Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three (23 page)

She had maybe twenty minutes if she were very lucky, though likely less before Alejandro descended upon her like a fire-breathing dragon for ditching his ass back at the ranch with the rest of her security detail.

Sam smiled to herself. She was wearing him down. Any day now, she figured he’d up and split back to active duty or snap and lose his shit. Either way, she was ready for him to go. Anything was better than the way he watched her as she cursed and struggled her way through each hour of physical therapy. Or his constant, uncompromising nearness, like a long shadow she couldn’t avoid, no matter how hard she tried.

But she wasn’t so in denial that she didn’t recognize that she hated him precisely because she needed him. Most of her life, Sam hated needing
anyone—
or anything. Self-reliance was best. Being her own master, controlling her own manifest destiny—
those
were the principles she’d built her life around. But being this hurt, taking this long to recover, Sam’d been relieved to discover how much support she truly had in her family and in her team. Everyone had rallied when she couldn’t, surrounding her, supporting her.

Sam’s conflicted emotions brought back the phantoms of Jack and Wes. The last time she’d ever really needed help, Wes had vanished into thin air. And now Jack wanted her to need him, more than anything, but she couldn’t bring herself to do that—
not yet
. A big part of her wanted to reach out to him, to be held and loved and cherished, but she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready to trust anyone like that again. Sam pushed away the needling discomfort, squaring her shoulders. She had limited time to get the information she wanted before Alejandro arrived, pissed off with guns blazing.

The inside of the ramshackle bar was exactly like every honky-tonk that lined the lonely highway from Wyatt Ranch to Houston. As her eyes adjusted to the dimly-lit interior, she catalogued torn vinyl booths, dented metal bar stools, and a wide, scratched old bar that separated her from a wall of second-rate hooch in dull glass bottles. She inhaled the scent of stale smoke and dusty grime, catching the tinny strains of an old Merle Haggard song coming from a rusted Wurlitzer in the corner.

“Well, well, pretty lady. What can I do you for?” the grizzled old barman asked as she walked to the bar. He wore an old leather vest over a faded plaid shirt, his gut nearly busting out the bottom as he wiped down the bar top with an old rag.

“Shiner Bock,” Sam told him as she leaned against the scarred wood counter. Two men huddled at a table nearby, staring at her like they hadn’t seen a real, live, honest-to-God woman in years. Sam watched them out of her peripheral as the barman reached into the cooler for her beer. The men looked to be in their forties and capable enough, despite their obvious drunkenness. She’d bet a hundred bucks they were roughnecks, seasonal floaters who worked the various oil fields or ranches around those parts when there was work to be had. They sat hunched over their drinks, murmuring to each other as she fished out a twenty and dropped it on the sticky counter.

“We don’t get ladies in here too often,” the barkeep told her as he nodded toward the guys, his watery blue eyes apologetic. “Need a glass?” he offered as he slid the bottle in front of her.

Sam popped the cap off the edge of the bar, shaking her head before taking a pull. The beer was crisp and cold, deliciously pleasant after an hour of driving through the arid Texas heat.

“Those boys your regulars?” she asked casually.

“About as regular as folks get around here,” the barman replied with a shrug. “Closest real town’s about twenty minutes away.”

Sam nodded, sipping her beer as the bartender went to make change. She knew from growing up around here that they were in middle of nowhere, flat prairie lands as far as the eye could see. Most folks didn’t grasp the size of a state like Texas. If you spread the land side-to-side you could make a straight line from Chicago to New York, no problem. Hell, most countries weren’t as large as the Lone Star State.

But that also meant if something bad happened to you out here, no one was coming to help you. No one would even know.

She wondered morbidly if her father and brother had been killed instantaneously in the crash or if they’d lain there bleeding out, waiting for a rescue that would never come.

“Here’s your change.”

Sam nodded her thanks. Shaking off the thought she glanced at the jukebox. “You got any Johnny Cash on there?”

The barman shrugged. “Sure do.”

“You can keep the change if you play me a little something.”

He nodded amiably. “Fair enough.”

Sam hobbled to a worn booth in the corner that had been patched over pretty good with duct tape. She sat down facing the front door, keeping the men in her sights. She gave them less than five minutes before those drunk cowboys made their move.

