Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery) Read Free Page B

Rangers. He’s taking some kind of test today.”
    Kyla blinked. “You’re kidding. That’s kind of cool—Texas Ranger. I assume you mean the cop kind and not the baseball kind.”
    “Yes, the cop kind,” I said. “When have you seen Colin playing baseball?”
    She shrugged. “How would I know what he does in his spare time? He’d look good in those tight pants, though.”
    That was true, but I was not going to give her the satisfaction of agreeing. “Anyway,” I said pointedly, trying to steer the conversation away from Colin’s pants, “he’ll be here as soon as he’s done.”
    I could feel her beady eyes boring into my skull and kept my own virtuously on the road.
    “You don’t sound pleased. About the test, I mean.”
    I shrugged, unable to deny it. “Being a Texas Ranger isn’t a job, it’s a life. No fooling, those guys are on call every day, all day, always. Plus, being new, chances are he’ll be assigned to some region out in the boonies.”
    “The boonies, huh? Is that anywhere near Bumfuck?”
    “If only. People in the boonies dream of one day getting to go to Bumfuck.”
    Kyla met this with a sympathetic click of the tongue. “That sucks. Why’s he trying to get into the Rangers anyway?”
    I sighed. “It’s his childhood dream. You know, the goal of his life. Other kids wanted to be firemen or astronauts. He wanted to be a Texas Ranger.”
    “Yeah, but he’s a big boy now. Doesn’t he have other better goals at this point?”
    “No,” I answered shortly.
    I could feel her looking at me again, but I didn’t say anything more. I didn’t quite know how to say that although Colin himself felt that a career change and move would not interfere with a potential relationship, I was not so sanguine. That even though I couldn’t bring myself to discourage his career aspirations to his face, secretly I was hoping he would fail his tests so spectacularly that future applicants would be warned against “pulling a Colin.” And that even as I hoped for it, I knew that he wouldn’t. There were few people as competent. Now I found myself in the completely unbelievable position of having two fairly spectacular men interested in me, and the worst part of it was that I had no idea what I wanted to do about it.
    Fortunately, we arrived at our destination before Kyla could probe any further. I pulled into the parking lot of the Sand Creek Feed and Supply, a long, low building with a tin roof and two doors, one an open double-wide set of sliding doors that you could literally drive a truck through, and the other a more traditional size. No one was visible on the feed side, so I led the way through the smaller door.
    This half of the Feed and Supply was a tack store that looked as though a small and surprisingly clean rodeo had set up inside and then exploded. Half a dozen saddles topped an assortment of sawhorses, which were jammed between racks of jeans, jackets, and work gloves. Bridles, bits, ropes, and other gear hung in random order from hooks on rough-hewn wood paneling. One corner was devoted to a diverse selection of cowboy boots, including an incredibly ornate pair in ostrich leather with a distinctive pattern of bumps and an equally distinctive price tag. I breathed in the clean smell of new leather and denim with pleasure.
    Kyla, to my surprise, looked completely disgusted. Following her gaze, I saw the reason. Near the cash register, Carl Cress lounged against the counter and next to him stood Eddy Cranny. Eddy saw us enter and now stood as stiff as an ROTC cadet getting dressed down by a general. Carl hadn’t noticed. He was leaning on one elbow chatting up the cashier, a middle-aged woman wearing too much eye shadow who was twirling a strand of dyed auburn hair and giggling. Kyla moved forward, a barracuda gliding toward her prey, and I followed, reluctant to participate in a confrontation in a feed store but also unwilling to abandon my cousin. Or, more accurately, unwilling to let