It’s called Gringos, so you should fit right in.”
John Trapper’s remark had been snide, but after the terse phone call when he’d given Kerra a place and time to meet him, she dressed down, replacing the pantsuit she’d worn earlier to his office with a pair of jeans and a plaid wool poncho.
She hoped he would at least shower.
She arrived at the restaurant early, put her name on the wait list for a table, and claimed a stool at the bar where she had a view of the entrance. She hoped for an opportunity to observe him before he became aware of it.
But the instant he walked in, he homed in on her as though by radar with eyes that belonged in a spectrum of blue all their own. Electric. Like neon light. And when he looked at her, antagonism radiated from them.
The hostess greeted him. He gave her a slow grin and said something that made her giggle. She indicated Kerra. He nodded and walked toward her.
He had swapped the wrinkled suit pants he’d obviously slept in for a pair of jeans with knees almost worn completely through. The hems were stringy against the vamp of his cowboy boots. He had on a black leather jacket over a white western-cut shirt with pearl snaps instead of buttons. He wore the shirttail out.
When he reached her, he didn’t speak, just stood there looking down at her. He wasn’t clean-shaven, but he had showered. He smelled of soap. And leather. His dark hair was clean, but he hadn’t tried to tame its natural growth pattern. The thick swirls were as tousled as they had been this morning, and Kerra found herself thinking: Why mess with a good thing?
They continued to stare each other down until the bartender approached. “I’m fixin’ the lady a margarita rocks. How ’bout you, cowboy?”
“Dos Equis, please.”
“Want ’em brought to your table?”
Before she could reply, Trapper said, “That’d be great. Thanks.”
He wrapped his hand around Kerra’s elbow, hauled her up off the barstool, and propelled her toward the hostess, who was waiting with menus the size of overpass signs. She led them to a table for two.
“Do you have a booth?” Trapper asked. “Where we can hear ourselves think?” He gave her a wheedling smile, and she smiled back, and without delay they were led deeper into the restaurant where the lights were dimmer and the mariachi music wasn’t blaring.
Once they were seated across from each other, Kerra said, “Still hung over?”
“The beer should help.”
“Do you get drunk often?”
“Not near often enough.”
To avoid meeting his hostile gaze, Kerra looked around, taking in the strands of Christmas lights strung across the ceiling and trying to think of a topic of conversation neutral enough to alleviate the tension. “When did you move from Dallas to Fort Worth?”
“When Dallas got too far up its own ass.”
The topic wasn’t the problem, she decided. He was. Anything she said would rub him the wrong way. As soon as the cocktail waitress delivered their drinks, she figured she had just as well skip cordiality and get on with it. “You saw it?”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Did you actually use a magnifying glass?”
Before he could answer, a waitress arrived with a basket of tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa. “Ready to order?”
Daunted by the scope of the menu, Kerra opened it and scanned the first page. “So many choices,” she murmured.
“You eat meat?”
He asked as though she would get demerits if she didn’t. She bobbed her head once.
He took her menu from her and handed it along with his to the waitress. “Double fajitas, half chicken, half beef, all the trimmings, split the tortillas fifty-fifty, and I want a side of beef enchiladas, chili on top. Queso’s okay, but don’t come near me with the ranchero.” Then he smiled at her, winked, and added, “Please.”
After the simpering waitress withdrew, he folded his forearms on the tabletop and leaned toward Kerra. No smile, no wink. “I want to know two things from you.”
“Only two?”
“Why’d you come to me?”
“The reason should be obvious. You’re his only living relative.”
“Well, what isn’t obvious, at least to you, is that I’m a dismal disappointment to him. If you’re thinking that my intervention on your behalf will make a dent, you’re sadly mistaken. In fact, my involvement would work against you.”
“That’s a chance I have to take. I don’t have a choice.”
“How’s that?”
“His property is posted. If I showed up on his doorstep unannounced and unaccompanied, he could have me arrested for trespassing before I even introduce myself. If you’re with me—”
“He’ll kick you off his place twice as fast.”
“He can’t. Your name is on the deed. When your mother died, her share bypassed him and went straight to you. You share ownership of the land.”
With anger, he plucked a chip from the basket, dunked it in the salsa, and popped it into his mouth, chewing as he studied her. “You did your homework.”
“You’re damn right I did.”
“By bringing your secret to light, what do you hope to achieve?”
“Achieve?”
“Come on,” he said. “You caught me drunk, but I’m not dense.”
“Is that the second thing you want to know? What I hope to achieve?”
“No. I’ve got that figured.”
“I doubt it.”
“You want to rock the world.”
They were interrupted again when the waitress returned with a sizzling platter of grilled meat, which she set in the center of the table then crowded the side dishes around it. Kerra passed on his offer to share the enchiladas, but they each built a fajita.
“Delicious,” she mumbled around the first bite.
“You oughta come to Cowtown more often. In Dallas you get Tex-Mex with mushrooms.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Second thing I want to know.”
“I’m listening.”
“How long have you been sitting on this?”
“A while.”
“A while. That’s vague enough. Why jump on it now?”
“It’s not as sudden as it seems,” she said. “I’ve been trying for months to contact The Major. He wouldn’t have it, and now I’m out of time. This coming Sunday is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the bombing. Perfect timing. It would make for amazing television.”
“Ratings, all that shit.”
“Shit to you maybe, Mr. Trapper. Not to me.”
“Just plain Trapper.” He ate for a time, then, “You realize that Sunday is six days from now.”
“The clock is ticking. When The Major hung up on me yesterday for the thirteenth time, I looked you up. I’m desperate.”
He stopped eating. “Well, that explains what brought you tap-tap-tapping at my chamber door. Desperation.” When she didn’t deny it, he made a scornful sound and went back to his food. “I already told you, nothing I say will sway him.”
“Fair enough. Escort me as far as his threshold. You do that, I’ll take it from there.”
He bounced his fork against his plate and looked her over in a way that made her feel uncomfortably hot inside her clothes. She reached for her margarita and sipped through the salt rim. “How long did it take you?”
“To figure it out, you mean?”