Molly's Garden. Roz Denny Fox

straightened stools on his way to put out the Open sign. Heading back, he plugged some coins into the jukebox and again stood behind the bar as Miranda Lambert belted out her latest he-done-me-wrong song.

      Catching a glimpse of his image in the leaded mirror on the wall behind the liquor bottles, Adam barely recognized the man he saw. He’d let his hair, once clipped short, curl to his shoulders. He’d taken to wearing a headband to hold it out of his eyes. He should probably shave more often, he thought, stroking his prickly cheek.

      He might be a bit gaunt, but this lazy job working the Country-Western bar for his old college friend in the dusty outskirts of Catarina, Texas, hadn’t diminished his six-three stature or turned the muscles that he’d honed over his years as a wildcatter flabby. His imposing size was probably why Frank had begged him to manage the bar he’d inherited from his father in the rough border town.

      One look and few, if any, messed with Adam Hollister.

      The door opened. Two regulars walked in and took seats at the far end of the bar. One held up two fingers and Adam pulled two dark ales from the tap. No words passed between them as he delivered their drinks.

      Three old-timers Adam knew by sight wandered in next and ordered. They opted for a booth near the jukebox. They fed the machine and Willie Nelson crooned a series of his old hits.

      Predictable, Adam thought, wiping at a nonexistent spill. Weeknights were dead. He hoped Frank finished renovating his dad’s old house soon, so Adam could quit this place.

      The door swung open again. As was his habit, Adam looked up. He did a double-take and was more than a little shocked to recognize Dave Benson.

      His former business partner strolled up to the bar and took a stool in front of him.

      The last time Adam had seen Dave had been at Jenny and Lindy’s funerals.

      A pain that never quite went away stabbed him anew. He’d tried running away from that memory, that pain, that guilt, for more than two years.

      “You look like something the cat dragged in,” Dave said.

      “Thanks. What brings you slumming? You still drink light beer?”

      Benson made a rude gesture before admitting he hadn’t changed his preference. “I’ve been looking for you, good buddy. Jim Stafford’s secretary finally broke down and told me where to find you. Kevin Cole wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

      Adam popped the top on a bottle and watched as Dave took a long swallow. This was the man Adam had entrusted with his thriving multimillion dollar company, Hollister-Benson Wildcatters.

      Dave wore a white shirt and tie—so out of place here.

      “Why are you hunting for me? Didn’t Cole, Cole and Stafford cross all the T’s to make the company transfer legal?”

      “They did. Although it sticks in Kevin’s craw that you gave me the company.” Dave tore a loose piece of label from the bottle and wadded it into a tiny ball he dropped in the ashtray. “Business has been slow. Then two months ago I got a call from a guy we did a job for in Kuwait. He’s a new partner in Branchville Oil, based out of Corpus. It seems the government is offering big-buck contracts to anyone who can open up rich new in-ground veins. If you’ve watched any global news lately, you know the foreign oil markets are stagnant. Domestic is the way to make a killing.”

      “I don’t watch much news.” Adam stepped away to get refills for the two at the end of the bar. “How does any of that affect me?” he asked on his return.

      “Branchville had a chemist do soil studies for them last year. He thinks there could be a major field below a ranch not far from here.”

      “So?” Adam leaned back against the bar sink and crossed his arms.

      “Ranch owner refused to sell the mineral rights or to allow testing. He died and left the property to an equally stubborn woman. I talked to her yesterday. She’s as anti-oil as the old man was.”

      “Tough for you. Sounds like you’ve hit a brick wall, Dave.”

      “That’s why I thought of you. This could mean millions, and you have a sixth sense when it comes to making sure there’s oil and talking people out of it.”

      “Money doesn’t mean squat to me now. I made more than I’ll ever need and I was wrong to let it dictate my life.”

      “Well, even if you’re not interested in personal profit, think of doing it for your country. Help wean the good old US of A off foreign oil.”

      Adam considered Dave’s words. Perhaps thirty months was too long to wallow in self-pity. Oil definitely used to spark an adrenaline rush for him. “This isn’t the most stimulating job. But if the landowner won’t allow testing, that’s pretty final.”

      Dave pulled a folded piece of newspaper out of his pocket. “Maybe there’s another way. This morning the big boss at Branchville gave me this ad. The woman in question first ran it a week ago. Apparently the job hasn’t been filled.”

      Taking the paper, Adam read the ad. “You could do this. Why don’t you apply?”

      “I spoke with her, so she knows me. She’s not stupid, just stubborn. We hear she’s not well liked in the area. Not by some townsfolk at least. Word is she makes life easy for border crossers. Authorities haven’t caught her hiring or hiding illegals, but she’s a sympathizer. At the local café I found out she supplies crossers with food and water.”

      “Why get in the middle of a hostile negotiation, Dave?”

      “For a spanking-new oil supply.”

      Adam pursed his lips and read the ad again. “Maybe I don’t qualify. Anyway, if she’s a hard-nose like you suggest, if she caught me testing her dirt she’d probably fire me on the spot or toss my body in the Rio Grande.”

      Dave took another swig from the bottle. “You’re complaining to a guy who’s seen you charm your way out of many a hot spot, friend. I can tell you’re interested. Of course, I trust you have a barber.”

      “Hmm. How would you figure to play this? I’ve no desire to work for Branchville or to renew my ties to Hollister-Benson Wildcatters. If I’m hired by the woman I’d want to remain unencumbered. Say I take a gander? It’s gotta be at my pace and aboveboard. No pressure from you or your people. If she refuses to deal, I walk away regardless.”

      Dave circled his sweating beer bottle around and around in circles of condensation, frowning all the while.

      “What’s the matter? That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

      “It’s just that the government offer runs out the first of July. That’s what—six weeks? Not a lot of time. It also occurs to me Branchville might be uneasy if you don’t have any skin in the game. I mean, your name is synonymous with the best wildcatter in the world. My bosses will want assurances you won’t undercut them and blow in a well on your own.”

      Picking up the rag he’d used earlier to polish the bar, Adam wiped up the rings under Dave’s bottle and shoved the empty into the return crate. “I’m not signing any contract except for a W-4 tax form if the farm owner hires me. It’s your call.”

      His one-time partner stared at Adam for what seemed like a long time. Finally he muttered, “Give me a napkin. I’ll draw a map to McNair Gardens. That’s what she calls it. Used to be McNair Cattle Ranch.”

      “I’ll find it. And write down a phone number where I can get in touch with you if I decide it’s worth drilling there. Your people have nothing but the word of a chemist. They’re known to be wrong. Or maybe you’ve forgotten the sheikh who bet a fortune on such a report and we drilled what turned out to be a duster.”

      “I remember you tried to tell him and he wouldn’t listen. There are a number of people at Branchville who think the chemist is right.” Dave scribbled a phone number on a clean bar napkin and slid it across