Echoes Read Free Page A

over the rest of his face. The skin beneath was ruddy and puffy. But Smith's eyes were a sharp, cold blue that missed nothing.
    They made the short drive to the Weston Ranch in silence while Hector tried to clear his head and focus on the possibilities of what might await them instead of dwelling on what a dumb rookie he was. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said Grant Weston sounded scared. Scared of what? That was the question Hector should have asked.
    Angry with himself, he stared out the window as the ranch came into view. Once it had looked like something out of the movies. The pastures had been the lush color of money and the fences bright and unending. The kind of place where bad things never happened.
    Now the fences were broken down and the paint worn to the dull gray of neglect. The paddocks were still green, and a scattering of horses grazed on the waving grasses, though the stables beyond looked like they could be toppled by a determined breeze. The house itself had a hard time appearing anything but impressive though. The sprawling porch and overhanging verandas gave the illusion of success and prosperity. Even the granite basin of mountainsides surrounding it seemed to hold the acreage in a protective embrace.
    Smith brought the cruiser to a stop in front of the house and gave him a warning look. "Can I trust you not to get excited and shoot someone or do I need to take your gun away?"
    "I can handle myself," Hector mumbled.
    Smith snorted. "Well at least try not to shoot me, alright?"
    Grant Weston was waiting for them on the porch steps. The last time Hector had seen him was a few years ago in his last movie—an action flick where Grant had kicked ass and slept with both a beautiful blonde and a gorgeous redhead. Grant wasn't one of those pansy actors who looked like they might moonlight as a woman. He was bred from mountain ranchers and he was built to handle the load. He was a man's man. The kind who always beat the bad guy and always got the girl.
    Hector didn't know how or why he'd given up all that and moved back to Mountain Bend. No one really knew why he'd left Hollywood behind. But like the ranch, he'd changed.
    As Hector and the Sheriff approached, Grant kept his eyes fixed on the small herd of horses grazing in the meadow. He sat with his forearms resting on his knees, hands hanging between. No gun to his head, Hector was relieved to see. He wore a Harley Davidson t-shirt, faded blue jeans and work boots caked with mud. Even sitting, there was no mistaking the size and power of him, but he looked diminished somehow. And his skin was the gray color of river rock. High on his right cheek there was a dark smudge of black that started with fingerprints and ended in a trailing palm. Two other black prints smeared the front of his shirt. A slight tremor shook his dangling hands.
    Sheriff Smith strode to the porch and put one shiny boot on the step next to where Weston sat. He waited for Grant to say something, letting the silence ask the questions. Hector had seen the sheriff reduce a belligerent drunk driver to a babbling baby once, without saying a word.
    Grant just sat staring at his horses.
    A cold bead of unease slipped down Hector's spine at his vacant expression. He scanned the area around them, frowning at the strong singed odor that hung in the air.
    "What's going on, Grant?" Smith asked at last.
    Grant finally looked at them. His eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, dark with shock. He opened his mouth and closed it again, as if searching for an appropriate response to the question. At last he simply said, "Out back." He jerked his head in the direction of the front door. Hector supposed that meant he and the sheriff should cut through the house rather than take the long way around.
    "What's out back?" Smith asked.
    Mute, Grant shook his head as tears filled his eyes and his shoulders began to shake. Finally he covered his face with both hands and sobbed.
    Smith waited a moment, obviously