How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
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"What do you want to do, Pops?" Bobby asked after Mendocino left.
"I want to let the sleeping dogs lie!" Hank went for the decanter. "Mendocino Jones. Persistent little son of a bitch. Boy's got guts, though. Gives new meaning to hard-headed." He chuckled and held up the decanter, toast-like. "And smart. Too smart. He's going to spill to Amos. Might as well be on the winning side it."
"Something about him makes me think of John David," Bobby said.
Hank drew back, mid-pour.
"Not his looks, Pops. The moral compass. John David lived by it. So does Mendocino." He joined his father at the bar, mixing himself a highball. "I guess, I admire that." He narrowed his gaze. "Did you hear he took on four of our men in the parking lot of the Starlight? Put them on their knees. By himself."He tilted his head. "Watching him yesterday? Shit, I'm glad I didn't fight him."
Hank knitted his brows. "Bullshit." He finished his drink, slamming the empty glass on the bar. "You're cutting April loose."
"Not sure." Bobby finished his drink, too, setting the glass on the bar beside his father's. Their gazes held. "She came clean. That means a lot. She was—" He shook his head slightly, his mouth tight. "I don't even know how to say it. Pathetic. Horrified, realizing the truth."
"She might as well have killed him herself." Mercy and forgiveness were not in Hank's toolbox.
"No, Pops. She was unfaithful. No different than about half the women in America." He snorted. "Hell, no different than half the men in America."
Hank glared, snatching the decanter.
"I've thought about nothing else all night." Bobby squared off, facing his father. "Let me ask you something. A man draws a straight flush in a poker game. Wins another man's land. The loser goes home and tells his wife. She kills him and herself. Who's to blame for making their kids penniless orphans? The man who drew the lucky hand? The man who made the stupid bet? Or the woman who killed him?"
"Not the same thing!" Hank roared, slamming his glass on the bar and pointing to the family portraits. "That was more than a hundred years ago!"
Bobby shrugged. "Fosters still blame Watsons for all their problems."
"Not a deep gene pool to draw on there," Hank grumbled.
"I'm talking about unintended consequences. I'm not defending what April did, Pops. I'm just telling you she didn't kill John David, any more than Great Granddad killed James Foster."
Hank threw back his drink. "What about Gust, when he finds out?"
"Why should Gust find out?" It was Bobby who glared. "It would only hurt him more than he's already been hurt."
"You could actually marry her, knowing this?" His father's face was the color of a watermelon, down to his neck, and he gripped his glass so tight Bobby thought it might break.
