Tyranny (6 page)

K
yle spent the night in the room where his father had grown up. All of his dad's things were gone, and the bed and the rest of the furnishings were different. Even the paint on the walls wasn't the same as when Ted Brannock had lived here.

G. W. had changed all of that after the accident that took the lives of Kyle's parents. At the time, Kyle had thought that was pretty callous of the old man.

By now he had come to wonder, though, if his grandfather had done that more to shield himself from the pain of losing his only child. That certainly seemed possible, although Kyle wasn't going to ask him about it. For one thing, G. W. might have done it without even realizing that was the reason.

Despite his intention of staying in bed late, Kyle woke fairly early the next morning. His sleep had been restless, and he was vaguely aware that it had been disturbed by bad dreams, even though he didn't remember them.

He sat up and swung his feet out of bed, and as he stood up, he felt his muscles aching from the fight with Vern Hummel the day before, as well as having the stun gun used on him. He stretched his back, rolled his shoulders, and swung his arms around to loosen up a little as he went to the window.

When he pushed back the curtain, he saw that the sun was up, but he could tell by the quality of the light that the hour was early. As he turned away from the window, he caught a faint whiff of coffee brewing. For several seconds he stood there looking from the door to the bed as he pondered crawling under the covers again. He might be able to go back to sleep and get a couple more hours.

Then he muttered, “The hell with it,” pulled on his jeans, and padded barefoot to the door.

When he walked into the kitchen, his grandfather was sitting at the table wearing shiny brown shoes, the pants from a brown suit, and a long-sleeved white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He was eating a bowl of cornflakes with a banana cut up into them. A piece of toast lay on a saucer, and a cup of black coffee sat to one side. Kyle had never seen his grandfather eat anything else for breakfast.

“Coffee in the pot,” G.W. said. “Help yourself to anything else you want to fix.” He ate another bite of cereal, then added, “I didn't expect to see you up this early.”

“I didn't expect to
be
up this early,” Kyle said.

He got a cup from the cabinet and poured coffee in it, then added milk from the refrigerator and sugar from the old-fashioned sugar bowl on the table, ignoring the look of disdain G.W. gave him as he did so.

After he had sat down and taken a sip of the hot, strong brew, he went on. “I guess there's something about the air around here that makes it hard to sleep late. You never have.”

“That's true enough. There's always too many things to do around a ranch to lay around in bed.” G. W. finished the cereal and reached for the toast. “Since you're up—”

“I still haven't changed my mind about church.”

G. W. grunted and said, “Suit yourself.”

After he'd had more of the coffee, Kyle got up and put a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster.

“Get a saucer for that,” G.W. said. “I don't want crumbs all over the place. Brings out the roaches.”

“Sure, sure. I'll clean up after myself.” When the toast was done, Kyle brought it back to the table and sat down again. “What about those chores?”

“Already done. The hands and I have been up for a couple of hours.”

“How many men do you have working for you now?”

“Eight. Fella named Roberto Quinones bosses the crew. His wife cooks for the four unmarried hombres. They're good men. All of 'em been with me at least two years. They've all gone into town for mass.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Kyle asked with a slight smile.

“You're gonna be out here alone this mornin',” G. W. said. “Does that bother you?”

“Why should it? You're not expecting any trouble, are you?”

“I don't expect it, but that doesn't mean it won't show up unannounced.”

“I know where the gun rack is with the rifles and shotguns. Are they loaded?”

“An unloaded gun's not much use for anything but a club, now is it?”

“I suppose not.”

“Just be careful,” G.W. advised. “Don't shoot at anything unless you're mighty sure it needs to be shot at.”

Kyle nodded. G. W. lingered for a few moments over the rest of his coffee while Kyle ate both slices of toast with butter and strawberry jam spread on them. There had to be something in the air that gave a guy an appetite, too, he thought.

G.W. put his cup, bowl, saucer, and spoon in the white enamel sink. Kyle followed suit with his saucer, but he hadn't finished his coffee yet, so he took the cup with him. He stood in the open door of his grandfather's bedroom, propping a shoulder against the jamb, as G.W. selected a tie and put it on.

“I never quite mastered that art,” Kyle said as G. W. tied the tie.

“I know. Your dad and I both tried to teach you, as I recall.”

“Well, it's complicated. Anyway, I never had much need for wearing a tie.”

G.W. got his suit coat from the closet and put it on. He said, “There's a time and a place for everything.”

“I suppose.”

