Cougar's Prey (9781101544846) Read Free Page A

and made eye contact with him. “You take all day to drink that beer, Mr. Zeb, and I don’t make no money.”
    Josiah smiled slightly at being called Mr. Zeb. He had wanted to make sure the barkeep knew his name from the very beginning. Josiah had slid him an extra bit for the first couple of beers to make sure he was taken care of . . . and was remembered as Mr. Zeb, as a generous man.
    â€œYou’ll make plenty of money once the sun goes down, Agusto. Traders should be coming in.”
    The barkeep shook his head no. His face was fat, sweaty, and deep brown. A thin black mustache sat atop a set of full, puffy lips. “A bad wind is coming, Mr. Zeb.”
    â€œLooks like a perfect day to me,” Josiah said.
    â€œWind is changing. Can’t you tell?”
    It was Josiah’s turn to shake his head no. “Feels the same to me.”
    Agusto smiled, exposing a mouth full of broken yellow teeth. “The sky will rumble before the day’s over, Mr. Zeb. Mark my words.”
    Josiah nodded then and said nothing. He took another slow sip of beer and stared up at the sky. Something was coming, that was for sure; he just wasn’t sure what.
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    The woman was tall for a Mexican. She wore a tight-fitting black dress, the neck cut deep, exposing a generous view of healthy cleavage that no man in the cantina could ignore—not even Josiah.
    Long, wavy black hair flowed over the woman’s shoulders, and her lips were as red as the fiery sun. Her sultry brown eyes were locked on Josiah, and she ignored every man’s attempt to get her attention. She stopped directly in front of Josiah and offered him her hand.
    â€œWould you like to dance, señor?” the woman asked.
    Josiah stared up at her. “It’s before four o’clock. In the heat of the day?”
    The woman smirked and withdrew her hand. “You have no sense of adventure.” Her accent was soft, her English easy to understand. She was exceptionally beautiful, and Josiah had never seen her before. He rarely saw any of the girls from upstairs in the cantina during the day, so her appearance was out of the ordinary.
    For a moment, Josiah was uncomfortable. He wasn’t quite sure if she was what he was waiting for or not.
    â€œPerhaps,” the woman continued, “you would like to dance in private. Are you bashful?”
    Josiah forced a smile. “I’m sure Agusto wouldn’t mind me stumbling about.”
    Agusto didn’t say anything, just smiled and waved Josiah off, like he was fending off one of the many flies that called the cantina home.
    The guitar music had stopped. Josiah hadn’t seen the guitar player disappear, but the stool where the Mexican had sat just minutes before was now empty, like he’d never existed at all.
    â€œLooks like we’ve lost our music,” he said.
    â€œWe can make our own music, Señor Zeb.”
    â€œHow come you know my name, and I don’t know yours?”
    â€œI am Maria. Maria Villareal.”
    Josiah nodded and stood up. “After you, Maria Villareal,” he said. He’d been given the name Maria Villareal as a contact. She was who he’d been waiting on.
    The woman flashed him a grin, looked him hard in the eye, quickly, to acknowledge he’d made the right choice, then walked slowly toward the back of the cantina.
    Josiah followed, his hand inches away from the Peacemaker he carried on his hip. He had a knife in one boot and a small .25-caliber pistol in the other. He was not entirely trusting of this woman, or of anyone in Corpus Christi for that matter.
    The woman rounded the corner first. Josiah lost sight of her for a second and hurried his pace.
    When he came to the other side of the building, he walked straight into the barrel of a gun, forcing him to come to a quick, unanticipated stop.
    The guitar player was waiting for him, a Walker Colt, a revolver with a nine-inch barrel, cocked and ready to