She got less than one.

Sam’d only managed to enjoy a couple swallows of beer before one of the roughnecks sidled up to her booth, his eyes bloodshot and his face creased from years spent under an unrelenting sun. The hot, yeasty scent of sour mash and sweat assailed her as he leaned over her.

“What’s a fine woman like you doing all by your lonesome?” he asked in a bad approximation of charm and good graces. “Looks to me like you could use some company.”

“I’m all set—thanks,” she replied, leaning away from him.

He didn’t take no for an answer. The man slid into the booth across from her, his erstwhile friend loping over like a hyena, a sloppy grin on his face as he blocked her in, his hip just grazing her shoulder as he leaned against the side of the booth. The barman either didn’t care or hadn’t noticed as he browsed over the Wurlitzer.

After weeks of helplessness and struggle, Sam felt the warm tingle of anticipation blooming in her belly. That, coupled with the anger she’d been tamping down since she’d woken up in a hospital bed in Germany, was the first welcome emotion she’d felt in months. She was jonesing for some kind of release—any kind of alleviation of the fury that had been building in her veins. These boys would be as good as any.

“You boys from around here?” she asked, lip curling.

The hyena blocking
her in leaned forward, sniffing her hair. Sam resisted the urge to drive her elbow through his nose, keeping her eyes on his alpha sitting in front of her as she sipped her beer.

“Guess you could say that,” the guy in front of her replied. “You look like a city girl, all slicked up like that.”

“Do I?” she replied noncommittally. She was wearing jeans and an old work shirt, but she knew she didn’t fit around these parts anymore. Hadn’t in years. “I’m just passing through.”

“You know if you’re gonna drive through this here town, you gotta pay a toll,” he told her.

Sam lifted a brow. “No kidding?”

His leer revealed uneven yellow teeth. “Oh yeah.”

Sam took another long pull of her Shiner Bock as the hyena pressed closer. Based on the semi he was sporting, she had a pretty good idea of the toll they had in mind. Distantly, she heard Johnny Cash start up, singing, “Folsom Prison Blues.” Fitting.

“Tell you what,” Sam responded amiably. “You boys answer a couple questions for me, and I’ll buy you a round for your troubles.”

“You buy the next few rounds and we’ll see,” the guy in front of her countered, tossing back his whisky in an open-mouthed gulp.

Sam looked past the hyena to the bartender.

“Can I buy a bottle of whatever these boys are having?” she called out.

The barman looked momentarily surprised, but just shrugged, pulling a bottle from the well. He lumbered over, poured the guys another round.

“You men ever know a guy named Earl Childress?” she asked, handing the bartender some cash. He accepted the money and stepped back like he’d been scalded, averting his eyes.

Bingo
.

The drunk asshole sitting across from her blinked once, and Sam could see that the gears weren’t clicking. She couldn’t tell if it was because he was drunk or if he was just stupid. Either way, she’d have to make short work of him and focus on the bartender.

“Who’s asking?” the hyena asked before a dim light bulb seemed to go off. He looked at his friend sitting across from her. “Hey, wasn’t some guy in here asking about—”

“Bud, shut it,” his friend interrupted sharply before closing a strong, beefy hand over Sam’s wrist across the table. He may have been hammered out of his gourd, but Sam could tell from his grip that he was still mean as a snake. “If you want that kind of information—it’s gonna cost you more than a bottle of booze, little lady.”

The heat of her temper rose up like a hot flame. She’d enjoy hurting this one. She’d enjoy it a lot.

“What’d you have in mind?” she asked.

He narrowed his boozy gaze at her. “Three hundred dollars.”

“Better be good information if you’re gonna try to rob me of that much money.”

“Oh, it’ll be good,” the cowboy promised blearily, licking his lips. “So good I might be expecting a little sugar for my troubles.”

“Yeah,” the hyena next to her added, pressing closer. “Me too.”

Sam nodded, like it all seemed reasonable enough. “You’ll have to let me go if you want to get paid though. Can’t exactly reach my wallet now can I?”

He squeezed her wrist hard once, exerting his authority and trying to scare her before letting go. She
hated
men like that. She’d enjoy teaching this fucker a lesson.

