now.
Instead, he decided to make his way through the honky-tonk and ask people about Pedro.
Ten minutes later, he hadn’t learned squat. So far, no one seemed to know the man he’d been looking for. He wasn’t sure if his lead on Pedro had been false or if people had collectively clammed up in a small-town effort to protect their own.
Either way, neither the aspirin nor the beer had taken the edge off his headache, and he decided to call it a night.
He reached into his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. After leaving it on the table for Trina, he got to his feet.
He’d no more than started for the door when a tall, lanky cowboy entered the bar, along with a short, stocky companion. Jason wondered if it was worth talking to either of them, but before he could make a move one way or the other, Trina approached the men.
When she faced them head-on, she slapped her hands on her hips. “Unless you two are carrying more than counterfeit bills this time, your money’s not welcome here.”
“You can’t blame that on us,” the chubby guy said. “We got ’em right out of the ATM down at the filling station.”
“Yeah, right,” Trina said. “Are you going to leave? Or do I have to call security?”
“You mean that scrawny old geezer you called last time?” The slim one laughed. “He couldn’t throw my ninety-eight-pound granny across the room.”
Chubby headed for the bar, clearly not listening to the waitress and apparently not worried about whoever provided security at the honky-tonk.
“I told you to get out of here,” Trina said, raising her voice above the din of music and all the barroom chatter.
Ignoring Trina’s words and tone, Slim stood tall and threw his chest out. “What do you care, baby? You don’t own the place. And that quarter tip we left after your lousy service was the real deal.”
Jason scanned the cowboy joint, looking for security or for a sign that someone would back him up, but the jukebox blared with a lively beat and the hoots of laughter continued. So finding someone to step up to the plate and take his side wasn’t likely.
When Slim grabbed Trina’s arm and gave it a jerk and a twist, Jason’s protective instinct kicked in and he made his way toward them.
“Why don’t you guys just back off and leave the lady alone,” he said.
“She ain’t no lady.” Slim released his grip on Trina and turned to Jason. “And who in the hell are you?”
“Just a man who doesn’t like to see women mistreated.” Jason preferred to use his head instead of his brawn, but that might not be an option tonight.
Fortunately, at that point, a big burly guy stepped in—a bouncer, it seemed.
And this one wasn’t a scrawny old man.
At about six-foot-six and probably weighing close to three hundred pounds—nearly all muscle—he could have taken on a couple of linebackers for the Houston Texans without breaking a sweat.
“I don’t want any trouble,” the bouncer said, “so you guys will have to take your squabble outside. Or better yet, go on home and call it a night.”
Slim mellowed right out and tossed the man a chipped-tooth grin. “We were just havin’ a little fun.”
The bouncer crossed his muscular arms, his biceps stretching the cotton fabric of his T-shirt to the limit. “Yeah, well, take your fun somewhere else.”
“Come on,” Slim called to his buddy. “Let’s go on down to Larry’s Place. The help is a lot friendlier there.”
Apparently, Chubby saw the wisdom in Slim’s suggestion, and they both headed out the door like a couple of docile pups, their tails tucked between their legs.
When they were gone, the bouncer turned his gaze on Jason, as though he wasn’t all that welcome here, either.
“It’s okay,” Trina said on Jason’s behalf. “This guy hasn’t been any trouble. He stepped in to defend me while you were in the stockroom.”
Jason wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from the bouncer—a thank-you, maybe. But he didn’t get anything.
He did, however, make a mental note to check out Larry’s Place tomorrow. He certainly wasn’t going to follow Slim and Chubby anywhere tonight.
“Do you know where I can find a motel?” he asked Trina.
“The Night Owl is a couple of blocks down the street.”
“Thanks.”
“It doesn’t look like much on the outside,” she added, “but it’s clean and the beds are soft.”
He didn’t ask how she knew that. Instead, he thanked her, then strode toward the door. On his way out, he reached into his pocket for the keys to his rental car and headed for the parking lot.
A streetlight at the road was flickering, yet it gave off just enough light for him to see someone near the driver’s door of his vehicle, as if trying to break in.
“Hey!” he called out, picking up his pace.
Chubby looked up, but he didn’t appear to be too concerned about being caught in the act.
Where was Slim?
Footsteps sounded behind him, but before he could turn around, his head exploded with pain—then everything went black.
The E.R. at the Brighton Valley Medical Center had been unusually quiet, even for a weekday night, but Dr. Betsy Nielson wouldn’t complain.
While doing her internship, she’d learned to use her downtime wisely, so she went into the break room and poured herself a cup of coffee.
But as usual, the peace and quiet didn’t last long.
Dawn McGregor, one of the nurses on staff, poked her head in the doorway. “Dr. Nielson? We’ve got an ambulance on the way with an unconscious man in his late twenties–early thirties. He was robbed and beaten up outside the Stagecoach Inn.”
Betsy took another sip of coffee before pouring it down the sink. “What’s the ETA?”
“Three-and-a-half minutes.” Dawn handed Betsy a list of the man’s vitals that had been relayed to the hospital via the radio in the ambulance.
Betsy glanced at the readings, making note of them, then headed for the triage area.
Moments later, the automatic door swung open as paramedics rushed the victim into the E.R.
Showtime, Betsy thought, as she met them partway and began a visual assessment of the patient while they all moved into the exam area.
Blunt-force trauma. Lacerations and bruises…
As she moved
