Vinnie snorted. “Aw, give me a break. You’re livin’ in the guest cabin on your parents’ ranch. That’s really cutting the ol’ apron strings, I tell ya.”
T.J. thought it over. “Fuck it,” he finally said.
“That’s what I say. Fuck it. Pass the joint.”
T.J. handed it over, and Vinnie took a long hit. “Dude, why don’t we go over to the ranch and do a little four-wheelin’?”
Since moving to Texas, Vinnie had discovered-and fallen in love with-this exciting and aimless activity. Guys in jacked-up four-wheel-drive trucks or all-terrain vehicles would take off cross-country, bouncing over culverts, splashing through creeks, trampling the foliage and any animal unfortunate enough to find itself in the vehicle’s path. T.J. owned a bright-red Toyota four-by-four with an oversized engine, headers, enormous tires, and a roll bar. Hell on wheels, but too tricked-out to be street-legal.
“Nah, there’s a couple of guys over there clearing cedar and shit. My dad musta called ’em. He drove in from Austin yesterday. He’s been comin’ out more often lately, ever since the party. Like he’s checking up on me.”
T.J. and Vinnie had thrown a huge celebration three months earlier, for T.J.’s birthday. T.J. had done it up in style, with a dozen kegs, a live band, and enough illicit substances to stock the local drugstore. Naturally, every county resident between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five had attended. It was a fairly typical T.J. Gibbs party, with topless women in the hot tub, minors vomiting behind bushes, and three fist fights. When Walter Gibbs showed up unexpectedly the next morning, what angered him most was the fact that the riding mower-a brand-new John Deere-had somehow ended up in the swimming pool.
“Where is the trust?” Vinnie asked with a smile.
“No shit,” T.J. replied, missing Vinnie’s sarcasm. “Plus, I gotta be at work at five.”
“Better smoke up, then, my man.”
As T.J. took another hit, Vinnie’s cell phone rang. He slipped it off his belt. “You got Vinnie, talk fast. Oh, hey, Pop.”
After a thirty-second conversation, Vinnie hung up and turned to T.J. “My old man on his car phone. He’s pissed off about something. I gotta go.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Rodney Bauer wiped the sweat from his brow and vowed for the hundredth time to lose about twenty pounds. Forty would probably be a healthier goal, according to his doctor. The weight always had been a bit of a problem, but really became an issue when he was quail-hunting, hiking around in the Texas sun.
His small ranch-like the rest of Blanco County and the Hill Country west of Austin-was poor quail habitat. Too rocky, not enough wide-open grassland, and too many fire ants, which could kill the quail’s hatchlings. But there were usually a few coveys scattered about on his acreage, and that’s what he was searching for on Sunday afternoon.
Rodney’s dog, Honeybee, a one-year-old yellow Lab, had a decent nose, but Labs weren’t really meant for quail. Rodney enjoyed running the birds with her just the same.
Honeybee was scampering through tall native grasses about twenty yards ahead of Rodney when she came to a stop. Rodney eased up beside the dog, and then raised his shotgun to his shoulder. “Git ’em,” he whispered. The dog bolted straight for a mound of cedar brush-and the air exploded with the sound of flapping wings. A dozen quail took to the air, and Rodney fired two quick booming shots. Honeybee scurried through the grass, picked up a quail gently in her jaws, and delivered it to Rodney.
“Good girl!” Rodney said, stroking the dog’s neck. “Now, fetch! Get the other one!” Honeybee started in the direction of the other fallen quail, but suddenly veered to her left and took off at a run, wagging her tail.
Rodney was shouting at Honeybee, calling her back, when he realized he had an unexpected visitor. A woman had emerged from the cedar thicket that bordered the open meadow where Rodney was hunting.
For a moment, Rodney was stunned. The woman was gorgeous: tall, with flowing blonde hair. Trim but curvy. Like something right out of a beer commercial. She was dressed in snug blue shorts and a bikini top that was barely handling its contents. Rodney was suddenly grateful it was unseasonably warm today.
The woman was kneeling down, rubbing Honeybee’s head, and that gave Rodney time to regain the powers of speech. “’Mornin’,” Rodney said, walking over. “I wasn’t expecting a visitor today.”
The woman looked up and gave him a smile that made his palms sweat. She said in a soft voice, “Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I was driving by and heard the shots. I’ve always wanted to learn how to hunt, so I just hopped the fence.” The smile again. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Honeybee was still wagging her tail furiously-and Rodney would have been doing the same thing if he had one. “No ma’am, don’t mind at all. My name’s Rodney Bauer, and this is my ranch.” He stepped forward and offered his hand.
The woman’s fingers were slender and smooth. “Inga Mueller.”
“Oh, you’re German. Same here.
“Well, German on my father’s side. My mother is Swedish.”
“I’d love to,” the woman said in the same sexy voice. “I find guns very…exciting.” She stepped closer and lightly touched the barrel of Rodney’s twelve-gauge. “That’s a very nice gun you have there, Rodney.”
Rodney visibly gulped. What was going on here? Had someone set this up as a joke? This couldn’t possibly be happening. Rodney stole a nervous glance in the direction of his house, imagining the heat of his wife’s glare from five hundred yards away. “Why, thank you,” Rodney croaked. “I’d be happy to show you a thing or two. I need to grab a little more ammo, so why don’t we walk over to my truck?” Actually, Rodney had plenty of shells in his hunting vest. He just wanted to continue this conversation over by his Chevy, tucked in the privacy of the trees.
As they walked, Rodney noticed the hiking boots the woman was wearing, and the way they brought out the fine lines of her sculpted calf muscles. “You sure are lucky to own a ranch,” she said. “You do a lot of hunting out here?”
“Oh, yeah, all the time. Shot a twelve-point buck yesterday,” Rodney lied. “Gonna mount him for sure.”
The woman said, “Do you mount a lot of things, Rodney?”
Rodney’s face flushed and he began to feel a little dizzy. He tried to answer, but only managed a few stutters. The woman looped her arm in his and walked beside him. She leaned and whispered in his ear: “Cat got your tongue?”
Rodney could feel her warm breath on his neck, and desperately wished he could play this game as well as she did. He wanted to think of something clever to say, but was stumped. He managed to blurt, “Ever shot a gun before, Inga?”
“Nope, I’m a virgin.” Another suggestive smile.
By now, Rodney was waiting for Allen Funt to step from the brush and tell him he was on
“Ooh, this feels nice.”
“Great,” Rodney said. “Let’s see if Honeybee can scare us up some quail.”
“That would be really fun, Rodney. But first, let me try a few practice shots.” Suddenly, the woman turned, shouldered the shotgun, and aimed at Rodney’s one-year-old pickup. Before Rodney could react, the woman fired.
The first shot tore through the front grille and loosed the contents of the radiator.
The second shot turned the windshield into a network of cracks with a gaping hole in the center.
The last shot punctured the right front tire. The air whooshed out and the truck bowed like a circus elephant on one knee.