“So how did you know Earl?” she asked calmly as she pulled three crisp bills from of her wallet. She tucked the bills neatly under her beer bottle.

“Money first,” the guy replied, staring at the cash. “Talkie talkie later.” He lunged toward the cash, and Sam anticipated the move, smashing the bottle down on his hand so hard, he yelped and snapped back, cradling his broken fingers.

They hyena lurched forward, reaching for the cash, and Sam helped him along by grabbing the back of his neck and slamming his head into the table. She rose slowly, leaning against the table for support as she mashed the hyena’s scruffy cheek against the tabletop. He immediately tried to rear up, knocking the whisky bottle and empty glasses over. Sam rapped him hard in the temple with the bottle, knocking him out cold.

“You crazy bitch, you broke my hand!” the guy across from her cried out, clutching his hand. Sam unceremoniously pushed his unconscious friend off the table with her cane. His head bounced against the floor like an overripe melon.

“Yeah, I did,” Sam replied calmly. She was winded but exhilarated—all her senses heightened. She felt adrenaline licking through her veins like a fix. “And just so you can’t say I didn’t warn you, I’ll do a helluva lot more than break your hand if you don’t start answering questions to my satisfaction. Earl Childress,” she repeated calmly. “What do you know about him?”

His mouth opened and closed like a fish, eyes unfocused with whisky and pain as he gripped his useless and swelling hand. She wondered briefly if she’d have to break his other hand to get him to talk.

And that’s when she heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun racking a round just a few feet away from her.

“Don’t know who you are, ma’am, but I don’t need any kind of trouble in my bar,” the bartender told her, holding a big, handsome Ithaca at his side like he knew exactly how to use it.

Sam met his eyes. “Seems to me like you had no problem with two drunk assholes against one woman just a few seconds ago. Now you care about
their
well-being? Hardly gentlemanly of you,” she pointed out.

“All I saw was two guys chatting a pretty lady up,” the bartender replied. “You broke a patron’s hand and knocked another man with a beer bottle. I’d say you had the situation covered. Now you best be going—and I ain’t asking.” He lifted the shotgun fractionally.

“Tell me what you know about Earl Childress and I’ll go.”

“You’ll go now,” the bartender growled, stepping forward.

“She’ll go when she’s goddamn good and ready.”

Sam smiled slowly as she saw Alejandro and another member of her security detail round the bar like shadows, each holding 9mm Berettas. They must have come in from the back. Smart. She couldn’t resist peeking at her watch. He’d arrived in fifteen minutes, about five minutes under what she’d thought he’d take to track her down. Impressive.

“Put the shotgun on the bar slowly,” Alejandro ordered the barkeep, his voice hard and angry. He looked like a cowboy in the jeans and shit-kickers he’d taken to wearing around the ranch, but there was no mistaking the military precision with which he held his weapon. The bartender saw the
don’t-fuck-with-me
signals that Alejo was exuding like a neon sign, and complied quick enough.

The drunk asshole in front of her blinked at the scene unfolding in front of his eyes, trying to comprehend it all even as he clutched his swollen hand. He squirmed sideways like a horseshoe crab, trying to slide out of the booth, but the guard with Alejo pointed his Beretta at his head as he made a move.

“Who the hell are you?” the bartender asked.

Sam considered him calmly. “The woman who’s going to teach you another lesson in manners if you don’t start answering my questions.”

“Look, I don’t want any trouble in here—” he started, hands up in the air.

“Then tell me what I want to know.”

“Earl was just the town drunk. He worked, tooling on some of the rigs. Couldn’t hold his drink for shit, but he was basically harmless,” the bartender told her, like he couldn’t imagine why she’d give a damn about some bum who used to frequent his bar. “It’s the same as what I told that reporter—”

“What reporter?” Sam asked, head snapping around.

“The one who came in here, asking the same question,” he replied, agitated. “I told him they put ole’ Earl away for drunk driving. Said he killed some oil tycoon and his son, but I served that poor sonofabitch myself the night it happened. He was
way
too gone to drive. Could barely stand on his own. I told that reporter there was no way in hell Earl could’ve gotten his shit together enough to walk, much less drive—”

“What was the reporter’s name?” Sam interrupted as she pushed up on her feet.