Page 63 of Cowboy Elite 2: Mike

Liv stood at the kitchen window, watching it all unfold, and felt something crack open in her chest.

These people didn't know her. Not really. She'd been here barely a month. But they were showing up anyway, bringing food and time and presence, creating a buffer between her and whatever was coming.

"First time seeing small-town solidarity in action?" Heather asked, coming to stand beside her.

"Is it always like this?"

"When it matters? Yeah." Heather handed her a mug of tea. "When the McGrady ranch had that fire two years ago, half the county showed up with tools and supplies before the insurance adjuster even got there. Nobody asked if they needed help. They just came. Same thing when Charlotte went missing and Brett was stalking me. It’s amazing and heartwarming and wonderful. I grew up around this and it still catches my heart."

Harris appeared around one o'clock, clearly unnerved by the sudden influx of people. He stood on the porch, taking in the organized chaos—women in the great room, men around the smoker, kids running between groups with the kind of wild energy that came from being outside and slightly feral.

He started toward the kitchen, probably hoping to corner Liv again.

He made it three steps before Grandpa Quentin materialized in his path.

"Afternoon," Quentin said pleasantly, settling into one of the porch rockers like he had all day. "You must be Mr. Hendricks. Heard you're from Dallas. Staying a few days?"

Harris stopped. "That's right. Just enjoying the hospitality."

"Mm-hmm. Well, since you're here, let me tell you about this place." Quentin settled back, getting comfortable. "See, the Watkins ranch has been in our family for four generations. My grandfather bought this land in 1897 from a Mexican land grant holder named Esteban Ruiz. Good man, Esteban, made the best tamales I ever tasted. Anyway, he was looking to move closer to San Antonio where his daughter had married into the Martinez family, you know the ones, they owned that big mercantile on Main Street until the flood of '32 washed half the building into the creek..."

Liv watched from the kitchen window as Quentin launched into what appeared to be an incredibly detailed and meandering history of the ranch, the county, possibly the entire state of Texas. Harris tried twice to extract himself, but Quentin kept talking, his voice friendly and relentless.

"...and that's how we ended up with mineral rights to the section near the creek, though the oil never did pan out like they thought it would. Course, that was during the boom of '52, which you're probably too young to remember, but let me tell you about the time my daddy tried to convince a wildcatter from Houston that we had black gold under the south pasture. Well, turned out all we had was an underground spring and a very confused geologist..."

Fifteen minutes later, Arletta came out with a pitcher of sweet tea and a tray of glasses, her expression the picture of elderly hospitality.

"Thought you gentlemen might be thirsty," she said sweetly.

She poured for Quentin first, steady, perfect, not a drop spilled. Set the glass in front of him with the kind of precision that came from thirty years of Sunday suppers and church potlucks.

Then she turned to Harris. "Now, Mr. Hendricks, you look parched. Let me just?—"

Her foot caught, or appeared to catch, on absolutely nothing. The pitcher tipped, wobbled, and then dumped its entire contents directly onto the small wicker table where Harris had set his laptop and phone.

Sweet tea, thick with sugar, sticky as sin, flooded across the keyboard, seeped into the vents, pooled around the charging port. The screen flickered once. Twice. Went dark.

"Oh my Lord in heaven!" Arletta's hands flew to her mouth, her expression the perfect picture of elderly distress. "I'm so sorry! These old hands just ain't what they used to be! And that table's been wobbly since Easter. I told Lyle to fix it but you know how men are, never get around to the small things."

Harris lunged for the laptop, but it was too late. Tea dripped from every surface, pooled in the keyboard, ran down the screen in sticky rivulets.

"It's…" Harris's voice was tight. "It's fine. Accidents happen."

"Let me get you some towels."

"No, I'll just. I need to . . .excuse me."

He retreated toward his cabin, laptop clutched to his chest, sweet tea dripping from his sleeves.

The second Harris disappeared inside, Arletta's flustered expression vanished like smoke. She picked up the empty pitcher, examined it with satisfaction, then looked at Quentin.

"Foot caught on the table leg," she said primly. "Terrible hazard. Someone really ought to fix that."

"That table's been solid since 1987," Quentin observed, not even trying to hide his grin.

"Funny how things get wobbly when you need 'em to." Arletta headed toward the kitchen, then paused. "Also? I checked his cabin this morning while he was at breakfast. Man keeps three different phones and a file folder with photos of our Liv. Figured his laptop could use a baptism."

Kenny, who'd been standing silent in the shadows, made a sound that might've been a laugh. "You searched his room?"