Page 18 of Deacon

“Exile is an expensive horse,” I say. “I only got one season from him.”

“You can still breed him. I won’t charge a stud fee,” Jack says.

“Exile is a barrel racer,” I say. “And I won’t sell him until the fall. I don’t sell until the end of the season. I need to get stock of what I have going into winter first.”

“He’s a distance runner, not just a sprinter,” Jack says, undeterred. “I know sooner rather than later, you will need me. Give me Exile, and you have my help, free of charge.”

I know better than to say no. Out of everyone I know, I’ve known Jack Russell the longest. He’s the best gun for hire in the country, and he’s gotten me out of some of the tightest binds in my life. He shows up at the eleventh hour, fires a bullet, eliminates a problem, and he’s gone before the smoke clears.

In that way, he has everyone in his pocket.

He’s also my friend. I might be one of the few people who can genuinely call him that.

“Come up to Ryder Ranch,” I say. “We’ll see if Exile likes you. I don’t sell horses that don’t want to be sold.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Exile loves me.”

“We’ll see.” I shake my head. “You’re a hard man to refuse.”

“It’s my best trait.”

“Can you get me a coffee to go?”

He nods, going to fire up the coffee pot. “You need to go see Jensen Childress about the Hatfields while you’re in the area.”

It’s been a few months since I’ve spoken with Jensen, but he’s a good friend. He’s from Kentucky but now lives and runs a construction company here in South Platte.

“Why?” I ask.

Jack sets a paper cup of coffee down. “Because he built the Hatfield’s house that sits right by your property.”

I flick my wrist to check my watch. “I wonder if he’s home.”

“Make sure to knock before you walk in,” says Jack, yawning. “Last time, I didn’t knock, and there were naked women in his kitchen.”

“Plural?”

“Plural.”

“Interesting.” I pick up my coffee and stand. “You take a look at Exile when the weather breaks.”

“I’ll come up this summer,” he says. “Or fall. I’m busy.”

I nod and step out onto the street to head back to my truck. Snow drifts, wet enough to signal spring isn’t far off.

I’m heading down the main road when I see a familiar sight—the tailgate of Jensen’s construction truck disappearing around the bend. He’s heading up toward the main state route. Making a U-turn, I follow him out of West Lancaster and out onto the flat stretch of road heading east.

It takes him ten minutes to pull up beside a construction site near the road. I bring my truck behind him and get out, but he takes his sweet time.

“Why’re you stalking me, Ryder?” he calls over his shoulder.

The snow is falling harder but not hard enough to worry about. I follow him as he heads up to the foundation of a house with walls, doors, but no siding.

“Jack said you knew about the Hatfields.”

He pushes in the door, turning around. “Yeah, I built their house. What about it?”

He dips inside and I follow. The half-finished house is dusty and smells of pine. It’s fucking cold in here. I push my hands into my pockets and go after him as he takes out a measuring tape and gets to work in the kitchen.

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