Clay: Armed and Dangerous (12 page)

He pulled up, wiped sweat off his face with his glove, and tossed Clay a half-sheepish
glance. “Sorry. My temper gets away from me sometimes. I got it from my father.”

Clay sat down on the floor outside the closet where the water heater was trying to
refuse to fit. “Rylie’s mentioned a little about that guy. Sounds like a real prince.”

“Dad was a shit, but I know he tried to love us.” The focus in Levi’s blue eyes sharpened,
and Clay thought he caught a trace of U.S. Marshal in the man, the natural sureness
of a hunter who could stalk and kill bad-ass villains without much remorse. “How about
you, Wayland? You got a temper?”

And just like that. I’m the one being interrogated.
Clay knew the man wasn’t posturing, but he was definitely making an implied threat.
Or, more like a promise. It didn’t rattle or offend Clay in the least. He appreciated
the fact that Rylie’s brother looked after her. “I’ve got a little bit of a temper,
but my job requires me to keep a cool head.”

Not good enough.
Clay could tell by the frown stamped on Levi’s serious features. “Would you ever
turn that temper on my sister?”

“Never.”

That, Clay saw, was good enough. The frown eased into a more relaxed expression as
Levi heard the truth in Clay’s voice. He stepped out of the closet and sat on the
floor across from Clay, and for a few seconds, they gulped iced tea in silence.

“Ry’s tough as nails,” Levi said, looking directly into Clay’s face, “but she’s soft,
too. I take it personal when somebody steps on her.”

“Won’t happen. Not with me.” Clay put his tea down, his muscles tightening as instinct
told him Levi might be on the verge of saying something more important than the whole
big-brother routine.

Levi let out a long breath, then stared up at the ceiling. “She told me about getting
in Francisco Guerrero’s face. I think she may have stepped in it with that asshole.”

Clay felt his tension slowly converting to anger and wariness. “What makes you say
that?”

“He sent some boys around to rattle her... more than once, I think. I headed them
off the last time, even went and had a word with Guerrero.” Levi’s blue eyes drilled
into Clay. “I’m not sure he listened, if you get my drift. Maybe he’d listen to you
a little harder, since you’ve got a badge and a gun to back it up.”

The anger in Clay’s gut grew until he knew his face had to be turning red. He picked
up his tea again, clenching his fist around the glass and fighting an urge to plow
out of there and pound on Guerrero until the sneaky little shit couldn’t bother anyone
ever again. “No problem. I’ll make sure your message gets through.” Levi nodded, and
Clay felt the common ground between them getting firm.

“If he comes after Rylie, I’ll take him down.” Levi’s expression was earnest and intense.
“You can do whatever you have to do to me after that—I’m just letting you know, man
to man.”

Clay put down his tea and stood, and Levi got to his feet and faced him. Clay put
out his hand to the other man, and made sure to keep his gaze steady. “If he comes
after Rylie, I’ll be standing right next to you, Levi.”

Levi hesitated for a second, then shook his hand. “Okay, then. And thanks.”

Clay wanted to tell the guy not to thank him, not yet, but he didn’t want to destroy
the small amount of trust they had just built unless he absolutely had to. He liked
Levi, both as Rylie’s brother and as a potential friend. Maybe even as a deputy if
he could talk the man into living for law enforcement again.

I sure as shit don’t want to arrest him.

Guerrero wasn’t at Arizona Motors South when Clay went looking. He had to track the
bastard down at Arizona Motors West, the lower-rent operation. AM-West was nothing
but a trailer on a lot, with old paneling, ugly orange carpeting, and a loud rattling
air conditioner that fogged up the front windows.

Guerrero had a few thugs lurking around the lot, but they didn’t do anything but nod
at Clay as he closed the front door of the trailer behind him—and locked it. He saw
Guerrero at a desk to his left, and when Guerrero stood, Clay saw that he was wearing
jeans and a white T-shirt, perfect for the neighborhood.

So Armanis his theme only when he’s dealing with an Armani crowd. He’s a chameleon.
He’ll be whoever he has to be to get the job done.

Guerrero came out from behind his desk and shook Clay’s hand, and Clay forced himself
not to break the man’s fingers with his grip.

