LITMIR.BIZ

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter One

      Sara Morgan wasn’t the kind of woman who frequented bars, especially Western bars at the edge of town. But she had to find Graham Kincaid, had to convince him to help her. Too much was at stake.

      She’d checked around. His name kept coming up, but finding him was proving to be more difficult than she’d anticipated. The desk sergeant at the Scottsdale police precinct he worked out of had told her very little, except that the elusive detective was on leave. She’d learned that he had a ranch in Cave Creek just north of Phoenix, but she didn’t know exactly where, and his phone number was unlisted.

      Information on the almost legendary lawman was scarce and spotty. Nearly everyone she questioned seemed very protective of his privacy, almost reverential in discussing him, as if he were some sort of folk hero who belonged to them. Not one to give up easily, Sara had persisted until she’d learned some of his habits and the names of his favorite watering holes. It wasn’t that he was a drinker, she’d been told, but rather that he loved to play pool. And Shotgun Sam’s was the in place for pool addicts.

      The ample parking lot was nearly full, and the thrumming music drifting outside was loud enough to jar her teeth. Sara pulled her white BMW into the last place, next to a lamp post. Hopefully, under that small splash of light, no one would steal her hubcaps.

      Then she spotted them—no less than six motorcycles with more chrome than an Art Deco showroom. Just her luck, a biker bar.

      As she got out, Sara noticed there were no other buildings nearby, only open desert for miles in all directions. Terrific, she thought as she hit the button on her keychain to lock her doors. The middle of nowhere.

      Residual heat from the hot June day shimmered up from the paved parking lot. Deciding there was safety in numbers, she made her way to the double doors.

      A framed newspaper ad off to the left caught her attention. “Five-star rating for Shotgun Sam’s where the burgers are thick and juicy, the beer cold and icy and the pool tables always humming.” If this was Graham Kincaid’s kind of place, she had to wonder what sort of man he was.

      “Kincaid’s the best,” she’d been told more than once. “He could find a needle in a haystack, and he always gets his man, dead or alive,” the desk sergeant had added. Sara shuddered at that thought and went inside.

      The polished mahogany bar stretched along the left wall where a couple of old-timers slouched on stools, nursing their beers. The lighting was dim except for neon roped around the mirror behind the bar. Busy waitresses in cowboy hats, short denim skirts and white boots carried loaded trays between the dozen or so tables, all occupied. In the far right corner, a three-piece band frantically played a fast one for the half-dozen couples gyrating on the tiny dance floor. On the far side of that was an archway leading to the pool tables where several men were clustered.

      For a Monday night, Shotgun Sam was doing all right.

      Sara was both anxious and weary as she stepped up to the bar and waited. After a few impatient moments, the very tall, very bald bartender with a handlebar mustache and a white apron wound around his generous torso, noticed her and ambled over.

      “What can I get you, little lady?” he asked, his voice soft when she’d been expecting booming. His nametag read Oscar.

      “I’m looking for Graham Kincaid,” Sara told him. “Is

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