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“A daughter. Shelly’s four. I missed her birthday last week because I was in Texas.”
Parker was only a few years older than Riley but already a father. Riley figured he’d have kids one day but he couldn’t picture himself as a dad anytime soon.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a cold one,” Parker said, hopping out of the truck.
A wooden bust of a woman from an ancient sailing ship hung above the entrance to Dirty Lil’s. A sign dangled from her neck, reminding customers that Friday night was ladies’ mud wrestling.
As far as roadhouses went, Lil’s was top-of-the-line and plenty big enough for the cowboy ego. A decent-size dance floor occupied the rear of the establishment, where a stage had been constructed for local bands. In the middle of the room sat a twenty-by-twenty-foot inflated kiddie pool filled with mud. A garden hose hooked up to a spigot behind the bar rested on the floor next to the man-made mud bog.
Waitresses dressed as saloon wenches carried drink trays and flirted with the cowboys. “Hey, fellas.” Sugar smiled behind the bar. “Don’t stand there gawkin’. Sit down and have a drink.”
“Two Coors.” Riley fished his wallet from his back pocket. “When did you start pouring drinks?”
“Melanie’s on break.” Sugar leaned over the bar and whispered in Riley’s ear. “Heard about your ride. You’ll win next time.”
Or the next time. Or the time after that.
As soon as Sugar walked off, Riley chugged his beer, then spent the following hour dancing with a handful of women. He bought a round for the house then caught up with Parker and challenged him to a game of darts—and lost a hundred-buck wager.
“You did that on purpose,” Parker accused.
“Did what?”
“Gave the game away.”
“You’re nuts.” Riley swallowed a sip of warm beer. He’d been nursing his second longneck for over an hour. “What?” he asked when Parker stared at him.
“You strut around…a big shot with the women.” Parker pointed at Riley’s waist. “Flashing your world-champion belt buckle and pilot’s license. Buying rounds of beer with hundred-dollar bills.”
No sense refuting Parker’s charges. Riley was set for life. He was aware most rodeo cowboys shared motel rooms, slept in their trucks and skipped meals to scrape together enough cash to pay their entry fees and fill their gas tanks. A few guys even set their own broken bones because they didn’t have the money to pay for an E.R. visit.
Riley had never experienced sacrifice—that set him apart from the other cowboys on the circuit. In return, his rivals had no idea how it felt to live with the pressure and responsibility attached to the Fitzgerald name.
When Riley refused to debate his privileged life with Parker, the cowboy muttered, “Thanks for the gas money.”
“You beat me fair and square.” Riley had believed Parker was one of the few cowboys who’d ignored Riley’s wealth. If he’d known otherwise, he wouldn’t have played darts with one eye closed—his good eye. He couldn’t have hit the bull’s-eye if he’d been standing five feet in front of the board. He set his beer bottle on the bar.
“You’re not stayin’ for the mud wrestling?” Parker motioned to the pit behind Riley. Two women wearing string bikinis—pink-and-white polka dot and cherry-red—taunted each other while drooling cowpokes placed bets.
Both blondes were pretty and not shy about flaunting their centerfold figures. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to watch the first match. Riley found a table with an unobstructed view of the pit and far enough away to avoid the spray of mud.
The antique train whistle attached to the wall behind the bar bellowed. Sugar introduced the wrestlers. “Get ready, boys, ’cause Denise and Krista are gonna give you a fight to remember. Both gals made the finals in last year’s Royal Gorge mud wrestling competition.”
Wolf whistles filled the air.
The women retreated to opposite corners of the kiddie pool and made a big production out of straightening their swimsuits. When the train whistle blew again, the contestants dove into the pit, spewing mud over the edges of the pool. They tussled, slipped and slid until only the whites of their eyes and their teeth were visible. Riley chuckled at the effort the women put into the act. They knew if they gave the cowboys a good show, they’d earn enough money in tips to cover their rent for a month.
“I thought you were leaving?” Sugar sidled up to Riley’s table.
“You know me—can’t resist a dirty girl.”
“You need a real woman.” She snorted at the mud-slinging duo. “Not immature, self-centered brats who only want to get their hands on the Fitzgerald fortune.”
“And where is a twenty-five-year-old guy to find a mature, worldly woman his own age?”
“Not at Dirty Lil’s, that’s for sure.”
“If I stop coming here, you’ll miss me.” Riley kissed Sugar’s cheek. “I’ve got to hit the road.”
“Fly safe, you hear?”
“Will do.” Riley returned to Parker’s F-150, where he’d left his gear bag, then phoned the cab company. By the time Rosalinda arrived, thunder echoed in the distance. She stepped on the gas and issued a weather report. Ominous black clouds threatened the skies to the west. At the airport he tipped Rosalinda another hundred before entering the hangar that housed his plane. The Dark Stranger—literal translation of his great-great-grandfather’s name, Doyle—was a gift to himself after he’d graduated from college.