He didn’t even let Guerrero sit back down before he got straight to it.

He let go of Guerrero’s hand and glared straight at him. “You sent men to the Thorn
Ranch.”

Guerrero’s eyebrows shot up and his jaw loosened, but when he spoke, he sounded like
every word was rehearsed. “I did. I wanted to see if she needed assistance around
the ranch, since she wouldn’t allow me to help her with a rental truck.”

“Bullshit.” Clay got a little closer to him and caught a whiff of strong, expensive
cologne. “You were pissed about how she came at you the other day, and you wanted
to make a point.”

Guerrero held his ground and shrugged, making a clear effort to seem casual despite
Clay’s obvious anger. “I wasn’t happy with her implications, but it’s a free country.
Ms. Thorn has a right to her opinion. In time, I hope to change her mind.”

Clay pointed his finger in Guerrero’s face. “No, you won’t. You won’t talk to her
again even if she tries to talk to you, and you damned sure won’t send any of your
boys around to do your dirty work for you.”

Guerrero backed off a step, then walked away from Clay, went to his desk, and sat
looking at Clay. Clay had that sense again, that Guerrero was adding, subtracting,
multiplying, doing whatever it took to total up everything he was seeing and hearing.
“Is that a personal or a professional request?”

“Personal.” Clay bared his teeth. “Definitely personal.”

Guerrero leaned back in his cheap office chair. “I see.” He let a beat pass. “I didn’t
know she was your woman.”

Clay was too pissed to enjoy the
your woman
comment, but Guerrero was right on the money. Rylie was his, by God, and nobody like
Guerrero would be going near her again. Ever. “The men who went to the ranch—”

“Won’t be an issue again.” Guerrero’s voice rang with certainty, but Clay didn’t sense
any fear. Mild surprise, maybe, and an atypical stiffness to his posture, but no fear.
“This visit is unnecessary, Sheriff. Levi Thorn, Rylie’s brother, chased my men away
before they could explain why I sent them, so that was the source of the misunderstanding.
He came to town and spoke to me at the South showroom, and I thought we had struck
a deal to call things even and let the situation rest between us.”

Clay put both hands on Guerrero’s desk and leaned toward the man. “Levi might have
struck a deal. I didn’t. You stay away from Rylie Thorn. You keep everyone you know,
everyone who works for you, and everyone who even looks like you away from the Thorn
Ranch. Anything else happens on that property—or off of it—if it involves Rylie, I
will take it personally.”

A few muscles in Guerrero’s face twitched, and his words came out a little high and
tight. “I heard you were such a clean man, a solid officer, unlike your predecessor.
I never imagined you would threaten people.”

Clay heard the growing understanding in the man’s tone, and he eased off the desk.
“There’s a difference between threats and promises.”

Guerrero stared straight at him, and Clay saw abject rage flash across his dark eyes,
followed—weirdly enough—by something like understanding and grudging respect. Guerrero
seemed to debate himself again for almost half a minute, then he spoke, this time
in a level, low voice.

“Though I’m widowed, I’m still a family man. In all of my affairs, my children have
no stake. I assume the families of your deputies— and your woman—also stay out of
our business ventures. In my opinion, warriors are warriors, but families are off-limits.”

Clay couldn’t do anything but look at the guy. Was he serious? Did he honestly think
Clay would buy that load of shit?

Guerrero seemed to sense Clay’s dismissal, because he went the next step, leaning
forward toward Clay to make his point. “My father didn’t hold to that, and my brothers
don’t, but I’m an old-fashioned businessman, Sheriff Wayland. You might not agree
with my activities, though they are perfectly legitimate, but I assure you, you will
not have an issue with my methods. Douglas is my home, and home and family have meaning
to me.”

Clay didn’t know what to say to that. The guy sure as hell seemed serious, but Clay
couldn’t let himself forget that he was speaking to a living, breathing chameleon.
Guerrero was more than capable of saying exactly what he wanted to hear, and making
it stick. Sociopaths were talented that way, charming on the surface, all the while
waiting like a deranged cobra for the first chance to strike.

For now, all he could do was glare at the snake, study the snake, and try to learn
its movements. He had a lot of intel to gather before he’d have a shot at lopping
the head off this particular viper.

