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was dead and couldn’t implicate her. She could breathe easy again.
    â€œYou gonna tell me how you pulled that off?” Her husky half brother Nick was perched on a bar stool, sipping coffee and munching a stale doughnut. The morning sun, slanting through half-closed plastic shutters, gleamed on the black Maori-style tattoos that ringed his shaved head.
    Stella blew a lazy smoke ring. “The less you know, the better, Nicky. For you as well as for me.”
    â€œGotcha.” Nick carried his cup behind the bar to rinse it.
    Nick, who went by Nigel these days, had been a runner for the Rumanian mob in New Jersey. After snitching on them in a plea deal, he’d been forced into hiding. Stella had taken him in two years ago when she’d bought the Blue Coyote Bar in Blanco Springs. He’d proved his worth as her bartender and bouncer. But she knew better than to trust him—or anybody else—with her secrets.
    She’d done pretty well for herself here in Blanco. The town was off the beaten track but with easy access to the Mexican border. Trading Texas guns for Mexican drugs had made her a tidy profit. But if she’d learned one thing, it was to keep her hands clean and leave the dirty work to others. So far it had worked. As far as the law was concerned, her record was spotless.
    Her business depended on connections and the exchange of favors. Money, sex, and fear were valuable tools, and Stella knew how to use them all. But there’d been some collateral damage along the way—Jess Warner, the waitress who’d stumbled on one secret too many; Slade Haskell, who’d become a useless, wife-beating drunk; Lute Fletcher, the half-breed boy who’d gotten too greedy for his own good; and now Hoyt Axelrod, the sheriff whose one big mistake had been getting himself arrested.
    Hoyt had been a wheezing walrus in bed. But his skills with a long-range rifle had come in handy. He wouldn’t be an easy man to replace.
    Turning back to stub out her cigarette, Stella caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Without makeup she looked old and tired. Her flame-colored hair needed a fresh dye job, and the crow’s feet were deepening at the corners of her eyes. She was forty-six years old. How much longer could she work this racket and get away with it? She needed something more. She needed security.
    A Dallas crime family was looking to expand its reach. They’d sent out feelers about her Mexican ties—a tentative invitation for her to join them. Stella had always prided herself on flying solo, but having an organization to back her wouldn’t be all bad. They’d demand a cut, of course, but in return she’d get protection and, if needed, access to a reliable hit man.
    But she couldn’t go begging to them, or give them the keys to an operation they could easily take over. She needed something to offer them—some sphere of influence uniquely hers, to keep power in her own corner.
    The early-morning newscast had ended. Stella was about to switch off the TV when a paid political ad came on the screen. The ad was a low-budget job, just some talking head running for reelection to Congress. The candidate, a silver-haired man, wasn’t bad looking, but he could have used better lighting and a decent makeup artist. And why would he be plugging for votes at an hour when so few voters would be watching? Maybe his campaign was short on funds. Prime time had to be expensive.
    Nick was watching her from behind the bar. “I’ve seen that look,” he said. “Why are you smiling?”
    â€œBecause I just got one helluva good idea.”
    â€œWhat kind of idea?” he asked.
    Laughing, Stella poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. “As I said, little brother, the less you know, the better.”
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    Sky and Beau had taken the ranch pickup to check the place where Jasper had been shot. At this early hour, a whisper of coolness lingered on