“You could delegate more of the responsibilities.” Mac closed up the back of the Jeep, handing off Ruby’s shotgun and some shells to Coop. “Hire a manager, maybe.” He’d run his fair share of projects over the years that took as much time as he could fit in each day, having to delegate to subcontractors in order to finish the job on deadline.
“I’ve thought about that.” Butch rubbed the back of his neck. “But I’m no good at delegating. I like to do things myself. That was part of why I had to leave the business I had with my brother. I was working too much, and the stress was eating me alive. The hands-on part is what I love about the car restoration gig.”
“Sure would be nice to have all the free beer you could drink, though,” Dick said, aiming his shotgun at whatever was moving under the creosote bushes. “And plenty of women when ya want ’em, too.”
The bushes stilled and Dick lowered his gun.
“Hey, Dick, I have a question for you,” Mac said. “Back when Joe Martino was alive, did he come up to his mine much?”
“Sure. He paid me what I called a monthly ‘trespassin’ fee,’ so he could come up here whenever he wanted.” Dick rested the shotgun on his shoulder. “That there was some of the easiest money I ever made.”
“You mean like rent money?” Mac pressed.
“Sure, if ya want to call it that.”
A bribe was probably more accurate, knowing Joe. Mac frowned in the direction of the mine. What in the hell was Joe up to out here? With the asshole dead, there was only one way to find out.
“Well, Dick, it was good to see you again.” Butch must have picked up on Mac’s itch to get moving. “Good luck with your coprolite search today.”
Coop let out a strangled coughing sound and turned away to clear his throat.
“Thanks. Be careful this mornin’.” Dick pointed his shotgun toward the mine. “I’d hate for something to happen to any of you due to some fishy business goin’ on up there.”
As Dick lumbered back to his pickup with his cane and shotgun, Coop and Butch grabbed some water and hats for the hike.
“I’ll lead the way,” Mac said when the three of them stood at the back of the Jeep again. He started toward the trail.
“Shit. Hold on,” Butch said. “I left my phone in the backseat.” He disappeared around the side of the vehicle.
Mac paused, looking over at Coop, who still stood at the back of the Jeep while he stared down at a handful of shotgun shells in his palm.
Behind them, Dick’s pickup door creaked open.
“Coop.” Mac took a step toward the Jeep. “Do you—”
A loud BANG thundered across the desert, silencing the sparrows. What sounded like a rain of hailstones plinked against the back of the Jeep, leaving dents in the metal and shattering a tail light.
Coop grunted, stumbling forward.
“What in the hell was that?” Butch came around the side, frowning toward where Dick Webber now lay on the ground by his open door, trying to sit up.
“Dick?” Butch called, starting toward the old rancher.
Dents in the metal … shattered tail light … Coop grunted …
He turned back to the detective, whose face was pale and lined with pain.
“Holy shit!” Mac shucked his pack. “Coop’s been shot!”
Chapter Eighteen
Claire pocketed her cell phone. “Coop’s been shot,” she hollered over the whining sound of the hammer drill while pulling on her work gloves.
Natalie looked up from where she was drilling holes in the house’s foundation for the header board. The drill stopped. She frowned at Claire, pushing up her safety glasses and pulling out her earplugs. “What did you just say?”
“She said Coop’s been shot,” Chester answered from his supervisor’s chair under the shade of the cottonwood tree. He turned to his newest partner in debauchery, Harvey. “You want to do anything about that? I can drive, if you need to go somewhere.”
“You cannot drive,” Claire said. “You’ve had three beers already today.”
“What are you? My ex-wife?”
“Is Coop gonna live?” Harvey asked Claire.
Natalie stood, her face lined under her cowboy hat with either worry or fury, maybe both. “What the hell happened? Is Coop okay? I’m going to kick someone’s ass if he’s—”
“Calm down, John Wick, nobody killed your puppy,” Claire told her. “Mac said they’re at the ER in Yuccaville having the birdshot extracted from Coop’s back. When the doctor is finished, the nurse will patch him up and send him home.”
“Who shot him?” Natalie asked, her tone still high and tight, as if her heart had a death grip on her windpipe.
“Dick Webber did by accident. He fell and pulled the shotgun trigger when he hit the ground. Coop and my Jeep both took a hit.”
Chester snickered. “I’m beginning to think people have it out for your Jeep. First Crazy Kate shoots a hole in it and now ol’ Dick Webber peppers it with birdshot.”
“Never mind the damned Jeep,” Natalie said, her hands on her hips. “You’re sure Coop is okay?”
Claire shrugged. Mac would have told her if they should drop everything and rush to the hospital. “According to Mac, Coop suffered several flesh wounds and bled a bit on the bumpy ride to Yuccaville, but he’s refusing any heavy-duty drugs and should be able to return to most normal activities tomorrow.”
“Fuck me.” Natalie leaned against the side of the house, her shoulders hunched. “Now he has another holey shirt.”
Claire picked up the cordless drill. She’d been securing the second beam to the posts bolted into the piers they’d set yesterday when her cell phone had started vibrating in her pocket. Trying to lighten Natalie’s mood, she added, “Mac also mentioned that Coop has an impressive vocabulary of swear words.”
“Well, he is a cop.” Natalie looked at Harvey. “You’re not worried about your nephew?”
Harvey hooked his thumbs in his suspenders, crossing his ankles. “Nope. If he’s still breathin’, he’ll be fine. Coop’s
