Hot on the Trail. Vicki Tharp

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СКАЧАТЬ Not that I know of.” The sheriff returned his gear to the back seat of the truck and climbed in. Quinn and Jenna waved good-bye.

      As he drove out of sight, Jenna gave Quinn’s shoulder a light shove. “What was that all about? I almost landed on my face.”

      “I had a hand on you the whole time. I wouldn’t let you fall.”

      Another look. Either ‘go to hell’ or ‘asshole.’ Difficult to tell.

      “I didn’t want you mentioning the gun.”

      “Yeah,” she said with a frigid laugh, “I got that. You don’t think the gun is something the sheriff should know about?”

      “Maybe.” He reached a hand to the back of his neck and worked the stiff and knotted muscles there. “You could be right.”

      He dropped his hand to his side, the mental and physical exhaustion slamming into him as hard as if he’d walked into the rotor wash of his Sikorsky CH-53. “And for what it’s worth…I know this shouldn’t matter…but I don’t want the sheriff getting the wrong impression of him.”

      “Kurt really meant a lot to you, didn’t he?”

      “More than a brother.”

      * * * *

      The next morning, Quinn rose before the roosters or the sun. The breeze whipped and fell and ozone filled the air. He jogged up the two-track road from his cabin, the familiar scrunch-scrunch of gravel under shoes came from the darkness behind him. Only, the rhythm was off—a slight hesitation in the cadence.

      Boomer fell into step with Quinn, as the combat veteran jogged out of the darkness.

      “Where’s your blade?” Quinn asked.

      “Trying out the new prosthetic.” Boomer’s breath came out heavy, but steady. How long had he been at it that morning? “The leg’s got fu—freaking sensors and shi—things. Real Six Million Dollar Man stuff.”

      “What’s with the language? You sound like a Disney cartoon. I’m a Marine, man. Cuss words don’t make me blush.”

      The eastern sky eased toward gray, exposing a far-off bank of clouds thick with rain. Boomer grunted, picking up the pace as they passed the big house. “Pepita is saving for a new saddle. She gets paid for extra jobs around the ranch, plus a dollar for every swear word.”

      Quinn huffed out a laugh, though it lacked about as much substance as the thin mountain air.

      “What’s so fucking funny?”

      “Oooh, I’m telling.”

      “Shit.”

      “Buy her”—Quinn panted. Either the air was a lot thinner than he’d remembered, or he was in worse shape than he’d thought—“the damn saddle…and be done with it.”

      Boomer picked up more speed. Quinn gave up conversation in exchange for air.

      Together they ran to the main road and back twice before the sun had fully risen. Three miles, he estimated, at a blistering pace that left his lungs raw and his muscles shredded.

      They quit their run at the round pen. Quinn caught one of the rungs with his hand, bending at the waist trying to catch his breath. Sidney stood in the center of the pen; a black horse raced around the inside perimeter, kicking up dust and dirt clods. They pelted his chest, and he coughed on the sandy clouds, but he didn’t have the stamina to move away.

      “How’d the leg do?” Sidney asked her husband.

      “Slowed my pace a bit. Not as much as Quinn, but I think the leg’ll be good once I’m used to it.”

      “Asshole,” Quinn huffed out.

      Boomer grinned.

      “Language.”

      “’S okay.” Quinn straightened, his lungs catching up with his oxygen deprivation. “I’ll add my dollar to the two Boom owes the jar.”

      “Hey!” Boom socked him in the shoulder. It mostly didn’t hurt. “Grab a shower and change. I’ve got a truckload of hay that needs delivered before that rain hits.”

      Quinn glanced toward the mountains and the gray clouds building up behind the ridgeline. As fast as those clouds were moving, chances were, they and the hay were getting wet.

      Not twenty minutes later, Quinn directed Boomer as he backed the flatbed trailer beside the stack of square bales in the hay barn.

      Boomer tossed Quinn a pair of leather work gloves and hopped on top of the stack. “Try to keep up.” The good-natured challenge hung in the air.

      Bale after bale rained down, in solid, sixty-five-pound rectangles. And bale after bale, Quinn grabbed the string binding the hay together with one hand and used a hay hook with his weaker hand. When the grip on his right hand gave out, he tossed the hook and wedged his tingling fingers behind the tight string to help his grip, and kept stacking.

      He kept up with Boomer. Barely. By the time they had the trailer loaded and the hay tied down, all those long runs in full gear during his boot camp days almost seemed luxurious.

      “Tired, kid?” Boomer said, as he doffed his cowboy hat and swiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

      “Hardly.” But Quinn’s chest rose and fell as quickly as when they’d finished their run. By the smirk on Boomer’s face, he hadn’t swallowed the lie.

      “All that lazing around has made you soft.” Mostly Boomer was joking, but the truth in his words rang as crisp and clear as a church bell on a cold, winter day.

      It proved how ill prepared Quinn was to pass his physical. He massaged the sore muscles in his damaged forearm, worked his wrist this way and that, and straightened then bent his fingers, hoping that in a month he’d be strong enough to keep his career from slipping through his weakened grasp.

      Pepita rounded the corner of the hay barn with a backpack over her shoulders and a plastic grocery bag in one hand. “Breakfast tacos!”

      Boomer took the bag from her and planted a quick kiss on her temple. “An angel of mercy.”

      He grabbed a fat roll of tinfoil-wrapped taco, handed the bag to Quinn. Boomer peeled the foil back. Steam rose, and Pepita grabbed his wrist and bit down on the corner.

      “Whoa, there, hotshot, you had your breakfast.”

      “Si, trienta—I mean, thirty minutes ago.” The way she said it, made it sound like thirty minutes was a lifetime. She had a funny accent, somewhere between Spanish and too many 90210 reruns.

      “Did you finish your homework?”

      “Weekend,” she said, the duh implied. “I didn’t have any.”

      “That book report is due next week. Read ahead.”

      Pepita tucked her thumbs into the straps of her backpack and rolled her eyes as she backed СКАЧАТЬ