The Last Honorable Man Read Free Page B

chipper birdsong and the scuttle of a lone squirrel pawing through old pine needles.
    The place reminded him of the little church near his abuela’s farm, only smaller yet. He’d spent many hours there as a child, on his knees at her side, and the sudden longing for that simpler time drew him closer. It wasn’t until he got to the door that he saw the drawstring backpack on the floor—the same olive green backpack the woman had been carrying at the warehouse.
    It appeared he wasn’t the only one drawn by the peacefulness of the place.
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    Elisa Reyes fingered her rosary beads, her lips moving in silent prayer, and inhaled the scent of old, polished wood, wet stone and candle wax. A single flame flickered from a votive on the stone wall beside her. The muted light set the stained-glass image of Christ on a the cross above the altar aglow.
    Elisa had come into the chapel seeking a much-needed respite from the heat. Since she had arrived in Texas five days ago, Elisa felt as if she had been consigned to hell. The sun seemed to burn right through her. She was hot. So hot…and dry.
    She paused in her prayers a moment to lick her parched lips. A wave of dizziness shook her, and she had to steady herself with a hand on the back of the pew in front of her until the lightheadedness passed. Grateful for the return of her strength, she took comfort in the silence and reverence of the tiny chapel for another second, then bowed her head again to finish her rosary. This place was the first she had found in this country that reminded her of home.
    The first place she had found peace.
    Until the squeak of hinges announced that she wasn’t alone.
    Ever so slightly she cocked her head and looked over her shoulder. Through the black lace veil that covered her eyes, she saw the silhouette of a man in the doorway. He was large and dark, seemingly made more of shadow than flesh and bone. If it were not for the bright halo of daylight behind him giving shape to his form, she might not have believed there was a man there at all, no substance. Just a trick of the light. Dark energy.
    Then he stepped down the aisle. His boot heels scuffed the worn wood floor. “Ma’am, I’m Del Coo—”
    Elisa’s back stiffened. Suddenly she was not hot, but cold to the marrow. “I know who you are. Have you come here seeking absolution, Ranger Cooper?”
    His throat convulsed. His hands crushed the brim of the Western hat he carried in front of him like a shield. “No, ma’am. I came here seeking you.”
    Quickly she crossed herself and rose without meeting his eyes. Icy rage lent strength to her weakened body. “Then you have wasted your time. I am not your confessor.”
    â€œI have no intention of burdening you with my sins.”
    She tried to pass him in the aisle, but his muscular mass blocked the narrow passage.
    â€œYou weren’t at the service,” he said. She did not mean to look at him. Had not intended to acknowledge his presence any further. But something in what he said, some pain beneath the words, beneath the throaty baritone voice, called to her, and she looked at him.
    His hair was cropped military short. So short that she could not call it brown or black—just dark. He had a broad forehead, but his brows were not overly heavy, and his strong, square jaw compensated. His nose looked as though it had been broken a time or two, and his gaze was not as cold as one might expect from gray eyes, but instead threw her pale reflection back at her like warm, polished pewter.
    He had a dependable face, she decided. Sturdy. The kind of face people would trust.
    It was too bad she knew it to be a mask. He was no stalwart defender of humanity. He was a cold-blooded killer.
    And yet he had been at Eduardo’s funeral when she had not. She had lacked the courage to face the newsmen, as well as the strength to walk the last half mile.
    The injustice of it enraged her. She