Ben Walker, the airport operations manager, stood next to the Cessna 350 Corvalis. “High winds and possible hail are headed this way. You’re being routed through Albuquerque, then over to Arizona. You’ve got to be airborne in the next ten minutes. After that they’re shutting us down until the storm passes.”
“What about fuel?”
“Took care of that earlier.” Walker shrugged. “Heard you lost today so I doubted you’d stick around long.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a safe flight.” Walker returned to his office.
Riley got in the plane and hurried through the preflight checklist, then taxied onto the runway. The control tower instructed him to fly twenty miles east then turn south toward Albuquerque.
Once the Dark Stranger leveled off at sixteen thousand feet, Riley relaxed behind the controls and turned on the stereo. Time passed quickly and the plane soon entered Albuquerque airspace. He decreased his altitude and veered west toward Arizona. He’d just straightened the aircraft, when out of nowhere an object slammed into the propeller.
“Shit!”
Flecks of blood spattered the windshield and the plane vibrated violently. Riley quickly feathered the propeller and shut down the engine to prevent further damage.
He muttered a prayer and searched for a place to land.
OH, MY GOD.
Maria Alvarez stared in horror out the window of her station wagon. The small plane wobbled in the sky, its right wing dipping dramatically before leveling off. The aircraft was losing altitude fast. Maria pressed on the gas pedal as she whizzed along I-40 heading west out of Albuquerque toward Mesita.
Suddenly the plane switched direction and crossed the highway right over her car. He was gliding toward the salvage yard—Maria’s destination. Flipping on the blinker, she entered the exit lane. Keeping the plane in sight, she drove along a deserted road for a quarter mile. The road dead-ended and Maria turned onto a dirt path that led to Estefan’s Recycling and Auto Salvage. The business had closed to the public years ago but the property had never been cleared of ancient car parts, tires and appliances. The past few months the lot had become the home turf of the Los Locos gang.
Aside from normal gang activities—robbery, drugs and shootings—the Los Locos members were famous for their artistic talent. A recent display of their artwork across the front of an office complex on the south side of Albuquerque depicted an alien invasion of earth. The mural had received praise from the art professors at the University of New Mexico but not the police or the public. Regardless of the gang’s creativity, none of its members would escape the ’hood without an education.
Maria was one of five teachers in the city whose students had dropped out or had been expelled from high school. Except for a few instructors, society had written off the troublemakers. Education, not gang affiliation, was the path to a better life. Once the teens joined a gang, leaving alive wasn’t an option. Maria’s job was to help at-risk teens earn a GED then enroll in a community college or a trade program. Most days she loved her work, but there were times—like now—that her students tested the limits of her patience.
Yesterday, three of her charges had skipped class. When she’d stopped by their homes this afternoon to check on them, their families had no idea of their whereabouts. As she left one of the homes, a younger sibling confessed that his brother, Alonso, had gone to meet the Los Locos at Estefan’s Salvage.
As Maria raced toward the junkyard, the plane dropped from the sky and touched down, bouncing twice before racing across the bumpy desert toward the chain-link fence enclosing the property.
He’s not going to stop in time.
The aircraft rammed into the fence, ripping several panels from the ground before the nose of the plane crashed into a stockpile of rubber tires, spewing them fifty feet into the air. Amazingly the aircraft came to a halt in one piece.
After parking near the downed fence, Maria clutched the lead pipe she stowed beneath the front seat. This wasn’t the first time—nor would it be the last—that she rescued one or more of her students from a dangerous situation. Her father insisted she carry a gun, but after her brother had been shot dead by a gangbanger ten years ago, Maria wanted nothing to do with guns.
Sidestepping scattered debris, she hurried toward the plane. Her steps slowed when the cockpit door opened and the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on stepped into view.
He tipped his cowboy hat. “Howdy, ma’am. Sorry about the mess I made of your place. I’ll cover the damages.”
This past March Maria had celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday. Entering her mid-thirties was tough enough without being “ma’am’d” by a sexy young cowboy. He grinned and she swore her heart flipped upside down in her chest. Embarrassed by her juvenile reaction to the stranger she stopped several yards from the plane.
“You wouldn’t happen to have the name of a good aviation mechanic, would you?”
Chapter Two
Stomach tied in knots, Riley walked around the plane, assessing the damage—flat tire. Minor dents. Oh, man, that couldn’t be good—two mangled propeller blades. Only a bird the size of a hawk could have done that much damage.
Despite a breeze, sweat dripped down his temples as the harrowing descent replayed in his mind. At least his radio hadn’t shut off and he’d been able to communicate his safe landing to the control tower at a nearby airport.
“Are you all right?”
