Texas Outlaw(11)

I notice he says her and she. I was given the name of a Detective Delgado, but I didn’t realize the detective would be a woman.

“Here she comes now,” the chief says.

A young Latina in well-worn cowboy boots strides toward us from the community center. Her tall, slim body is dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, and her dark hair is pulled back from her face in a ponytail that highlights sharp cheekbones. She has a pistol on her hip and the unmistakable no-nonsense air of a cop.

“Ariana Delgado,” she says, extending her hand.

Her arm is muscular and her grip firm. She doesn’t smile.

I introduce myself, and she has a better poker face than her chief does. She shows no hint of recognition at my name.

Even without makeup, she has long, naturally dark eyelashes that most women would kill for. The eyes themselves are intensely big and beautiful, with deep coffee-colored irises. I can’t take my eyes off them—or her.

No, I hadn’t expected Detective Delgado to be a woman—and I damn sure didn’t expect her to be so good-looking.





Chapter 13



AS I STAND talking to Chief Harris and Detective Delgado, I notice a graying man in his late fifties leaving the community center for the Rio Lobo Record building. He’s studying me with the intensity of a reporter on deadline. He’s carrying a small reporter-style notebook in his hand, but with the staff limitations on a local weekly, he might be the editor or even the publisher.

I’m relieved that he doesn’t stop to talk. I’ve always had a frosty relationship with the media.

Harris waves over four other men who are also leaving the community center.

“This is the Texas Ranger you were telling us about,” one of them says.

The men, all good old boys over the age of sixty, introduce themselves as members of the town council. Prominent community members.

Big fish in a little pond.

There’s Fred Meikle, who owns the restaurant Good Gravy and looks like he eats every meal there, with extra gravy. Troy Sanchez, a Mexican American with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache, owns the gas station I passed. Kirk Schuetz is a retired rancher whose son runs the family business now, though his strong handshake and callused hands signal that the oldest of the four could still put in a long day of work. Council chairman Rex Kelly is a redheaded Irishman who runs a construction business in town but doesn’t look like he’s swung a hammer himself in years.

“You had a long drive today,” Fred says to me. “You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“Well, all right, then, let’s all go over to Good Gravy and get this boy some supper.”

“There’s a quorum of you present,” Ariana says to the men.

She’s citing the open-meeting law. If the four of them hang out together outside of a posted place and time, they’ll be violating it. The whole point of the law is to keep elected officials from doing backdoor dealings out of the public eye.

Troy Sanchez looks like an unruly middle schooler who’s just been reprimanded by his teacher. Fred Meikle looks tempted to lecture Ariana on the importance of showing a Texas Ranger some hospitality. His expression says that surely a reasonable Ranger would know she’s making something out of nothing. Schuetz, the rancher, has turned his hateful glare from me to her.

“She’s right,” Rex, the chairman, finally says, breaking the awkwardness. “I’ve got to get home anyway.”

“I’m not hungry,” Schuetz says in a tone that suggests he’d rather go shovel horseshit than eat a meal with the likes of me.

“That leaves two of us,” Fred says. “That ain’t against no laws. Let’s get something to eat. We’ll tell you everything you need to know about our beloved little town.”

Ariana excuses herself, saying she’ll brief me first thing in the morning. She heads toward a motorcycle parked over by the police station, fires up the bike, and rumbles out of the parking lot.

The truth is, I’d rather be sitting down with her and learning about the case than going to dinner with these guys, but sometimes you’ve got to play nice with the locals.





Chapter 14



THERE ISN’T ANY music playing inside Good Gravy, but when we walk into the dining room, the imaginary movie soundtrack scratches to a halt. As a Ranger, I’m used to stares of awe—Holy crap, that’s a Texas Ranger! But the restaurant patrons are locals wordlessly letting a stranger know, We don’t want you in our town.

Fred Meikle leads us to a table by the front window with a RESERVED placard on the checkerboard tablecloth. The restaurant walls are adorned with mule deer mounts and sports memorabilia of various Texas teams, both college and pro. A row of arcade games stands next to the restrooms, where a couple of kids are playing Big Buck Hunter.

When Fred Meikle tells me to order anything I want, on the house, I insist on paying for my meal.

“It’s the Rangers’ rule,” I say, and that seems to alleviate some of his obviously hurt feelings.

They all order beer, but I drink a Dr Pepper. I don’t want to get too chummy with these guys.

Over dinner, Troy and Fred talk almost nonstop about Rio Lobo. The chief sits quietly and eats a plate of barbecue ribs while they chatter on and on—about the star high school quarterback, a Main Street sidewalk repair, the local market’s overpriced groceries—never once mentioning the reason I’m here.