“He was holding the barrel two inches from my nose. What do you think?”

“Ortega smuggles that same kind into Mexico. It’s his favorite product—he has them made at a
maquiladora
just this side of the border. No one but his ‘associates’ has them.”