G. W. picked up his Bible from the dresser. Church was just about the only place he went without wearing his straw cowboy hat. Kyle got out of the way and let him past.

“I'll be back after the service. Keep an eye on the place.”

“I will,” Kyle promised. He glanced at the gun rack and suddenly felt a little nervous. If the mysterious intruders showed up, his grandfather would expect him to deal with them.

Kyle had never had what anybody would consider a healthy respect for authority, but he didn't want to wind up in a shoot-out with federal agents. That was why he had told G. W. they ought to leave the guns at home when they staked out the pool.

G.W. drove off in the pickup. Kyle picked up the TV remote and turned it on, not surprised to find that the satellite receiver was tuned to a station that specialized in old movies. Randolph Scott was talking to some woman and looked worried.

Probably trying to figure out who he was going to have to shoot later, thought Kyle.

Despite his intention to change the channel, he sat down on the sofa and wound up watching the movie. He wasn't sure how long he had been there when he noticed movement outside. As he sat up straighter and looked through the front window, he saw a car coming along the dirt road toward the house.

He didn't know who drove what around here, except for his grandfather's pickup, so he had no idea who the visitor might be. Whoever it was, there was a good chance they weren't welcome.

Kyle stood up, went to the gun rack, and took down a lever-action .30-30. He worked the lever to be sure there was a cartridge in the chamber, caught the one that was ejected, and thumbed it back through the loading gate.

On the TV, Randolph Scott was making a solemn pronouncement about putting a stop to some badman's rampage. Kyle grabbed the remote and turned it off before he stepped out onto the porch.

When he got there, he realized he was still barefooted and shirtless and wished he had gotten fully dressed. He felt a little more defenseless than he should have, especially with a rifle in his hands.

But it was too late now, because the car came to a stop and the driver's door swung open as the dust settled quickly.

His grandfather's lawyer, Miranda Stephens, stepped out of the vehicle and looked at him. Her expression was serious, but he thought he saw amusement twinkling in her eyes.

He was sure of it when she said dryly, “Don't shoot.”

“I
don't suppose your grandfather is here, is he?” Miranda said, her tone more businesslike now. She wasn't going to allow herself to be embarrassed about this. She was a grown woman. She had seen men without shirts before.

She had even seen men without shoes before.

Although none of them had been brandishing rifles at her.

Kyle lowered the weapon and shook his head. He said, “No, G.W.'s gone to church.”

Miranda winced a little and said, “Oh, that's right. I should have remembered. He's a deacon at the First Baptist Church, isn't he?”

“I guess. I mean, he used to be. They don't have term limits on things like that, do they?”

“No, I don't think so. I'm a Methodist myself, so I don't really know for sure.”

“You're not a big churchgoer, either, huh?”

“I got out of the habit in law school. There's always so much work to do.”

“Speaking of work,” Kyle said, “what brings you out here? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I just had some news about your grandfather's case. Good news, I hope. I wanted to share it in person, but I didn't stop to think that he might not be here.”

Kyle frowned slightly and asked, “Good news on a Sunday morning?”

“I heard back from an old friend of mine I reached out to. He works for a federal district court judge in El Paso. He thinks the judge might be willing to issue an injunction against the IRS to prevent them from seizing G.W.'s ranch until after his appeal has been heard.”

Kyle looked skeptical about that.

“What federal judge is gonna go against his buddies in the IRS? That's liable to get him in trouble.”

“One who was appointed by a Republican president.”

Kyle let out a whistle of surprise and said, “Boy, he
has
been around for a long time, hasn't he?”

“And one who has terminal cancer,” Miranda said solemnly. “
She
is a widow who has no children, so there's not really anybody the IRS can threaten to make her back off. All she's interested in is the law, and what's right and wrong.”

“That's not always the same thing,” Kyle observed.

“No, but in this case it is. My friend thinks we might have an injunction by the middle of the day tomorrow.”

Kyle rested a shoulder against one of the porch posts at the top of the steps and said, “Boyfriend of yours?”

“No,” Miranda replied. Her tone was sharper than she intended it to be. “We were in the same study group in law school.”

“Oh. Okay.” Kyle straightened from his casual pose and went on. “There might still be some hot coffee in the pot. You want to come in and wait for G.W.?”

Miranda hesitated.

“You could just tell him about the injunction,” she said. “You know as much now as I do.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I'm sure he'd be glad to see you anyway.” A grin tugged at the corners of Kyle's mouth. “I can put a shirt on, if that's what's worrying you.”

