Protector. Diana Palmer
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“Well, he said something of the sort. I wasn’t really listening. I was trying to get him to sign me out of the hospital at the time. I’d have agreed to paint his house if he’d asked.”
Cash chuckled. “I’ve been there, too.” He pursed his lips. “It’s just a little sacrifice, having that treatment and doing the exercises. You don’t want to have to hire somebody to carry your gun and shoot it for you,” he added.
“I have been shot before,” Hayes argued.
“Yes, but not this seriously,” Cash replied. His dark eyes narrowed. “You know, most people who carry more than two gunshot wounds would be said to have gone looking for trouble.”
Hayes glared at him.
“I won’t believe you’re suicidal, Hayes,” Cash continued. “But you do walk in blind. I don’t want to have to learn how to work with a new sheriff,” he added meaningfully. “It would be time-consuming.”
Hayes managed a grin. “I’ll buy that. You’re not the easiest acquaintance I know.”
“I’ll get worse with age,” Cash promised. “The point is,” he sobered, “that you’re less cautious than you need to be. Gunshot wounds add up. They cause problems later in life.”
“I’m not going to start watching my shadow.”
“Not asking you to,” Cash replied. “But you need to pay more attention to your surroundings and call for backup. You’re not one of those caped heroes. We don’t have any radioactive spiders around here.”
Hayes chuckled. “You sure about that?”
“Go to rehab,” Cash advised. “And take advantage of the last rest you’re likely to get in the coming weeks. I think we’re going to find that we’re in the middle of a drug turf war.”
“You’ve been talking to Cy Parks.”
“Yes, I have. You remember that property a former drug trafficker bought that adjoins his?” He waited while Hayes nodded. “Well, it’s never been resold and Cy’s seen some new activity there. Buildings going up, semitrailers coming in. He checked it out, but the workers don’t seem to know much. They say some horse breeder is moving in. Cy thinks it’s going to be a front for drug distribution. He’s worried.”
“He does love his purebred Santa Gerts,” Hayes agreed, mentioning the one native breed of cattle, Santa Gertrudis, which hailed from the famous King Ranch in Texas.
“I told him I’d have a few people I know check it out and get back to me. But if you want my opinion, the man behind it is El Ladrón’s competition.”
Hayes sat straight up. “No. Not him. Not here, for God’s sake!”
“Afraid so, if my theory is right.”
“Damn. Damn!”
“It might work to our advantage,” Cash said. “We’d have him where we could watch him.”
Hayes didn’t dare say what he was thinking. It would have revealed too much.
“What if he’s the gent who sent the shooter after me, instead of the other?” Hayes wondered aloud.
“Not him,” Cash replied. “He’s got too much class for hired assassins.”
Hayes lifted an eyebrow. “Too much class?”
“The man goes to church,” Cash replied. “He’s devout. He takes care of his workers, buys insurance for all of them, makes sure the kids are educated.”
“Is he a drug lord or a saint?” Hayes asked, exasperated.
“Why do you think they call him ‘El Jefe’? They speak of him with reverence. He’s as far removed from the other one as a saint is from sin.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how he ever ended up involved in the drug trade in the first place. He’s independently wealthy. He doesn’t need it.”
“Maybe he likes the risk and the rep,” Hayes replied.
Cash chuckled. “Maybe he does.”
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