The sultry voice startled Riley. He’d forgotten about the woman. He gave her a once-over. Out of habit he catalogued her features, placing them in the plus or minus column. Her voice made the plus column—the raspy quality reminded him of a blues singer.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He moved toward her then stopped on a dime when she lifted the metal pipe above her head.
“Don’t come any closer.”
This was a first for Riley. Usually, he was the one beating off the women. “I’m no threat.”
Keeping hold of the weapon, she crossed her arms in front of her bosom—a well-endowed bosom.
Plus column.
She had curvy hips unlike the skinny buckle bunnies who squeezed their toothpick legs into size-zero Cruel Girl jeans. This lady filled a pair of denims in a way that made Riley want to grab hold of her fanny and never let go.
Three pluses—home run.
“Engine trouble?” she asked.
“Bird strike. I’d hoped to make it to Blue Skies Regional—” the municipal airport was located seven miles northwest of the central business district in Albuquerque “—but I lost altitude too quickly.”
“Who are you?”
The female drill sergeant needed to loosen up a bit. He spread his arms wide. “A cowboy.”
“Aren’t they all.” She rolled her eyes.
Amused, Riley tapped a finger against his belt buckle. “Standing before you, ma’am, is a bona fide world-champion bronc-buster.”
“Don’t call me that.” Almond-shaped brown eyes flashed with warning.
“Call you what?”
“Ma’am.”
So the lady was a tad touchy about her age. The tiny lines that fanned from the outer corners of her eyes hinted that she was older than Riley by more than a few years. She was on the short side, but there was nothing delicate about her. The arm wielding the pipe sported a well-defined bicep. His mind flashed back to Dirty Lil’s—he’d give anything to watch this woman mud wrestle.
“I’ve never met a real cowboy who wears snakeskin boots and flies his own plane. My guess is that you’re a drug dealer, masquerading as a cowboy.”
Whoa. “Sorry to disappoint you, ma’—uh, miss. I left Canon City, Colorado, earlier today after competing in the Royal Gorge Rodeo.” She didn’t appear impressed. “Go ahead and check my plane for contraband.” He dug his cell phone from his pocket. “Or call my agent. He’ll verify that I’m Riley Fitzgerald, current NFR saddle-bronc champion.” Soon to be dethroned if he didn’t get his rodeo act together.
“Agent?” she scoffed. “Is that what they’re calling drug cartels these days?”
The lady appeared immune to his charm. Riley couldn’t remember the last time a woman had rejected him. Her feistiness and bravado intrigued him and he found her sass sexy. “Why would a drug runner risk landing his plane in a salvage yard?”
“I’ve seen bolder displays of arrogance.”
Now he was an arrogant drug dealer? “As soon as I locate a good mechanic I intend to fly the heck out of Dodge.” He removed a handful of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. “Put this toward the damages. You can send a final bill—”
One of her delicately shaped eyebrows arched.
“What?”
“Cowboys don’t carry around hundred-dollar bills.”
“Take the money!”
Riley jumped inside his skin and scanned the piles of household appliances, searching for the location of the mystery voice. “Who’s there?”
“Alonso Marquez, get your backside out here right now.” The woman marched toward the graffiti-covered cinder-block hut with broken-out windows and a missing door. The word Office had been painted across the front in big red letters. Rusty refrigerators, washing machines and water heaters sat outside the building. “Victor and Cruz, I know you’re there, too.” The pipe-wielding crusader halted a few yards before the door when three teens waltzed from the building.
They were dressed the same—baggy pants that hung low on their hips. Black T-shirts. Each wore a bicycle chain lock around their necks and another chain hung from the pocket of their pants, down both sides of their legs, ending an inch above the ground. The baseball caps on their heads were turned sideways—all facing to the left—and their athletic shoes had no laces.
“You guys better have a good reason for skipping class yesterday and missing the quiz.”
Quiz? He’d crash-landed his plane, been accused of drug trafficking and now the crazy lady discussed schoolwork with three troublemakers from the ’hood.
“We’re not comin’ to class no more.” The tallest kid of the bunch spoke.
“You’re quitting, Cruz? The three of you are this—” she pinched her thumb and forefinger together in front of the boy’s face “—close to earning your GEDs.”
“We got a better gig goin’ on.”
“Does this gig have anything to do with the Los Locos, Victor?” She tapped the end of the pipe against the boy’s chest.
“What if it does?” The teen grimaced, the action stretching the scar on his face. A line of puckered flesh began at his temple and cut across the outer corner of his eye, dragging the skin down before continuing along his cheek and ending at the edge of his mouth. “Hanging with the Locos is better than sitting in class learning stupid stuff, Ms. Alvarez.”
Ms. Alvarez was a teacher. Riley didn’t envy her job—not if her students were as difficult as these punks.
“Victor—”
