I don’t know how you expect the Lazy Eight to gain the reputation of being a high-class dude ranch if you insist on paying your staff slave wages.”
“Slave wages for slave labor,” Whitlow commented.
“My point exactly,” Becca said, but he just blew cigarette smoke out the window.
“Don’t forget about that opera thing in Santa Fe next week,” he commanded as, with a soft buzz, his window began to shut. “I’m counting on you to be there. And for heaven’s sake, dress like a woman. None of those pantsuits that you wore last time.”
“Mr. Whitlow—”
But the window closed tightly. She had been dismissed. Silver sidled to the right as the limo pulled away and Becca swore pungently.
Slave wages for slave labor, indeed. Except Whitlow had it wrong. He believed he was paying his staff low wages for low-priority, bottom-of-the-barrel, physical-labor jobs. But the truth was, without those jobs done and done well, the entire ranch suffered. And if the owner insisted on paying low, the quality of work he’d get in return would also be low. Or the workers would leave—like Rafe McKinnon had, and Tom Morgan last week, and Bob Sharp earlier in the month.
It seemed all Becca did these days was office work. Far too often, she found herself sitting inside, behind her desk, doing phone interviews to fill all-too-frequently-vacated staff positions.
She’d taken this job at the Lazy Eight Ranch because it was an opportunity to use her management skills and put in most of her hours out-of-doors.
She loved riding, loved the hot New Mexico sun, loved the way the storm clouds raced across the plains, loved the reds and browns and muted greens of the mountains. She loved the Lazy Eight Ranch.
But working for Justin Whitlow was the pits. And who said a woman couldn’t look feminine in a pair of pants, anyway? What did he expect her to wear to schmooze with his friends and business associates? Something extremely low-cut, with sequins? As if she could even afford such a thing on her pitiful salary.
Yes, she loved it here, but if things didn’t change, it was only a matter of time before she walked, too.
* * *
The night was moonless, but he lay quietly on his stomach, taking the time for his eyes to get fully used to the dark again, and in particular the dark here, just inside of the high-security fence.
He breathed with the sounds of the night—crickets and bullfrogs and the trees whispering overhead in the gentle wind.
He could see the house on the hill, and he silently crept closer on his knees and elbows, staying low, staying invisible.
He stopped, smelling the cigarette before he saw the red glow of light. The man was alone. Far enough away from the house.
He silently lifted his rifle, double-checking it before he sighted along the sniper’s scope. He brought the night-vision setting up a notch so he could really look at the target. And the man with the cigarette was the target. Not the gardener out for a late-night stroll. Not the chef hunting for the perfect variety of wild mushrooms. No, he recognized this man’s face from the photos he’d seen. He gently squeezed the trigger and…
Boom.
The muffled sound of the gunshot still managed to pierce his eardrums, set his teeth on edge, stab through his brain.
Eyes wide open, he sat up, instantly aware that he’d been dreaming. The only noise in the dimly lit room was his ragged breathing.
But the room was unfamiliar, and he felt a new wave of panic. Where in hell was he now?
Wherever it was, it was a far cry from the church shelter he’d woken up in yesterday morning.
His gaze swept across the impersonal furnishings, the cheesy oil paintings on the wall, and it came to him. Motel room. Yes, he’d checked in to this place yesterday morning, after leaving the shelter. His head had been pounding, and he’d wanted only to fall into bed and sleep.
He’d paid in cash and signed the registration M. Man.
Heavy curtains were pulled across the windows, letting in only a tiny sliver of bright morning light. Hands still shaking from his dream, he pushed the covers off, aware that the sheets were soaked with his own sweat. His head still felt tender, but no longer as if the slightest movement would make him want to scream.
He could remember, almost word for word, the brief conversation he’d had with the man at the motel’s front desk. He remembered the aromatic smell of coffee in the motel lobby. He remembered the clerk’s name—Ron—worn on a badge on his chest. He remembered how endlessly long it had taken Ron to find the key to room 246. He remembered pulling himself up the stairs, one step at a time, driven by the knowledge that soothing darkness and a soft bed were within reach.
He could remember that dream he’d just had, too, and he didn’t want to think about what it might mean.
He stood up, aware that the movement jarred him only slightly, and crossed to the air conditioner, turning it to a higher setting. The fan motor kicked in with a louder hum, and coolness hit him in a wave of canned air.
Slowly, deliberately, he sat back down on the edge of the bed.
He could remember the shelter. He could see Jarell’s smiling face, hear the sound of his cheerful voice. Hey, Mission Man. Hey, Mish!
He closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders, waiting for memories of being brought into the shelter, waiting for memories of what had happened that night.
But there was nothing there.
There was only…emptiness. Nothingness. As if before he’d been brought to the First Avenue Shelter, he hadn’t existed.
He could feel a new sheen of perspiration covering his body despite the cooler setting of the air conditioner. He’d slept off whatever had ailed him—whether it was the result of alcohol or some other controlled substance or simply the blow he’d received to his head. In fact, he’d slept solidly for more than twenty-four hours.
So why the hell couldn’t he remember his own damned name?
Hey, Mission Man. Hey, Mish!
He stood up, staggering slightly in his haste to get to the mirror that covered the wall in front of a double set of sinks. He flipped on the light and…
He remembered the face that looked back at him. He remembered it—but only from the bathroom mirror at the shelter. Before that, there was…
Nothing.
“Mish.” He spoke aloud the nickname Jarell had given him. The word sent a small ripple of recognition through him again, as it had yesterday morning. But what kind of name was Mish? Was it possible that he remembered—very faintly—Jarell calling him that when he was first brought into the shelter?
Mish. He gazed into the unfamiliar swirl of green and brown that were his own eyes. What kind of name was Mish? Well, right now, it was the only name he’d got.
Mish splashed cold water on his face, then cupped his hand under the faucet and drank deeply.
What
