Shiloh parked her truck at the end of a long line of similar vehicles outside the Prairie Dog Saloon. Most of the pickups were dusty, with gun racks visible in the back windows and tool boxes spanning their beds. There were only two that were washed: a gray Dodge Ram that looked like it had been used hard, and a bright-red Ford F50 that gleamed beneath the sun, damn near enough to burn her retinas. No tool box on that one, but, oh yeah, the gun rack was there.
The Dog, as the bar was called by the regulars, was a long-necked Budweiser kind of place with a dark interior, booths and tables scattered in the open area, and a bar that stretched across the back wall. Pool tables and neon beer signs vied with televisions turned on to muted sports channels. Country music filled the area. A bartender poured drinks and swabbed down the bar, while a thin woman in tight jeans and a black T-shirt with the logo of THE DOG stamped across the back worked the tables.
Shiloh searched the dim interior but didn’t see Kat among the patrons, who sat on stools near the bar or crowded into booths and around tables, deep into conversation over pints and peanuts. A couple of guys were arguing over a baseball play, and she thought she recognized them as two ranch hands who had been around town years before. It took a moment, but she came up with their names. One was Scott Massey, who Beau had said worked with him at the Kincaid ranch. He’d done something with the rodeo too, back in the day. Like Kat’s brother, Ethan Starr, who’d been a bronc rider until he’d broken one too many bones. Massey wore a Dodgers baseball cap as he huddled over his beer. The second man was harder to recognize, but she felt she’d seen him somewhere before. He slid a glance her way, and when their eyes met she felt a little shiver run down her spine. Hank Eames was peering at her from beneath the brim of a black Stetson. He had always nailed people with a cold, fish-eye stare, ever since he got injured in a tractor accident. He had worked for the Kincaids, the last she knew, and he was also a friend of Larimer Tate’s.
As if he read her thoughts, he smiled coldly at her with a hated recognition.
She turned away first and almost made her way back out the door, but she held her ground, scolding herself for her cowardice. She had nothing to worry about. As far as she knew, Hank wasn’t dangerous. But anyone associated with Tate gave her pause. She’d even questioned her own mother’s sanity for staying with such a slime.
As Hank turned back to the game, she noticed two men playing pool, their long-necked bottles resting on a nearby table, billiard balls clicking with each shot.
She’d never been in The Dog; she’d been too young to patronize the bar before she left, but this was the place Larimer Tate had called home more often than not. Her stomach turned at the thought, but she told herself to bury the past. If she could. Living on the same plot of land as his son made it difficult at times.
“Shiloh?” A deep male voice caught her attention.
She jerked involuntarily as she spied one of the men who had been playing pool approaching. “Shiloh Silva?” He was still carrying his cue in one hand, while his opponent sent a withering glance his way, returning his stick to the rack mounted on a plank wall.
He was vaguely familiar, slightly older than she was, but she couldn’t place him. His jaw was covered in a three-day growth of dark beard, and his skin was dark, from hours in the sun.
“We went to school together,” he said. “A long time ago.” He waved to the passing waitress. “Mellie, can you get me another?” He jiggled his empty at the waitress. “And one here, for my friend.”
“I’m meeting someone,” Shiloh interjected, just so he didn’t get the wrong impression.
With a lift of his shoulder, he said, “It doesn’t hurt anything to have a beer before he shows up.”
“She,” Shiloh interjected.
“All the better. We can sit here, and you can watch the door for your friend.”
She hesitated.
His smile was dark, his eyes a bit dangerous. Dressed in a western-cut shirt and faded jeans, he stuck out his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Rafe.”
Now it clicked. “Rafe Dillinger.”
“That’s right.”
Rafe was some kind of distant Dillinger cousin, a black sheep of the family. He’d been ahead of her in high school, at least when he attended, but everyone knew Rafe as the bad boy of Prairie Creek. He and Courtney Pearson had been an item for a while: two delinquents in love. She shook his hand carefully.
“You’ve been big news around here,” he said. “Or at least you were awhile back. I’ve seen pictures.”
Her skepticism must’ve shown on her face as he went on, “And I heard about your mom. It’s still a small town.” He slid into one side of a booth, she opposite him, just as the waitress delivered two frosty glasses and a couple of beers to the table. “Put it on my tab, darlin’,” Rafe said, and Mellie cast him a saccharine smile. To Shiloh, he said, “Sorry for your loss.” Ignoring his glass, he took a long swallow from his bottle.
She pulled her bottle closer. “Doesn’t she get offended when you call her something like ‘darlin”?”
“Probably.” His lips twisted into a smile that said, “Who the hell cares?” Another swallow. “I can’t spend my time worrying about what does or doesn’t offend others. All that PC bullshit. Not into it.”
“So . . . I hear there’s a wedding coming up.”
He didn’t respond.
“Colton and Sabrina?”
He looked away, and Shiloh realized he might be persona non grata or the fallen son of the family. “There’s a good chance I’m not invited.” And this time there was no humor in his eyes.
“Yeah, well, I’m not invited either,” she said, wondering why she bothered being nice to Rafe Dillinger, who’d barely acknowledged her back in high school. “I have to admit, I’m surprised to see you here. I heard you skipped town too.” She didn’t add that she’d heard he’d left to escape charges in the abduction of Courtney Pearson.
“I left, I came back, I left again.” He shrugged. “I guess this town’s like a bad addiction. Hard to shake it.”
At that moment, the guy he’d been playing pool with stopped by the table and slammed a couple of twenties onto the hard surface. “There ya go,” he said a little bitterly. “I’ll get ya next time.”
“If there is one.”
The opponent, shorter than Rafe by a couple of inches, was muscular, tightly compact, with a horseshoe mustache and deep-set eyes. Shiloh thought she recognized him too, but she couldn’t place this one.
“Oh, there’ll be one,” he blustered. “And next time, I’ll be collecting.”
“Wouldn’t count on it.”
The guy finally looked at Shiloh, and his eyes narrowed at her.
A warning bell went off in Shiloh’s brain.
“Shiloh Silva,” Rafe introduced. “You remember Jimmy Woodcock?”