Clay clenched his fists, then made himself relax. “Fine. I’ll trust that we have an
understanding. Don’t make me regret that.”

Guerrero’s nod was close to nonchalant, but he didn’t quite pull it off. “Good day,
Sheriff.”

“Good day, Mr. Guerrero. I can see myself out.”

It was late Monday afternoon by the time Clay drove his truck to the sheriff’s office,
still seething over his meeting with Guerrero. That silky little prick really got
under his skin. Maybe he shouldn’t have tipped his hand so hard about Rylie, but it
wasn’t like he was keeping her a secret. Soon enough, the criminal element in Douglas
would know all about his interest in her—and he’d have to do what he did today a few
more times.

Rylie would be off-limits. He’d keep making that clear through whatever means he had
at his disposal.

Between that and the fact he hadn’t been able to convince Rylie to go out with him
during the week, Clay was in a pisser of a mood. How the hell was he supposed to wait
until Friday to touch her again? His body throbbed just thinking about her. He guided
his truck into his designated parking spot, and he clenched his jaw as he threw the
vehicle into park, got out, and headed into the building that housed his office.

Even though he’d spent most of the day helping Levi Thorn put in the heater, Rylie
had managed to avoid alone time with him at every turn. Finally, just before he took
off to confront Guerrero, he’d told her he’d be there Friday night to take her with
him to a dinner party at the mayor’s home. He would pick her up at seven, end of story.

She hadn’t spit at him, but damned close.

Apparently it was going to take some work to tame his little wildcat.

As for Levi Thorn, he’d turned the conversation so quickly Clay never got a chance
to ask where he got the money for the water heater. Clay didn’t figure him for a truck
thief, though.

Rylie. She’s clouding your judgment.

Possibility, definitely.
But he didn’t think so.

Clay only nodded to the receptionist as he passed her, then shut the door to his office
a little too hard before settling in at his desk. Brogan’s info was due—and sure enough,
he found Rocky’s e-mails the minute he signed on. He’d checked all these guys out
before, when the cattle rustling started last year, but he’d checked through mainstream
channels. Brogan was something other than mainstream, and he could find stuff normal
reports and file searches withheld. Frowning, Clay went through the facts on each
suspect, one by one.

First up was Zack Hunter, who wasn’t really a suspect in Clay’s mind, but Clay had
spent too many years on the lines not to consider all his options—especially after
Gary Woods, one of his own deputies, had gone bad right after he took the job. Who
knew how many other rats were skulking around the Douglas woodpile? He hated that
he had to consider law-enforcement officers as potential bad guys, but the situation
on the border was what it was. Desperate times made people do desperate things.

But Hunter, he didn’t seem to be one of the desperate people or one of the bad guys,
either. Hunter had a virtually sterling record, first as a sheriff’s deputy and then
as an agent with ICE for the past decade. The only tarnish on the man’s otherwise
shiny profile was a drug deal that went bad while he was working undercover. Hunter
had been seriously wounded and ended up in the hospital for a good month, and the
perp got away with the dope. Internal Affairs had performed a thorough investigation,
but Hunter had come up clean.

His frown deepening, Clay continued on down to the next name.

Guerrero. Brogan had written, “This bastard is six kinds of dirty,” on the sheet above
the printed facts. No record, just a long list of suspected activities, contacts,
and off-the-books dealings. ICE and the DEA had files on him, and so did the FBI.
Interestingly enough, though, there didn’t seem to be any shift in the business patterns
of the drug lord’s car dealerships or cash movements in the last two months. Maybe
the asshole actually wasn’t involved in the thefts.

Wade Larson came next. Several tickets for speeding, and he’d been thrown in the Douglas
City Jail once, after a drunken brawl where the local tavern had been trashed. Larson
had come through for Clay when his own deputy had to be brought down, but he was well
known to be a bit of a hothead and vigilante, taking matters into his own hands when
it came to keeping UDAs— undocumented aliens—off his property. But the man had never
been noted to use extreme measures and had not been cited for anything other than
the brawl and tickets. Sometimes, jerks were just jerks, Clay knew. Still, he felt
a moment of disappointment. Wade had been a good pick for something like this, stirring
up the locals against UDAs, maybe to lobby for even stricter laws and restrictions.