Dana Marton - Spy in the Saddle

“You sing?” the waitress asked as she waited for her orders to be filled. She was in her early forties, a bottle blonde, slim, wearing a white T-shirt with the bar’s logo on it and a short black skirt with an apron.

“Ain’t much else I can do. I got just the voice the good Lord gave me.” Lilly tried to sound country, as if she might just fit in.

The woman looked doubtful, but she said, “Come back tonight. Brian’s the boss. He’ll be holding tryouts.”

“Thanks—”

“Mazie. And this one here’s Shorty.” She snorted as she indicated the bartender with her head. He fairly towered over the both of them, busy with the beer tap.

“Lilly. I think I might just try for that gig.”

Even if Shep was totally going to kill her for it.

Chapter Three

Night had fallen by the time Shep and Keith made their way into town and pulled up in front of The Yellow Armadillo, after a long and dusty shift on border patrol that netted them nothing whatsoever. Normally, they would have taken a break before going into the office in the morning. But as close as they were to D-day, they’d decided to snoop around the bar a little first.

Lilly’s hotel was just up the road. Not that Shep planned on stopping by for a visit. He watched for an empty space in the parking lot. He had to drive around to find a spot.

“Looks like they do good business.” Keith scanned the cars, then turned to Shep. “So, did Lilly Tanner really burn down your house and steal your car and all that?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

But Keith kept waiting.

Fine. “It was an accident.”

“How does somebody steal a car by accident?”

“The fire was an accident. She needed the car and...” He shrugged. There was really no good way to explain. “She wanted to start over.” He’d never really held a grudge. “She was a messed-up kid and with reason. She had rough beginnings.”

“True that. Sold for drugs by her own parents. That’s harsh. Can you imagine?”

“Not really.” He’d grown up in a happy, loving family.

“That’s why you never reported the car stolen?”

He parked the car and shut off the engine. “She was just turning eighteen—she would have gone to jail. Being locked up would have broken her. She’d always been special, always stood out. I didn’t want to see her broken.”

He was glad she’d turned out okay. He would be even gladder when she left again. He stopped for a second and turned to Keith. “And now we’re done talking about her. She’s only here for a few days. It’s not important.”

Keith flashed one of his quick grins. “Whatever you say.”

The bar sat on a side street a little back from the main drag, among service-type businesses: dry cleaner’s, key copying and photocopying, a car mechanic a little farther down. The road back here was narrower and darker, the streetlights smaller and not as fancy as Main Street’s, no lone-star flags, no advertising posters on the poles.

Keith got out. “Hope Wagner is here.”

Shep followed. “Or the guy who was with him at the shooting. Look for anyone with a damaged wrist.”

They’d put out a call to the local hospitals, but none had a patient with a gunshot wound like that. He might have gone to one of the underground clinics that served illegal immigrants. If so, they’d have no way of finding him through the health-care system.

Music filtered out to the street through the front door as they walked up, the smell of stale air and beer hitting them as they stepped inside.

Mostly men filled the bar, very few women. It seemed like the kind of place where farmhands would go to get sloppy drunk at the end of the day. A scrawny cowboy wailed on the stage, a sad song about losing his girl. The clientele paid little attention to him.

Shep and Keith bellied up to the bar and flagged down two beers. They were dressed as rodeo cowboys. With all the cowboy shirts, jeans and cowboy boots surrounding them, they fit right in.

He didn’t spot anyone suspicious at first glance, except a bookie in the far corner doing some business, probably taking bets on the rodeo that would start later in the week.

The bartender slid their beers in front of them. “In town to try your luck?”

“We’re in it to win it.” Keith gave an enthusiastic grin. “Hoping for a break in the weather. No fun trying to train in over hundred-degree heat.”

The bartender nodded with sympathy. “Where you boys from?”

“Pennsylvania.” Keith puffed his chest out a little.

The man gave a whoop of a laugh. “There ain’t no rodeo in Pennsylvania.” He shook his head as a pitying look came into his eyes.

“There sure is.” Keith grinned. “There are crazy bastards everywhere.” He managed to sound proud of it.

An older guy on Keith’s other side toasted them with his beer. “Amen to that.”

The bartender kept laughing as he walked away.

Shep didn’t mind some mocking. Being considered the village idiot was the perfect cover.

He pretended to watch the band and the out-of-tune singer onstage while he continued checking out the customers. He looked for specific faces, not just something suspicious in general. That helped. If Doug Wagner or his partner showed up tonight, they could grab him, take him in and ask him who’d paid them to shoot Jimmy.

None of his buddies had given up his location. And Shep’s team couldn’t find the Mustang, either.

The sad cowboy onstage finished his song and stood awkwardly for a lackluster applause before lumbering off the stage. The band stayed and another singer came on. This was one was a woman.

And then some.

Next to Shep, Keith gave a soft whistle.

She wore cherry-red cowboy boots, a denim skirt that was so short it was barely legal and a light green tank top that looked familiar.

He leaned forward to see better. Those curves... He didn’t want to be thinking what he was thinking. He had to be mistaken.

She stopped in front of the microphone with her hat pulled low over her eyes, her head bent. She hadn’t sung a word yet, but already she held the crowd’s attention, something the previous performer hadn’t managed. Chins were hitting the tables all over. The men ogled her as if they were ready to devour her.

Then she looked up and flashed a dazzling smile that lit up the room. She had a face to match the body, for sure. A couple of men growled with appreciation. Others let out more wolf whistles.

“Hot damn.” Even Keith couldn’t keep quiet, his voice laden with reverence.

Shep came halfway to his feet then caught himself and dropped back down just before he would have blown his cover. “What in blazing hell is Lilly doing up there?” He hissed the words between his teeth.

But Keith was too dazzled to listen.

* * *

SHE LOCKED HER KNEES so they wouldn’t shake. It’d been a long time since she’d sung onstage. And she’d never been a country singer. Lilly flashed another smile before she nodded to the three-man band behind her and started into a country ballad, similar to the one the singer before her had chosen.

She was one minute into it when she realized it wasn’t going to work for her, not at a place like this. The sweet love song was something women would listen to in the car while driving to school to pick up their kids. The rough-and-tumble men who filled the bar weren’t looking for sentimental, no matter how good the chords were.

Brian had been clear that he wanted a performance that hit the ball out of the park. Revenue was weak on band nights now that their lead singer had quit. He wanted some serious dough coming in. He wanted something that would bring people in early and make them stay until the closing bell.

She tried her best, putting all the heart she had into the song. Unfortunately, nobody was listening. A lot of the men were looking at the stage, but they were staring at her legs.