“Wha-at?”
He grinned when she pulled her eyes up to his.
Smooth, Sidney, real smooth. Practical Sidney rolled her eyes.
Sidney’s stomach grumbled. At least a part of her was paying attention to something other than the fit of his clothes.
“Food. Big house. Now,” he said, slow and simple as if she’d been clocked in the head with a hoof.
He dropped the hood and they headed toward the big house which really wasn’t that big. Three or four bedrooms maybe. Old enough it could have been original with the small second story added on at some point over the years. Deep porches both front and rear.
As they climbed the rear steps, Sidney saw cabins down the hill. An older log cabin, a shell of a cabin with the roof nearly complete, and two concrete foundations where she assumed two others would go.
“My cabin is down the hill just out of sight.”
She nodded, not knowing what else to say to that, but it didn’t seem like he was expecting a reply.
He grabbed the handle of the screen door and ushered her into a large kitchen, warm with the heat of cooking and full of delicious smells. Eggs, bacon, hot maple syrup, biscuits, coffee. Mmmm…coffee…
The rich scent of fresh ground coffee beans gave her system a small jolt. Her mouth watered and she fought the urge to dig bare-handed into the spread on the table.
“You must be Sidney.”
Sidney did a double take. She’d been so focused on food and coffee she hadn’t noticed the woman in the kitchen behind a bright purple apron. By the woman’s gray hair and sun-worn features, she pegged her to be somewhere in her sixties, but she was solid. Not as in fat, but strong and fit for her age. A stiff breeze wouldn’t blow this woman over—in fact, Sidney got the impression Mother Nature would probably think twice about messing with her.
The woman wiped her hands on her apron and extended it to shake. “Welcome to the Lazy S. I’m Lottie. My husband Dale and I own the ranch. Mac told me so much about you.”
The good and the bad, Lottie’s expression said, but as Sidney gave the woman’s calloused hand a firm pump, she realized that, unlike with Bryan, there was no judgment there. Only the acknowledgment of her situation, and somehow the air suddenly felt lighter, easier to breathe. “Ma’am.”
“Grab a plate and a seat before the piranhas pick the bones clean.”
She didn’t see how that was possible; the long table practically groaned under the weight of the spread. Bryan leaned in and gave Lottie a peck on the cheek as he reached around and stole a piece of bacon off a platter. Lottie swatted his hand, but there was no heat behind it.
“Take that to the table,” she ordered him, indicating the plate of bacon.
He grinned, the slice of bacon sticking out between his teeth.
Sidney took the closest vacant seat. Bryan deposited the bacon in front of her and took the empty seat across the table as the slice disappeared between his lips. She introduced herself around. Dale was at the head of the table. Lottie brought a carafe of coffee and sat to his right. Mac was to his left and beside Sidney. The man on her left was a hand named Santos.
As soon as they were all seated, it was like the feeding bell had rung and everyone dug in and started passing plates. Her stomach growled again, and even over the scrape of forks and knifes Bryan heard it. His eyes lit up and her face flushed. Damn her fair complexion.
Bryan dropped an extra scoop of hash browns on her plate and opened his mouth to comment, but someone knocked on the jamb of the back door. The hinges of the screen door cried out for oil as it opened and a man stepped in.
It was like a scene in an old western, when the cowboy steps into the saloon and all heads turn. The morning sun backlit his large frame as he nearly blocked the doorway. A gun hung at his hip and a wide-brimmed hat covered his head.
“Morning, Sheriff.” Dale stood and held out a hand toward an empty seat at the other end of the table. “Join us.”
The man stepped in, his boots clapping on the hardwood floors as he removed his hat and stood at the end of the table, his gaze stopping on Sidney. The only thing missing from the scene was the jingle of spurs. “New here?”
His face was clean shaven, his brown hair wasn’t short, but it wasn’t long either. The ends curled up over the collar of his tan uniform. He was muscular, and a Kevlar vest added to his bulk.
Sidney stood and offered her hand. “Sidney Teller. I’m the new trainer.”
His eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, like he thought he should know the name but couldn’t place it, then he took her offered hand. It was one of those weak, half-hearted shakes men sometimes give to women. She caught herself before she wiped her hand on her jeans.
“Elmore St. John,” he said.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee?” Lottie held up the carafe.
“Thanks, no.” He fiddled with the brim of his hat, rotating it around and around in front of his body. If he did it any faster, they’d all be hypnotized. “I’ve got a bunch more ranches to stop by today.”
Dale rubbed the thumb and forefinger of one hand down the sides of the silver mustache bracketing his mouth. “What’s wrong?”
Bryan stopped with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth and eyed Mac for a heavy second. Mac sighed. Again it was as if she and Bryan had a conversation with one quick look.
“Have any of you heard of El Verdugo?”
Santos muttered a curse in Spanish. “The Hangman.” His face screwed up at the words like he wanted to spit and clear the foulness from his mouth, only he had better manners than that.
The hat in St. John’s hands stopped turning and he tossed it on the end of the table. “What do you know about him?”
“Bad hombre.”
“What kind of bad?” Mac asked, her eyes flicking to Bryan again.
“He string a rope around your neck and cut off your air, then right before you pass out he loosens rope. Beats you like a piñata. Over and over and over again until you talk. Everyone talks. I had a cousin in Mexico…” Santos cleared his throat, but he didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Bryan’s fork clattered onto his plate and he wiped his mouth. Lottie held her breath and Dale just looked resigned.
“What kind of trouble are we talking about?” Dale said.
“The drug kind of trouble,” St. John said. “El Verdugo makes El Chapo look like the ice cream man.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Bryan said. “We’re what? Seven hundred, eight hundred miles from the Mexico border?”
“Yes, but the Lazy S backs up to thousands of acres of BLM land, Forest Service land, and the rest of the Rockies,” the sheriff explained.
“I guess Fed land is not just for grazing anymore. Uncle Sam not like El Verdugo growing weed on his land?” Santos asked.
St. John shook his head and the corners of his mouth dipped down. “I wish it were just that. Law enforcement has cracked down on the drug corridor up and down I-15 west of the Rockies and I-80 in southern Wyoming. El Verdugo and his men are finding other ways through, or rather, around the checkpoints.”
“They’re packing the drugs across the mountains?” Mac asked.
“There have been reports, indications that they either travel through or have stashes along the mountain range. And weed’s not