“Who said I was worried?” Miranda asked, her voice sharp again. “Actually, I wouldn't mind some coffee. I was awake a lot of the night, trying to figure out what to do next.”

Kyle pulled the screen door open and said, “Come on in, then.”

“I know where the kitchen is, if you want to go get that shirt,” Miranda said as she went into the house while he held the door.

Kyle hung the rifle on the gun rack and said, “All right. Be right back.”

Miranda went into the kitchen, felt the side of the coffeepot and found it still warm, and filled a cup she took from the cabinet. As she took a sip from it, Kyle appeared in the doorway, buttoning up a faded blue work shirt. His feet were still bare.

“I can see why G. W. likes you,” he said. “You drink that stuff black, no sugar, like he does.”

“Another legacy from law school. The jolt of caffeine was all I was really interested in, not a bunch of frills.”

“You don't care for mocha half-caff goat's milk lattes?”

Miranda sniffed in disdain.

“Sit down,” Kyle said as he gestured at the table. “I'll get my cup from the living room.”

When he came back, he added some coffee to his cup and sat down in the chair across from her.

“So you think you can get that injunction by the middle of the day tomorrow, eh?” he asked.

“Yes. I'll drive to El Paso early in the morning and see the judge in her chambers. My friend has already arranged the meeting.”

Kyle quirked an eyebrow and said, “The guy must owe you some pretty big favors.”

“Not really. He's just a good guy.” Miranda paused, then added meaningfully, “His wife thinks so, too.”

Kyle held up open hands and said, “Hey, I don't mean to pry in anybody's personal life. It's none of my business, counselor.”

“That's right, it's not. What
is
your business, Mr. Brannock?”

“Oh, hell, don't call me that. I'm not sure I'll ever be old enough to answer to it. As long as G. W.'s around, he'll be the only Mr. Brannock around here. Or Señor Brannock, as the hands call him.”

Miranda indulged her curiosity and asked, “Why do you call him G.W.? Shouldn't you call him Granddad or Gramps or something?”

“Yeah, he'd like that. But I heard somebody call him G. W. when I was barely old enough to talk, and when I started saying it, the way kids will, it stuck.” Kyle shrugged. “Anything else just wouldn't seem right now.”

“I suppose I can understand that.” Then, feeling like she ought to, she said, “I'm sorry about what happened to your parents.”

Kyle's mouth tightened into a grim line, and his fingers closed harder on the coffee cup.

“G. W. told you about that, did he?”

“It was a real tragedy. I know he was devastated by it.”

“You couldn't really tell that by the way he acted.”

Miranda thought she detected a trace of bitterness in Kyle's voice. She said, “Everybody deals with grief in their own way. G.W.'s just not a very . . . demonstrative . . . man, that's all.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Miranda had been sipping on her coffee as they talked. It was cool enough that she was able to pick up the cup and drink the rest of it in a long swallow.

“I think I'll go,” she said as she set the empty cup on the table.

“You don't have to leave on my account.”

“I'm not. I just need to work on what I'm going to say to the judge in the morning.” She got to her feet. “Please tell G. W. that if he has any questions, he should feel free to call me.”

“I will.”

Kyle walked her to the door and followed her out onto the porch. Miranda hadn't started down the steps yet when Kyle said, “Wait a minute.”

Something about his voice made alarm bells go off in her brain. She looked around at him and asked, “What is it?”

He pointed toward the highway and said, “Somebody else is coming.”

Miranda looked and saw the dust rising from the road. Kyle was right. She said, “It's probably G.W. on his way home from church.”

Kyle shook his head and said, “It's too early for that. No Baptist preacher worth his salt preaches a sermon that short.”

“Well, this is a popular place today, I guess.”

“Why don't you go back inside?” Kyle suggested.

“You don't think this is trouble, do you?”

“I don't know, but if it is, I don't want you standing out here in the open.”

Miranda was a little surprised that he would worry about her like that. From everything she had heard about Kyle Brannock, he was a pretty shiftless character. No-account, as some of the older West Texans would say. She wouldn't have expected him to have an outbreak of chivalry.

But maybe he knew something she didn't. She decided it would be a good idea not to argue with him. She pulled open the screen door and went back into the house. Kyle followed her.

He didn't stay inside, though. He took down the same rifle he'd been holding earlier and went back out onto the porch. Miranda stayed where she could watch through the screen.

The car that pulled up was similar to hers but at least ten years older, and it sounded like it wasn't running very well. When the door opened, Miranda wasn't expecting to see the person who stepped out.

Stella Lopez.