Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) by Russell Blake Read Free Book Online Page B

was even more underwhelming than he’d expected, little more than a forlorn two-block strip of brick buildings with garish façades fronting on the old Highway 90. Drake pulled past the pharmacy and the hardware store and the florist, feeling like he’d traveled through a wormhole and wound up in the 1930s, so quaint and quiet was the main drag.
    He continued south and, after a series of turns, found himself at a rusting iron gate at the end of a gravel road. A faded placard that had seen better days announced the property as the Buckeye Ranch, and an imposing padlock secured the barrier in place. A “No Trespassing” sign with the outline of a rifle beneath the lettering trembled in the light breeze, which smelled like wet dirt and hay as it blew through his open window.
    He parked in front of the gate and stepped out of the car. At the barbed-wire fence that ran along the front of the property, he stood and gazed across the field at three buildings several hundred yards away: a barn, a garage, and the main house, all painted with discount earth tones and in serious need of a touch-up.
    A man in a heavy brown coat worked in the adjacent field, riding a tractor that was dragging something across the ground. Drake waved at him. After ten seconds with no reaction, he wasn’t sure the tractor driver had seen him, so he cupped his hands and yelled.
    “Hey. Hello! Over here. At the gate.”
    The tractor operator kept going. Drake yelled again, waving his arms over his head. “Hey. You, on the tractor. Over here.”
    The engine ground to a halt. The man climbed from behind the wheel and, after a quick study of the field, made his slow way to the gate. He was short and stocky, built like a fireplug, his skin tanned the color of tarnished copper. Drake could make out wisps of silver hair at his temples under the Stetson that shielded piercing hazel eyes from the sun – eyes that were clear and lucid, the whites seeming backlit as he approached.
    “Can I help you?” the man asked, his voice seasoned by the years, but lacking the twang Drake had been hearing since his arrival in the Lone Star state.
    “Maybe so. I’m looking for Jack Brody.”
    The man blinked, but held his gaze. Drake could see a muscle in his jaw tighten as he clenched his teeth, but other than that, he could have been carved from stone. He slowly pulled his heavy leather work gloves off and held them by his side as he shifted from foot to foot.
    “Why?”
    “I need to talk to him. Are you Jack Brody?”
    “Who wants to know?”
    Drake had considered this moment for halfway across the country, and now that it was here, wasn’t sure which approach to use. Did he launch into a story, try a routine, or answer honestly? He studied the web of lines on the man’s face and made a snap decision.
    “The name’s Drake. Drake Ramsey.” Drake watched for a reaction, but wasn’t expecting what came next.
    The man sighed, a doleful sound that contained more than fatigue or resignation, and spoke in a soft voice. “I always expected you’d show up here one day. How did you find me?”
    “Jack?”
    “Good guess, Sherlock.”
    “I…I did some skip-tracing. Took some doing, but you’re a lousy poker player. You gave yourself away on the phone.”
    “Of course. The call. I knew I should have packed up the truck and headed for Mexico. Damn near did.”
    The two men stared at each other in silence. A frigid gust of wind cut across the road, carrying with it a small dust devil that spun giddily along the red dirt shoulder. Jack’s eyes followed the dervish before returning to Drake’s.
    “So now what?” Jack asked.
    “I’ve got some questions.”
    Jack nodded. He rubbed his hand across his face and then leaned to the side and spit onto a meager patch of weeds by one of the gateposts. “I expect you do,” he said noncommittally.
    “Should I ask them out here, or can we go inside?”
    “How about I tell you I’ll shoot you if you set foot on my