Page 167 - EAMMV9covers

NICHOLAS BOOTHMAN
“No-one,” she said as she walked backwards in
front of me, a red backpack slung over her left
shoulder. “It’s mine.”
“On a limo driver’s pay!”
Coolly she flexed her fingers and stopped in her
tracks. I nearly walked into her.
“You can spot more stray cattle in an hour in that
than you can in a week on horseback.”
“Big ranch?”
“Big enough. Mannie ran the place. You don’t mess
with an ex-mercenary from Mozambique. He’s hard as
nails and utterly ruthless—when he has to be.” She
screwed up her eyes for a second. “Kept my step-
brothers in line—until my dad died.”
We paused outside the general store. The half
dozen tourists who’d rushed out to see the helicopter
arrive drifted back to the store muttering about us.
“Wait here.” She disappeared behind a mound of
rusty cartwheels, tumbleweed and pumpkins, each one
with a price tag attached, and into the store.
After the helicopter ride it was quiet here. Peaceful.
I laughed.
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