Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(46)

It’s disappointment. He’s about to prove the Feds right. He’s about to prove to me that he’s a criminal. But that’s what I’m here for, I remind myself. He is what he is. It doesn’t matter how nice he is, or how attractive, or how he makes me feel.

I quickly punch out:

I like road trips.

Great. Pick you up in an hour.

Where EXACTLY are we going?

This podunk town in the interior. Called Sisters.

I immediately dial Warner’s number, my resignation already taking over whatever stupid fantasies my subconscious may have spun about all this being a big mistake. There’s no thrill in my voice. “Get dressed. You won’t f*cking believe it.”

“I just had it washed, too,” Luke grumbles, deftly steering his Porsche around the potholes as we crawl up the old dirt driveway. “They need to pave this, or some shit.”

“I can’t imagine what that would cost,” I say, not really listening. Too busy taking in the line of trees ahead on this mile-long drive to somewhere unseen. High mountain peaks create a striking background for the vast acreage of fields and trees surrounding us. “Stop for a sec?” I ask, rolling down my window.

He does, and I aim my lens out to capture the view. My instincts tell me that, no matter how this all ends, this picture—full of beauty and tranquility and peace—is one I’ll pull out many years from now, with fond memories. “Who did you say lives out here?”

“A good friend of mine named Jesse. He used to be my roommate.” Rounding the bend, we stop in front of a farmhouse with a big front porch and an old swing that sits empty, save for a colorful quilt stretched across the back. A dog lies at the top of the stairs, his chin resting on the wood as he takes us in, whiskers twitching but otherwise unmoving. “They’ve done some work around here.” Luke’s eyes graze the matching red roofs over the house, garage, and barn.

A row of cars sits in front of the large barn, the shiny black muscle car and dingy yellow farm truck so odd next to each other. Corrals and fence lines stretch out behind as far as the eye can see.

The sound of horses pounding against dirt pulls my attention to our right. “Do they live here?” I point out the two little girls on the backs of galloping thoroughbreds. Several other horses nibble peacefully on the fresh spring grass.

“No. They board horses here.”

I trail Luke to a garage, inhaling the fresh air, absorbing the tranquility. The peace I don’t often find in my life. “It’s beautiful out here.”

Luke’s eyes are hidden behind a pricey pair of sunglasses, but I feel them studying me all the same. “If you like this sort of thing.”

Does he not? Does he want a city girl whose nose twitches at the sight of a horse? Not sure what to say, I finally go with, “You have to admit, it’s nice to visit, at least.”

Slowing his footsteps, he reaches back long enough to give my hand a squeeze. “It is really nice to visit.” Letting go, he cups his hands around his mouth and booms, “Welles!”

A clang sounds, followed by a few curses, and then a moment later, a young guy with a red-and-black checkered shirt and worn jeans streaked with black emerges.

“Boone.” He sticks a dirty hand out.

Luke laughs. “Get the f*ck away from me before you wreck my clothes, you gearhead.” Reaching under the back of his shirt to produce a thick envelope that I didn’t know was there, he slaps it in the guy’s palm.

My stomach tightens. I know an envelope of cash when I see it. And lots of it. Now that I’ve seen it, it’s evidence. It’ll hold up in court. But what has Jesse done to earn that?

“Never could stand getting dirty, could you?” Eyes so dark they look black settle on me, catching my breath for just a moment.

“Rain, Jesse. Jesse, Rain,” Luke says by way of a quick introduction.

“Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but . . .” Jesse holds his up in a blank-faced apology. I get the impression he doesn’t smile a lot. I’ve met guys like him before. They’re smart, hard to read. That tends to make them more dangerous for undercovers.

And then his gaze drifts behind me and he lets out a loud whistle. “Uncle Rust finally gave in to your whining, did he?”

“I earned it,” Luke corrects with a smirk.

Exactly how, I’d love to ask, but I bite my tongue. He’s never said much about the recent “gift,” but by the way he gently shuts his doors and generally babies it, I can tell it’s a source of great pride on his part.

“We can race,” Jesse suggests. So, I’m guessing the black Barracuda is his.

“On these roads? Hell no. But I’ll let you play with it later. So?” He nods toward the garage.

“Come see for yourself.” Jesse leads us in, a slight swagger in his step, suggesting he doesn’t have a care in the world. Or that he has everything he wants. Another glance around this ranch would make me believe it.

At the far end of the spacious garage is an old pea-green Mustang, its engine out and in pieces beside it. Jesse and Luke stop in front of a Corvette with faded red paint and rust panels, its hood up, an array of tools lying all around.

Are these stolen cars? Are they fixing up stolen cars? What exactly is going on? A horse ranch with boarders and children coming in and out, and a small car theft ring in operation right here, out in the open with the doors rolled up? That doesn’t make any sense.