Page 104 of The Texas Murders

On my way out, I stop by a certain office door and give it a knock.

Carlos beckons me in with a broad smile on his face. The last time I was here, we hardly knew each other. This time, I give him a great big hug, holding on tight.

“Careful,” he says. “I don’t want you to rupture anything.”

I laugh and let him go. After the bullet punched a hole through loops and loops of his intestines, he still hasn’t been cleared for field work, but the doctors say it’s just a matter of time before he’ll be 100 percent. At least now he’s back to eating solid foods—and pizza.

“You want to go get a cup of coffee?” he asks.

“Let’s get a beer,” I say. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

He gives me a skeptical look, trying to figure out if I’m serious.

“Gotcha,” I say, grinning from ear to ear.

CHAPTER 97

THE NEXT DAY is Saturday, and I find myself alone on the gun range Dad built on the property. In front of the earthen backstop, I set up a sawhorse and line up some empty beer and soda cans on it.

I leave the windows down on my truck with the radio playing, tuned to our local country station, 99.9 WACO-FM. Willow texted me early this morning and told me to listen. I’m guessing they’ll be debuting her new single.

I stand back, my gun on my hip and my hand at the ready.

I draw and shoot the first can, which bounces away with atingingsound. Drawing my pistol took only about half a second, but it felt glacially slow compared to what I used to be able to do.

As I shoot the rest of the cans, I never miss. And each draw gets a little faster than the one before. But my speed is nowhere near what it used to be.

I holster the pistol, disgusted with myself, and on the radio, the DJ says that Willow Dawes will be up next, on the hour.

I rotate my arm like I used to do before football practice. There’s some stiffness in my shoulder—a little bit of pain—but I push the discomfort away. I take a can and prepare to toss it in the air, to try to shoot it before it falls, but then I get another idea. I dig into my pocket and pull out a quarter. I remember what was going to be the tiebreaker between Ryan and me. Dropping a coin from shoulder height and trying to shoot it as it passed by, just like his hero Jelly Bryce used to do.

Ryan missed.

I forfeited.

And so the tie remained. But no one else is here now—no child who might run into the line of fire.

I hold the coin at shoulder height. I take a deep breath. Focus.

Just then I hear the DJ say,“I’m here in the studio with Waco’s beloved daughter, Willow Dawes.”

I lower the coin. I must have heard that wrong. She can’t be in the studio. She must be calling in from Nashville.

“Willow has been nice enough to give us a sneak peek of some of the songs on her upcoming album,”the DJ says.“Willow, tell us about the first song we’re going to play.”

“It’s called ‘Texas Forever,’”she says,“and my friend Rory Yates helped me write it.”

I stare at my truck, listening in absolute shock.

“You’re talking about the Texas Ranger who inspired a certain song from your debut album?”the DJ asks.

“Yep,”she says, laughing.“We’re still good friends, and the last time I was in town, he and I jammed on this song. He helped me come up with the lyrics.”

When the song starts to play, I’m even more surprised. With a professional band accompanying her lyrics, playing everything from a steel guitar to a fiddle to a piano, the song is a boot-stomping country anthem as catchy as anything on the radio. I won’t be surprised if it’s sung by college kids at field parties and beach campfires for the next decade.

After the song is over and the DJ cuts to a commercial, my phone rings.

“How does it feel to be a country music songwriter?” Willow says, laughing. “I gave you co-writing credit.”

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