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like thirty. Yet she cleaved to him as if he were the only man in the world. She made him feel not only younger but relevant. As if he’d not spent the better years of his life alone.
    They made love for over an hour. Fell asleep in each other’s arms. The heat of her lithe body infused him with hope.
     

    In the morning, Hanson did not want to move. He woke first. Wendy lay there, delicate as a bird, still pressed unobtrusively against him. He was relieved. The last thing he wanted was for her to awake and realize her horrible misjudgment—relegate him to the purgatory of bad drunken choices.
    She did awake. And as soon as she did, she squeezed him harder. Kissed him deeply. They made love again. Slower. More intimate than the night before. Hanson allowed his newfound confidence to guide him. Still she intimidated him, and he strove to show her that he was worthy.
     

    I’ve never cared for you much.
    There are times when hearing what you already know to be true is the most unbearable accusation of all. Even as situations change, such words remain lodged in the back of the heart like splinters. They fester. Infect the better times with accusatory concerns.
    Was it possible?
    Did Wendy Steele come to his bed in order to garner his services? Could her motives be so tactical?
    “Back to your uncle Ty,” Hanson said, breaking a palpable yet comfortable silence. “You came here to ask me if I would defend him.”
    Wendy avoided his eyes, measuring her response. She kissed his cheek.
    “I think so. I’ve never really been one to use subterfuge. The whole idea of asking it now feels pretty unseemly.”
    “I suppose it’s only subterfuge when you’ve not been candid regarding your motives,” he said.
    “My motives aren’t as clear as they once were.”
    “Just like that?”
    “Maybe. Or maybe I am just rethinking the whole ‘get involved’ option. Me, I mean. With my family. Not with you.”
    “In matters of family,” Hanson said, “we’re always involved. Whether to engage. That , my lady, is the dilemma.”
    Wendy nodded solemnly. Her dark eyes conveyed caution. And what else?
    A defeated admiration?
    “What would you say if I did ask?”
    Sitting there, mesmerized by the reawakening this young woman had produced in him—deserted to an extent by his own conscience and principles—Hanson wasn’t sure there was anything he would not be willing to give her. He stroked her cheek and kissed her on the top of her head.
    “I’d say no.”

 
     
     
    “And those people in Black Mountain
    are mean as they can be.
    Now they uses gun powder
    just to sweeten up their tea.”
     
    Janis Joplin,
    Black Mountain

Chapter 3
     
     
    PRUETT STOOD outside Ty McIntyre's jail cell with a plate of hot food from Casa de Zenda. Proprietor Zenda Martinez served the food and took care of the books. Her husband, Roberto, set the authentic Mexican menu and cooked the food.
    Ty lay on his back, knees up, boots flat on the mattress.
    “Lunch,” said Pruett.
    Ty looked over with his eyes only.
    “Brung in from where?”
    Pruett opened the slat in the door and set down the tray of steaming refried beans, crispy flour quesadillas, and sweet rice.
    “From next door.”
    “Pruett,” Ty said and got up from his bed. He walked to the bars, leaned against them. He extended a thick, callused hand.
    Sheriff Pruett stared for a moment, finally accepting Ty's meaty, sandpaper paw. It was just something you did.
    “Ain't much in this world I'm sorry for,” Ty said, “but this is one time. I loved her too, though I never said so.”
    Pruett felt the barbaric strength in McIntyre's grip. A nervous flutter ran across his backside. He’d let his guard down. Miscalculated. The gun was holstered on his right side. If anything went down, he'd never be able to cross-reach for it with his left hand. Not in time.
    Ty smiled, as if he knew the chess game going on inside the sheriff’s brain. His lips peeled back in a hangman’s smile,