little nose, and a few freckles on a perfect oval of a face. Yep, Shelby was somethin’. He’d have to look her up. They had some unfinished business.
Mary Beth eased up on the accelerator only when they sped through half-a-dozen small towns on their way to Bad Luck. Yep, things were going to be better.
She shook another cigarette from the pack lying on the seat between them and punched in the lighter. He helped himself to one of her Marlboro Lights. “So where’re you plannin’ to get a job?”
Ross twisted the rearview mirror in his direction and rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. He’d once been a handsome man, but the years behind bars hadn’t been kind. Deep grooves etched his forehead and the corners of his eyes. He had a few scars from more than one fistfight, a knife wound in his right thigh and if he moved his right arm just so, he could still feel a knot and tight little pain where Nevada Smith had broken his ribs in their last bout.
The lighter clicked and they each lit up. Smoke laced with nicotine filled his lungs. “Don’t suppose you have anything to drink on ya?” he asked. “Hell, it’s been a long time since I had a shot of whiskey or tequila or even a damned beer.”
“Stay away from liquor, okay?” Mary Beth turned the mirror back so she could look into it. “Keep your nose clean, Ross. I don’t intend to make a career out of pickin’ you up from jail.”
“You won’t,” he said fervently, feeling himself key up a bit as they crossed the river that was barely more than a creek this time of year, then sped by the cemetery east of town. Headstones, some beginning to crumble, stood like odd-shaped sentinels beneath a few scattered shade trees. Ross wondered how many new souls had been interned since old Ramón Estevan met his maker. He didn’t bother to ask.
Bad Luck was just over the next rise.
Taking a final drag on her filter tip, Mary Beth glanced in the rearview mirror. “Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“Looks like you already attracted your share of attention. It’s the cops.”
“Damn it all!” He twisted in the seat and spied a county cruiser, lights flashing, behind them. “I ain’t goin’ back, Mary Beth. No matter what, I ain’t goin’ back. They’d have to kill me first!” Adrenalin fired his blood. His heart went wild, beating furiously.
“Just hold on!” She steered the wagon over to the shoulder and the cop’s car, lights still flashing like the goddamned Fourth of July, followed them.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Nothin’, okay? I did nothin’ wrong!” she insisted. “Oh, crap, it’s Shep Marson.”
Ross’s stomach turned instantly sour. He glanced through the grimy back window and saw a face that was etched in his memory. Shep’s features were grim, shaded by the brim of his hat, and a little jowlier than Ross remembered. “What’s he want?”
“We’re about to find out.” She squashed her cigarette into the tray, fluffed her hair with nervous fingers, then stuck her head out the window and called, “What’s up, Shep?”
Ross heard the crunch of boots on gravel. Sweat prickled his scalp and ran down the back of his neck and he wished to God he had a shotgun in the backseat. He’d blow Marson, his badge and cocky, self-righteous attitude five miles south of hell.
Damn it, no! He couldn’t think like that. A dull roar swelled in his brain. His palms began to sweat and itch. Hold tight. Just play it cool. Through clenched teeth, he managed to take a drag.
A shadow passed over Mary Beth’s face, and Ross trained his eyes on the open driver’s-side window. All he saw was the uniform—a torso covered with a tired-looking and stained county-issued shirt.
“Do you know your tags are expired?” Shep asked over the thunder in Ross’s ears. The deputy leaned down so that his face was framed by the window, the brim of his hat nearly brushing Mary Beth’s cheek.
“No—I mean, I just haven’t gotten around to—” Mary Beth
Mary Beth eased up on the accelerator only when they sped through half-a-dozen small towns on their way to Bad Luck. Yep, things were going to be better.
She shook another cigarette from the pack lying on the seat between them and punched in the lighter. He helped himself to one of her Marlboro Lights. “So where’re you plannin’ to get a job?”
Ross twisted the rearview mirror in his direction and rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. He’d once been a handsome man, but the years behind bars hadn’t been kind. Deep grooves etched his forehead and the corners of his eyes. He had a few scars from more than one fistfight, a knife wound in his right thigh and if he moved his right arm just so, he could still feel a knot and tight little pain where Nevada Smith had broken his ribs in their last bout.
The lighter clicked and they each lit up. Smoke laced with nicotine filled his lungs. “Don’t suppose you have anything to drink on ya?” he asked. “Hell, it’s been a long time since I had a shot of whiskey or tequila or even a damned beer.”
“Stay away from liquor, okay?” Mary Beth turned the mirror back so she could look into it. “Keep your nose clean, Ross. I don’t intend to make a career out of pickin’ you up from jail.”
“You won’t,” he said fervently, feeling himself key up a bit as they crossed the river that was barely more than a creek this time of year, then sped by the cemetery east of town. Headstones, some beginning to crumble, stood like odd-shaped sentinels beneath a few scattered shade trees. Ross wondered how many new souls had been interned since old Ramón Estevan met his maker. He didn’t bother to ask.
Bad Luck was just over the next rise.
Taking a final drag on her filter tip, Mary Beth glanced in the rearview mirror. “Oh, shit.”
“What?”
“Looks like you already attracted your share of attention. It’s the cops.”
“Damn it all!” He twisted in the seat and spied a county cruiser, lights flashing, behind them. “I ain’t goin’ back, Mary Beth. No matter what, I ain’t goin’ back. They’d have to kill me first!” Adrenalin fired his blood. His heart went wild, beating furiously.
“Just hold on!” She steered the wagon over to the shoulder and the cop’s car, lights still flashing like the goddamned Fourth of July, followed them.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Nothin’, okay? I did nothin’ wrong!” she insisted. “Oh, crap, it’s Shep Marson.”
Ross’s stomach turned instantly sour. He glanced through the grimy back window and saw a face that was etched in his memory. Shep’s features were grim, shaded by the brim of his hat, and a little jowlier than Ross remembered. “What’s he want?”
“We’re about to find out.” She squashed her cigarette into the tray, fluffed her hair with nervous fingers, then stuck her head out the window and called, “What’s up, Shep?”
Ross heard the crunch of boots on gravel. Sweat prickled his scalp and ran down the back of his neck and he wished to God he had a shotgun in the backseat. He’d blow Marson, his badge and cocky, self-righteous attitude five miles south of hell.
Damn it, no! He couldn’t think like that. A dull roar swelled in his brain. His palms began to sweat and itch. Hold tight. Just play it cool. Through clenched teeth, he managed to take a drag.
A shadow passed over Mary Beth’s face, and Ross trained his eyes on the open driver’s-side window. All he saw was the uniform—a torso covered with a tired-looking and stained county-issued shirt.
“Do you know your tags are expired?” Shep asked over the thunder in Ross’s ears. The deputy leaned down so that his face was framed by the window, the brim of his hat nearly brushing Mary Beth’s cheek.
“No—I mean, I just haven’t gotten around to—” Mary Beth
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