LITMIR.BIZ

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make the request even more appealing, he’d been told to offer Pedro his old job back—if he wanted it.

      Of course, that smacked of a bribe, as far as Jason was concerned. And if it was, he’d have to deal with the reality of his oldest brother’s fall from grace—at least, in Jason’s eyes.

      He supposed that a lot had to ride on just what Pedro had to say.

      As Jason’s leather soles crunched upon the graveled parking lot, he hoped that he’d find Pedro here, drowning his sorrows in a bottle. It certainly seemed likely, because drinking on the job had led to Pedro’s discharge from Alvarez Industries. And that was why looking for him in one of the local bars seemed to be the logical first step.

      Jason had always liked Pedro. He’d sympathized with him, too. The poor guy had lost his wife and son in a fire back in 2002 and had never gotten over the loss.

      It was easy to see, especially now, how a man might want to escape painful memories and grief any way he could—at least for a while.

      Jason was tempted to shake his own demons, too—the nightmares of sirens, the blood, the cries. The fact that his focus on business, rather than the road ahead, had caused the whole thing.

      Hell, even his ex-wife had accused him of being so obsessed with work that he was incapable of loving anyone more than he loved Alvarez Industries.

      At the time, he’d wanted to argue with her, but a piece of him had been afraid that she might be right.

      As Jason stepped into the darkened bar, music blared from an old jukebox and hoots of laughter tore through the room, its air heavy with stale smoke and booze.

      For a moment, it seemed as if he’d stepped onto a movie set, and he couldn’t help pausing in the doorway for a beat, watching the people cut loose and have fun. But the sooner he found Pedro, the sooner he could go home.

      When he spotted an empty table, he made his way across the scuffed and scarred hardwood floor. He’d hardly taken a seat when a cocktail waitress with bleached-blond hair approached. He guessed her to be in her late thirties, but it was hard to tell. Nicotine, booze or a hard life had a way of aging a person beyond his or her years.

      She offered him a smile that failed to take the load off her shoulders. “What’ll you have?”

      He wasn’t sure if a bar out in the sticks would carry imported beer. “Do you have Corona?”

      She nodded. “You want lime with it?”

      “Yes, thanks.” He watched her walk away, but not because he fancied her. Instead, he noted the way she rolled her shoulders as if her back ached.

      When she returned, she set his drink in front of him.

      “I’m looking for a man named Pedro Salas,” he said. “From what I understand, he was born and raised in Brighton Valley and had planned to retire here.”

      “Is he an old guy?” she asked.

      “About forty-five or fifty.”

      “That’s pretty young to retire.” She glanced at Jason’s sports jacket, probably noting the expensive fabric, the stylish cut. “Well, unless he’s rich or something.”

      For the first time, he began to realize his hunch might have been wrong, that Pedro might have stayed in California and found another job. But the last time they’d talked, he’d had such a yearning, wistful look in his eyes when he’d talked about ranches and horses that Jason made the assumption that he’d run home.

      “He mentioned that his father used to work on a small spread in this area,” Jason added. “He grew up on the place and went to school here.”

      She seemed to give it some thought, then slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry. The name doesn’t ring a bell. And there’re quite a few ranches in these parts—both big and small.”

      She could have left it at that, but instead, she hung back, as though hoping for an invitation to sit with him, to chat awhile longer, to rest her tired feet.

      But he wasn’t up for company. And even though he wasn’t a loner or a drifter by nature, he’d just as soon finish his beer and then find a room for the night.

      “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

      “No, thanks. I’m good.”

      “Well, my name’s Trina. Just give me a holler when you want another beer.”

      “I will.”

      As she went on her way, he took a healthy chug of the ice-cold Corona and scanned the bar crowd, most of whom didn’t appear to have noticed him.

      There was a part of Jason that just wanted to find Pedro and get a declaration that the attorneys could work with. But rather than flying home immediately after completing the task, it seemed a whole lot more appealing to hang out in a small town like this for a while, in a place where no one knew him or his family, where he’d have the peace and privacy to sort out a few things.

      But he couldn’t afford to take the time away from the office long enough to lick his wounds.

      He supposed Renee, his ex, had been right about him. He was too focused on business. But his family had always been important to him, and his loyalty ran deep. Of course, he wasn’t going to cry in his beer over the divorce—or the accident. Not here, not now.

      Instead, he decided to make his way through the honky-tonk and ask people about Pedro.

      Ten minutes later, he hadn’t learned squat. So far, no one seemed to know the man he’d been looking for. He wasn’t sure if his lead on Pedro had been false or if people had collectively clammed up in a small-town effort to protect their own.

      Either way, neither the aspirin nor the beer had taken the edge off his headache, and he decided to call it a night.

      He reached into his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. After leaving it on the table for Trina, he got to his feet.

      He’d no more than started for the door when a tall, lanky cowboy entered the bar, along with a short, stocky companion. Jason wondered if it was worth talking to either of them, but before he could make a move one way or the other, Trina approached the men.

      When she faced them head-on, she slapped her hands on her hips. “Unless you two are carrying more than counterfeit bills this time, your money’s not welcome here.”

      “You can’t blame that on us,” the chubby guy said. “We got ’em right out of the ATM down at the filling station.”

      “Yeah, right,” Trina said. “Are you going to leave? Or do I have to call security?”

      “You mean that scrawny old geezer you called last time?” The slim one laughed. “He couldn’t throw my ninety-eight-pound granny across the room.”

      Chubby headed for the bar, clearly not listening to the waitress and apparently not worried about whoever provided security at the honky-tonk.

      “I told you to get out of here,” Trina said, raising her voice above the din of music and all the barroom chatter.

      Ignoring Trina’s words and tone, Slim stood tall and threw his chest out. “What do you care, baby? You don’t own the place. And that quarter tip we left after your lousy service was the real deal.”

      Jason scanned the cowboy joint, looking for security or for a sign that someone would back him up, but the jukebox blared with a lively beat and the hoots of laughter continued. So finding someone to step up to the plate and take his side wasn’t likely.

      When Slim grabbed Trina’s arm and gave it a jerk and a twist, Jason’s protective instinct kicked in and he made his way toward them.

      “Why don’t you guys just back off and leave the lady alone,” he said.

      “She ain’t no lady.” Slim released his grip on Trina and

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