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matching his own raw wanting. Andy grabbed her purse from the booth and hung onto his arm as they worked their way toward the door.
    ***
    No motel used individual air-conditioners anymore. Their inefficiency was staggering. Dan pulled off the tight boots, stripped to his shorts, and fell back prone on the bed, letting the window unit blow full force over his body. He could have stayed in Roswell, at Carolyn’s. She had offered. But knowing his sister, it was probably more gesture, the right thing to do, than anything she really expected him to take her up on.
    Carolyn had married well to rancher, entrepreneur, oil-rich Phillip Ainsworth. Ski-bum handsome, Yale graduate, native of Roswell, bright enough to recognize blind ambition in a mate. Dan had wondered twenty years ago how Carolyn would ever survive in a town like Roswell. But it hadn’t taken her long to groom her ticket to better things. And she’d done a good job of it. Phillip was a force in the state, charter member of a good ol’ boy network.
    She and Philip wouldn’t be back from Santa Fe until next week and then only to kick off some fund raisers for her husband’s newest project, a series of down-home Bar-B-Ques for the next Governor of New Mexico. Jason, the only nephew, was at school, so it would have been just him and Dona Mari, the Mexican housekeeper/nanny who was a self-proclaimed herbalist and whose last cleansing had left him with two days of the trots. No thanks.
    Was he looking forward to seeing the future First Lady of New Mexico? Yes, out of guilt. Not really, out of truth. Dan knew she’d be totally wrapped up in this newest adventure. Carolyn was born to be First Lady of something. Dan rolled over. He had about three hours until sundown, a nap, a sandwich in the coffee shop, and then a little night work. He wadded the pillow under his head and closed his eyes.
    The first rolls of thunder sounded like cannon fire. He sat straight up, dazed and apprehensive before he got his bearings. Was there anything worse than sleeping in a strange bed? A peek out the window showed patches of blue sky with some ominous gray-black clouds threatening to the west. The digital clock turned over six thirty-nine. Time to get going.
    How could anyone ruin a toasted cheese with chips? The waitress was apologetic but didn’t offer to make it good. Daniel left her a couple bucks anyway and walked outside. God, he was cranky. A lumpy bed, humidity you could cut with a knife—he stopped himself. Yes, those were reasons, unpleasantries, but wasn’t he bugged the most by knowing he was going snooping? Taking a chance on being caught where he wasn’t supposed to be?
    But, damn it, they hadn’t given him any alternative.
    Why was it every time he was in this neck of the woods, the words to country western tunes played in his head. A little number by Johnny Paycheck was drowning out everything else right about now. He slammed the door to the Tercel harder than he meant to.
    It was a great night if the rain would just hold off. No moon. Light wind. He couldn’t have ordered anything better. He studied the map to the Double Horseshoe. He had an hour’s drive ahead of him; he’d better get going.
    ***
    The crowd spilled out of the Bar and Grill into the parking lot. A couple of discussions had turned ugly. But so had the weather. Blinding flashes of light bounced against the horizon, branching jaggedly to the sides. A series of nature’s sonic booms rattled the bar’s single-pane windows. The rain, heavy all around them, was just beginning here. Big splats of water hit the cement sidewalk, sending up an aroma of dust and limestone.
    â€œWe’re going to have to run for it.” Eric pulled Andy closer, and they darted from under the protective overhang. The air hung charged and heavy; wet slaps of raindrops stung their arms. They reached the Caddy out of breath, both scrambling to roll up the windows. Pulling