“Good morning, Jess. Where’s Redwing? Isn’t he going to eat breakfast with us this morning?”
Jess grinned slyly as he slung a leg over the adjacent bar stool. “Maggie is seeing that Daniel gets fed.”
The deputy had married Jess’s widowed sister-in-law three weeks ago. Quito had barely been released from the hospital and had still been wearing drain tubes at the time, but he’d managed to sit on the church pew long enough to see the pair exchange their wedding vows. The wedding had been one of the happier moments he’d had since he’d been shot.
Quito chuckled. “Oh, yeah, sometimes I forget he’s a newlywed.”
“Well, it was quite a shock to see the guy walk down the aisle. I thought he hated women.” Jess grunted with amusement. “Little did I know.”
Betty reappeared with Quito’s coffee along with another cup for Jess. She took Jesse’s order and hurried away to a customer who was motioning for her attention.
Quito took a sip of the sustaining caffeine then glanced over at his friend and fellow lawman. “Don’t suppose you’ve had any new leads come into your desk. Leads about the shooting, that is,” he added, even though he figured Jess understood.
The other man glumly shook his head. “Not anything credible. We’ve had all sorts of people saying they saw a black Dodge with heavily tinted windows in the area the day you were shot, but no one has any idea of the tag number. One guy thinks it had Nevada plates, but hell, the thing could have been rented.”
Quito shook his head. “I doubt it, Jess. Pickup trucks aren’t big rental vehicles. A person wouldn’t need a truck, he could shoot out of a car just as easily.”
Jess shrugged. “Yeah, but in a truck the shooter would be sitting up higher and have a better view at the target.”
Quito resisted shuddering at the fact that he’d been the target. “That’s true.” He took another sip of the coffee and rubbed the palm of his hand against his brow. It came away wet even though the room was air-conditioned. “You know, Jess, I lay awake at night—wondering who the hell hates me enough to want me dead. I can’t think of anyone. Or maybe I just don’t want to think any of my friends isn’t really a friend.”
Jess shook his head. “Listen, Quito, I know what you’re thinking—what you’re going through. It doesn’t do any good to let yourself start getting paranoid about everyone around you.”
More than a year ago, Jess had also been shot while investigating a murder. The bullet had knocked him over into a deep ravine and the fall itself had nearly killed him, not to mention all the blood that he’d lost. Thankfully they’d eventually found the shooter and a jury had sentenced him to many long years in the penitentiary.
“You’re right,” Quito replied. “I just need to keep my eyes and ears open. That’s all.”
“And you need to get completely well before you start working ten to twelve hours a day,” Jess told him. “Bet the doctor has already given you those orders.”
Quito nodded. “Don’t worry, Jess, I’m taking things slow. Well, as slow as I can.”
From the other end of the busy diner, Betty appeared through a set of swinging doors. She was carrying a tray loaded with two platters of breakfast food and she headed straight for the two San Juan County lawmen.
“Here you go, guys.” She placed the steaming food in front of them. “I’ll get you some more coffee. Want anything else?”
The two men both assured her they were content and they dug into their eggs and biscuits. As they ate, they continued to talk about the few leads they’d had on Quito’s shooting before they finally turned their attention to a recent rash of burglaries.
Jess had just finished the last bite on his plate when his pager went off. After he checked the message, he told Quito he had to go and threw down a bill large enough to pay for several meals.
“Hey, this is too much money!” Quito called after him.
Jess waved a hand as he hurried out the door. “You can buy next time.”
He gave the bill to Betty and she went to the cash register to pay both men out. While he waited for her to return with the change, he sipped the last of his coffee and glanced around the long room. It was seven-thirty and the place was jammed with customers. A nonsmoking policy had never been enforced in the eating place and the blue-gray clouds waved and dipped through the air as diners ate and read the Farmington Daily.
Betty got caught at the register and ended up waiting on several customers before she finally returned with Quito’s change. As she counted the change out to him, she said with a wide grin, “Looks like Jess was feeling generous this morning. Guess that’s what living with Victoria does to the man. When are you ever going to find yourself a good woman, Quito?”
Just as he started to tell her there weren’t any good women who’d put up with him, the cowbell jangled and Betty eyed the potential customer with great interest.
“Uh—maybe that’s her right there,” she murmured under her breath.
Quito slowly looked over his shoulder and immediately felt as though someone had smashed him in the gut.
Dear God, it was Clementine Jones!
Without even glancing his way, she walked past him and eased into an empty booth. For a moment, as Quito watched her settle herself on the vinyl seat, he thought his lung must have collapsed again. He couldn’t breathe in or out and his heart was racing, tripping weakly against his busted ribs.
“Sheriff? Is that someone you know?”
The question had come from Betty and he looked around to see the waitress was still standing across the counter from him. Her curious gaze was wavering between him and Clementine.
“Yeah,” he said grimly. “I thought I knew her.” He adjusted the brim of his gray Stetson and slid from the bar stool. “Excuse me, Betty. Oh, here you go.” He tossed an extra nice tip on the table and walked away from the bar.
Clementine didn’t notice his approach. She was too busy folding away her designer sunglasses and stowing them in a leather handbag.
Once he was standing at the side of her table, he said in a low voice, “Hello, Clementine.”
The greeting caused her head to jerk up. Recognition flashed in her eyes and just as quickly her rosy-beige skin turned the color of a sick olive.
“Hello, Quito.”
His nostrils flared as he tried to draw in the oxygen his body was craving. Clementine Jones was as beautiful, no he mentally corrected himself, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her waist-length hair was straight and glossy and the color of a west Texas wheat field just before harvest time. Eyes as blue as a New Mexican sky were almond shaped and fringed with long dark lashes. Her lips were full and bow shaped, and at the moment naked. The point of her chin was slightly dented and though it wasn’t evident now, when she smiled there was a dimple in her left cheek.
Clementine looked as classy and out of place in this diner, Quito thought, as a Mustang would in Linc Ketchum’s remuda on the T Bar K.
“This is quite a surprise,” he said, “seeing you back in town.”
Her gaze fluttered awkwardly away from his as she shrugged a long strand of hair back over her shoulder. “Yes, it’s been a while.”
“Eleven years is a long time,” he stated.
The idea that he’d kept count had her gaze swinging back to his. Pink color seeped into the skin covering her high, slanted cheekbones.
“How have you been, Quito? Still the sheriff, I see.”
Something