“You could come,” Casey added. “Ride with me.”
“That’d be the most exciting thing I’ve done in ages, if I could find a sitter.”
“Confronting your gunrunner ex not thrilling enough for you?” he teased.
“The most exciting fun thing.”
The speed limit dropped to thirty as the town materialized around them, homes and businesses growing dense as the rural route morphed into Station Street. It gave Casey a funny feeling and made him nearly wish he was working that night. He was in the mood to listen to the gossip, to pour drinks and take in the smells and sounds of the bar, the same smells and sounds from his childhood. Lubbock had been hot, but not like here. Not dry like northern Nevada, not half as dusty. Even Vegas hadn’t smelled quite like Brush County did, like clay and sage, and distant fires, come summer. No place felt quite like home, he thought, as familiar buildings slid into view on either side of the road.
“Hey, it’s your shitbox,” Casey said, nodding to the auto garage. Vince had both bay doors wide open and was standing by Abilene’s Colt with a wrench in his hand. Casey honked. Vince waved. “You’ll be back on the road before you know it.”
“I hope I can make all of this up to you guys someday,” Abilene said. “Especially your brother, for the money he gave me, and now my car. And you, of course, for a million things.”
“You don’t owe me crap.”
“I beg to differ.”
Casey assembled his feelings, trying to get his mouth to go someplace soft and sentimental here in this car, as he’d managed in bed with her.
“Everything I’m experiencing, because of you and the baby . . . It sounds stupid, but it means a lot. I’ve never been for anybody what I’ve been for you two. And it’s hard and it’s exhausting, and I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, but I like it. I feel useful in a way I haven’t before. So you don’t owe me a thing. You’ve given me plenty, trust me.”
He was relieved to turn into the diner’s lot and cut this conversation short. Nice as those things were to say, they also made him feel insanely naked. Which was fine when you were under the covers with somebody, but something else entirely out here in the larger world.
He got the car seat out and lugged the baby into the diner while Abilene held the door. He registered a mix of pride and awkwardness, carrying her in, and was pleased not to recognize any faces as they entered and scanned for a booth. Having been away for nearly ten years, he was always getting grilled by old neighbors and classmates about what he’d been up to, and he never had enough answers. Now, to get spotted with a woman and a baby in tow . . . ? He didn’t have the energy to explain.
Once they were settled, an older waitress came by. Abilene had worked here for a few months the previous year, and there was the requisite fawning over the baby before coffee was on the way.
Casey didn’t need to see the menu; it hadn’t changed since he’d been a kid. He ordered a cheeseburger and Abilene got soup and a sandwich.
He hunkered down on his elbows and smiled at her. “Your first taste of freedom in almost a week.”
She nodded. “Feels good. Smells even better.” She held his gaze, then looked to the window, her smile goofy. “What you said, in the car . . .”
“It’s all true. That’s all we need to discuss about it.”
“It was sweet,” she said, meeting his eyes once more. “That’s all. I don’t think anybody’s ever said something that nice to me before.”
“Their loss.”
She smirked. It wasn’t a gesture she made often—her smile was typically broad and sudden, like clouds breaking wide, sun streaming down. Her cheeks still dimpled, but there was something sly about those lips, something vaguely wicked. He liked it.
“Did I actually find something that makes Casey Grossier bashful?” she teased.
His gaze went to the window, and the back lot beyond. In a second his mood darkened, his attention catching on an ancient orange-trimmed camper van, just pulling across three spaces beside the Dumpster.
“Hang on one sec,” he muttered, rising. “I need to talk to somebody.”
“Sure you do.” Her tone was chiding; she thought he was avoiding discussing his feelings.
“No, I really need to talk to somebody.” The van’s driver’s-side door had popped open, and John Dancer emerged.
Abilene turned in her seat to look. “Not that guy?”
Casey snapped his head around. “You know him?”
“He came into the bar once when I was pregnant. He didn’t even buy a drink—he just wanted to talk to Raina. He took a look at my belly and said, ‘Guess this spot’s taken.’ Something gross like that.”
“One more reason to break his fucking arm,” Casey said, sidling out of the booth.
Her eyes widened. “Don’t do that. Whoever he is, it’s not worth it.”
“Not who he is, honey. What he did. I’ll be right back. Don’t watch.”
Casey strode down the diner’s aisle and pushed the door open, setting its bell jingling. As he rounded the building, he shifted his pistol from the small of his back to his front waistband, at his hip, obscured by his jacket. He didn’t want to use it, and doubted he’d need to, but Dancer was about as predictable as a feral raccoon.
“Hey,” he shouted, marching toward the van. It took a major effort not to glance to the diner’s window, to see if Abilene’s blue eyes were on the scene.
Dancer turned lazily, clearly no stranger to getting yelled at. He had a lit cigarette in his mouth and wore aviator sunglasses against the bright winter sun. Casey could see himself approaching in the mirrored lenses.
“Grossier. What can I do for you this time?”
“You can hold still while I kick the living shit out of you.”
Dancer’s eyebrow rose, a dry smile tweaking his lips. “Neither you or your brother ever thanked me for that little favor I did you last summer. Can’t say I appreciate the hostility.” He turned his back to shut the door, seeming not at all intimidated. The crazy were obnoxiously fearless, Casey thought.
“You tell an ex-con with a shaved head where he could find my bartender?” he demanded.
Dancer took the cigarette from his lips and blew a jet of clove-stinking smoke to the side. “Ah. Well, that’s not exactly private information, now, is it? More like small-town gossip.”
That was as good as a yes in Casey’s book. “You get straight with me right now, or I swear to Christ I’ll beat you senseless.” Dancer had an inch or two on him but probably weighed twenty pounds less. Whether he could scrap or not, Casey couldn’t say, but he was only happy to find out.
“Last time our paths crossed I picked a bullet out of you, Grossier. Patched you up nice. It’d be real ironic if this time you gave me a reason to put one back in you.”
Casey eyed Dancer’s jacket, one pocket filled with his hand and quite possibly more. He cooled some. In all honesty, he didn’t want Abilene seeing a fight, and though he bet Dancer was bluffing, he sure as shit didn’t want her seeing him get shot in the thigh, or anyplace worse.
“You got any clue who you were talking to?” Casey demanded.
“Name he gave me was Ware. We had a little business transaction to settle, now he’s out. He wasn’t a hundred percent pleased with my service, so it seemed prudent to placate the man with a little harmless intel. Customer service and all that.” He took a long draw off the cigarette. “And as all your bones appear to be intact, I don’t quite gather what your beef is with me.”
“A gunrunner, fresh out of prison, comes to you and asks where to find a girl? And it doesn’t occur to you to lie and say you got no fucking clue? You got any sense of human decency at all?”
Dancer shrugged and pushed the sunglasses up to his forehead. He exhaled more smoke in Casey’s direction. “I don’t know the girl. I got no loyalty to the girl. I got no loyalty to anyone who doesn’t owe me something I’m hoping they’ll live long enough to deliver, so what the fuck do I care about her?”