Convictions by Maureen McKade Read Free Book Online Page B

to feast on fresh carrion ever since they arrived at the ranch. Barton could probably handle himself in a fair fight, but Mantle knew too many dirty tricks.
    Hank strode over to the two men. "Something going on here?" he asked with deceptive blandness.
    "Butt out, Elliott. This is between me and the kid," Mantle said.
    Hank looked at Barton, although he kept tabs on Mantle out of the corner of his eye. "Is that right, Barton? Do you want some time alone with Mantle here?"
    Barton's hands clenched into fists at his sides, and his eyes were wide, filled with panic and humiliation. "No. I just came in here to get a halter, and Mantle followed me."
    "Bullshit. You wanted me to follow you," Mantle accused the younger man.
    Barton's face paled. "No, I never..."
    For a moment, Barton's features blurred, becoming another young man, one Hank had tried to help. He reburied that jagged memory. "Aren't you supposed to be mucking out the stalls in the other barn, Mantle?"
    "Fuck you, Elliott," Mantle said.
    "I thought that was your specialty." Hank smiled coldly. "Keep your filthy hands to yourself."
    Mantle matched Hank's hard smile. "Don't get in my way again, Elliott, or you'll be sorry." He swaggered out of the barn.
    "Thanks," Barton said, his voice sounding even younger than his years.
    "Mantle's a mean bastard. Sleep with one eye open, kid," Hank said gruffly. "Don't forget what you came in here for."
    Barton followed him into the tack room, and Hank plucked a halter off a peg. "Here."
    Barton nodded his thanks and left.
    Shaking his head, Hank sat back down to continue working. Why did he even bother? Barton wasn't his responsibility, just like Lenny hadn't been. But then, Lenny wasn't anyone's responsibility anymore.
    Dead men didn't need protection.
    Hank looked up to see the foreman enter.
    "Need you to run into town, Elliott," Buck said without preamble.
    "Why?" he asked warily. He hadn't expected the opportunity to drive off the ranch by himself.
    "Christ, I'm not setting you up, if you're worried about that," Buck replied impatiently.
    Hank scowled, remembering the setup that had landed him in prison. "Can't be too damned careful."
    "Leroy was supposed to make the run this morning, but the damned fool got drunk last night and sprained his ankle getting off his barstool. Everyone else is out working. I'd go, but we have a buyer coming in for some stock, and since the boss isn't here, I've gotta take him out to look at the beeves."
    Hank met the foreman's gaze. "You trust me?"
    "Not especially, but the boss does. Don't make a liar out of him."
    Hank respected the foreman's honesty. He owed the judge, but more importantly, he wasn't going to screw up his chance at freedom—legal freedom. "Where do I need to go?"
    "Grocery store. Back up to the delivery door. They'll have everything ready. You just gotta load it up and sign for it."
    "Which truck?"
    Buck tossed him a set of keys. "Dark green Ford pickup. And don't let Sheriff Jordan catch you speeding."
    Hank jangled the keys in his palm, savoring the thrill of them in his hand. He froze, remembering one tiny detail. "I don't have a driver's license."
    "You don't know how to drive?"
    Hank scowled. "My license expired while I was in prison."
    Buck waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. As long as you drive the speed limit and don't do anything stupid, the sheriff doesn't care. He knows the judge has cons working for him."
    Hank was surprised but didn't show it. "Yes, sir."
    "Get outta here, Elliott. I'll expect you to be back and have the supplies unloaded before lunch."
    Sorely tempted to run to the truck, Hank forced himself to walk casually, as if he were entrusted to drive every day.
    The ten-year-old pickup wasn't locked, and Hank jumped in like a kid taking his first driving lesson. He stuck the key in the ignition but didn't turn it. Instead he caressed the steering wheel, the knobs on the dashboard, and the stick shift on the floor. The acrid scents of gas and oil were as