Page 2 of Deadly Evidence
He shrugged. “Change of plans. They sent me instead.”
Remembering all that had happened at her ranch, her frustration grew. “But the DEA guy I talked to said—”
“He planned to request Agent Sara Hanrahan from the Dallas field office, but she’s been transferred to Fargo.”
Anna cradled the rifle in the crook of her arm and tugged off her buckskin gloves, slapped them against her thigh, and stuffed them in the hip pocket of her Levi’s. “You can’t get her anyway?”
“She’s in the middle of a major case up north.”
He folded his arms across his chest, appearing entirely too resolute, and she gave an exasperated sigh.
“Look, I told people around here that I had acousincoming to stay this spring. No one would have questioned her arrival. There isn’t another female agent?”
“No one who is available for the next several months. You need an agent who isn’t from this part of Texas—someone who can work undercover as a ranch hand and won’t be recognized.”
“But—”
“You also need someone familiar with drug trafficking along the Rio Grande. So you got me.”
He exuded confidence. Control. He probably dealt with bad guys seven days a week and was exactly what she needed.
But how was she going to explain away a guy like this one? He looked like Joe Hollywood, not a working cowboy.
Over his shoulder, she saw her two ranch hands watching them from the machine shed.
Dante Calaveras lounged at the door, his young face filled with suspicion at the arrival of this newcomer. Old Vicente Marquez stood beside him, his gnarled, leathery hands propped on his hips.
As much a fixture on the ranch as the weathered buildings and the ancient saguaro cacti marching across the desolate landscape, Vicente had worked here since her grandfather’s early years.
Now, he mostly cooked meals, ran occasional errands, and helped out in other ways when his arthritis wasn’t acting up. Dante had drifted in six months ago and never left.
Both of them were scowling at her latest “job applicant.”
Dante finally gave an irritable jerk of his head and disappeared into the machine shed, but Vicente started walking toward them.
“Please, come to my office,” she said in a low voice. “Vicente is on his way, and this needs to be private.”
Brady shot a swift, assessing glance at the older man. “You don’t trust him?”
“With my life. But the fewer people who hear this, the better.”
She pivoted and led Coleman across the parking area to the back door of the sprawling adobe ranch house, then through the kitchen and down the hall to her office, where she shut the door behind them.
Coleman took off his hat and sunglasses and held them loosely at his side as he surveyed the room.
Getting a better look at him now, she was even more convinced that no one would ever buy the idea that he’d come here to ride fence, herd cattle, and pitch manure.
His warm brown eyes were intense, assessing, intelligent.
But his wide forehead, solid jaw, and the well-cut lines of his mouth made him look like some up-and-coming newscaster fora major network, not a saddle-worn cowboy drifting from one ranch to the next.
“Nice,” he said, running a hand over the carved back of one of the two horsehide-upholstered chairs placed in front of her desk. “Collect antiques?”
“We live with them, one generation to the next. My family has owned this ranch since the 1800s.”
“You have deep roots, then.”
She gave an impatient wave of her hand. “Look, we need to get down to business, if you’re going to stay. I’m not sure the locals will believe a guy like you would want a low-paying job in the middle of nowhere.”
