Page 1 of Devil's Marker

CHAPTER One

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the Yellow Rose tryin’ to have a peaceful and romantic dinner with my wife if it’s any of your business, which, of course, it’s not.” Brant sounded a little irritated, but he didn’t like being bothered after hours. “Since both of us know you don’t give a damn where I am, why don’t you spit it out and tell me why you’re callin’ at eight o’clock at night.”

“You belong to the Yellow Rose?” Texas Ranger Russell sounded a little incredulous.

“My wife belongs. She plays fucking golf. I’m a plus one.”

Ranger Russell chuckled softly. “Tell her I send my regards and will talk to you another time, like first thing in the mornin’?”

“You’d be better off if I refuse to tell her who interrupted our evenin’. Guess that’s your way of sayin’ it’s important? The mornin’ thing?”

“Yep.”

“Coffee at Jim’s. Nine thirty.”

“You sleepin’ in?”

“None of your damn business. Christ. You are nosey.”

“Goes with the job.”

“I knew you for fifteen years before you were a Texas Ranger. You were always nosey.”

Russell grunted. “Maybe. Nine thirty at Jim’s.”

He ended the call.

“So much for not telling me who that was. There’s only one Texas Ranger who gets the full Billy Goat Gruff treatment from you.”

Brant grunted. “Not bein’ gruff. Just remindin’ him that I was the one who beat up the kids who gave him a wedgie in junior high. Gotta keep it straight.”

Garland treated him to the full-throated barmaid laugh that belied her debutante upbringing. “Are you making that up?”

“Hell no. He woulda been stuffed in a locker, too, if it wasn’t for me.”

“So you’re not just my hero then.”

It was easy for Brant to get lost in her smile and hard to figure out whether she was being serious.

“You teasin’?”

“What’s the right answer?”

He laughed.

Brant was hidden behind a newspaper in a booth covered with turquoise vinyl. He wasn’t wearing club colors. He only wore his cut when he was on club business, a charity ride or rally. Except for the faded tee, worn jeans, and biker boots, he could have been any exceptionally good-looking fifty-year-old who kept rock-hard abs because his wife purred about them when she rode behind him.

“That you buried under layers of dead tree?” Forge Russell said, sliding into the booth opposite Brant Fornight.

Brant lowered the paper. “You scared of the Chinese, Russ?”

The Ranger took off his cowboy hat, set it on the bench seat beside him, and ran a hand through his hair. “Not today.”

“Well, you oughtta be. They’re comin’ for your grandchildren.”

“Let ‘em come. My grandchildren will be armed and ready.”

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