Body Heat. Brenda Novak

do? As soon as the man who’d called her a whore figured out that she’d given him the slip, he’d simply cross over to her bike. He’d seen her drive up, knew where she’d parked. It was only a stone’s throw from where he and his friend were standing.

      She couldn’t use her cell phone to call for help. And she didn’t know a soul here in Mexico that she could depend on. She’d already let Enrique and his friends leave without asking them to escort her safely to her Harley. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad decision. As far as she could tell, they were friends with the loser who seemed so bent on harassing her and could just as easily come to his aid if forced to choose sides. No, she preferred to keep the numbers small and manageable. There’d be fewer variables.

      Taking her gun from under her pant leg, she held it against and slightly behind her body as she strolled out of the bar. She had no idea whether these guys were armed, but she had to assume the worst. It was too dangerous to do otherwise. Their behavior was aggressive enough to suggest it.

      The breath she held burned in her chest as she reached the man who’d been doing his best to make her uncomfortable. He’d stationed himself so that she couldn’t avoid walking past him.

      She was prepared when his hand whipped out to grab her left arm. Letting him jerk her around to face him, she brought up her gun, using the momentum of his own action to shove the barrel between his ribs. “Let go or I’ll kill you,” she ground out, teeth clenched.

      Fear replaced the menace in his eyes. She’d gotten the drop on him. He hadn’t expected her to be armed.

      But, wary as he’d become, he didn’t release her.

      Adrenaline poured through her body, which made her feel a little shaky, but she had to sell her “hard chick” performance. His life, and possibly her own, depended on whether or not he bought it. “You have three seconds. I’ll even count en español, comprendes?”

      At first, he couldn’t seem to decide how to react. But his friend scrambled away so fast he fell in his hurry to put some distance between them.

      “Uno…dos…” She knew she couldn’t pull the trigger, not at this range. Although she’d had to use her firearm twice in the line of duty, she’d never actually killed a man. Unless he did something more than grab her arm, something to prove his intentions were what she feared, her threat was only a bluff. But she had the image she’d created with her bike, her tattoos and the swagger she’d learned from the Hells Angels working to convince him otherwise.

      She prayed it would be enough.

      Before she could get to three, he muttered what sounded like “fucking loca” and stepped away with his hands up. By this time, his friend had darted around the corner and was no longer in sight.

      “That’s it,” she murmured. “Nice and easy. No need to make me nervous.”

      “Puta!”

      “You used that one already.”

      Hatred glittered in his eyes. “You better not ever come back here.”

      She smiled. “But this is such a nice place to visit.”

      Keeping the gun trained on him, she backed across the street. Then she shoved her Glock into her waistband, where she could grab it again, if necessary, got on her bike and rode away.

      Only when she was in line to get out of the country did she pull her shirt down to cover her weapon. And it wasn’t until after she’d crossed the border and was nearly home that she put it back in its holster. Maybe she was safe from the man who’d scared her in Naco, but the area wasn’t as empty as the dark streets implied. Even as she flew down the road, there were coyotes smuggling bands of illegal immigrants into the country—and there was a killer lurking somewhere, waiting to shoot the unsuspecting in cold blood.

      Roderick felt like roadkill. Unable to get a flight to Tucson, he’d gone to Phoenix, but it’d been after eleven-thirty when he got in. Then he’d had to wait for his luggage and go through the tedious paperwork involved in renting a car before driving four hours southeast to Bordertown. Other than a fifteen-minute nap on the plane, he’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours.

      But, tired though he was, he couldn’t bring himself to pull into the Mother Lode Motel and get a room. The sun wasn’t up yet. Arriving so early gave him a short window of time during which he could drive around unnoticed, familiarize himself with what had changed and reacquaint himself with what hadn’t—all before having to face his father or anyone else he might know from those early days. For an hour or so, he wouldn’t need to don the mask of indifference he’d soon wear, wouldn’t need to pretend that what’d happened here didn’t bother him anymore.

      “Welcome home,” he muttered as he passed the drugstore, the family-owned grocery, Serrano’s Western Wear and the Catholic church his mother used to drag him to each Sunday. She’d insisted her younger brother go to church with them, but religion hadn’t been enough to keep Arturo on the right track. Was he even alive?

      Roderick stretched the tight muscles in his neck. Maybe, when he was finished in Bordertown, he’d head down to Mexico and look for Arturo.

      Then again, it’d been so long, maybe he wouldn’t. Some things were better left alone. He had no idea if the man he’d find would even want to be found.

      When he reached the high school, he slowed to a crawl. The buildings had recently been painted; a new addition stuck out from the main hall like an extra appendage. Elmer’s Burrito Stand, the same awful blue color it’d always been, huddled on the corner across the street. Roderick had to marvel at that. For twenty years Elmer had made his living selling burritos out of that little stand. Not many places lasted so long. But not many places served food as good as Elmer’s, either.

      In the very center of town, the buildings had the wood-plank sidewalks and overhangs reminiscent of the Old West. In an effort to save itself after the mine closed nearly a century ago, Bordertown had followed Tombstone’s lead in vying for the tourist dollar. But Bordertown didn’t have the O.K. Corral or any other real claim to fame. It had to rely on tours of the old mine, a string of souvenir shops and a few ranches in the surrounding desert that boarded tourists and offered an “authentic Western experience.” Rod was pretty sure the town would’ve died a slow death if not for the artisans who’d moved into one section and made a name for themselves selling turquoise jewelry and western art.

      A few of the dumpier buildings downtown had been cleaned up. A chiropractor’s office and a veterinary office had received a face-lift and sported new signs. But a strip mall that’d been new the year he’d left was now weathered and worn-looking, home to a Laundromat, an electronics discounter and a liquor store. What Roderick remembered as an old thrift shop had been taken over by a salon boasting a full set of acrylic nails for forty-five dollars. At the Circle K, where half the high school had loitered late into a Friday or Saturday night, there was litter in the bushes and graffiti on the tan bricks facing the alley. And most of the houses on Center Street, those that hadn’t been turned into businesses, had bars covering the windows and doors.

      On the whole, Bordertown wasn’t particularly attractive. It never had been. But there was a nostalgic quality that, for Roderick, coalesced into a combination of homesickness and regret. As he drove through the quiet streets, gazing at the buildings, many of which featured the typical desert landscaping, it felt almost as if his mother was sitting in the car beside him.

      He considered going out to the cemetery to visit her grave. Now would be the time, when he could pay his respects in private. But the thought of standing there, looking down at that small mound as he had when he was only sixteen, brought back too much pain. He wouldn’t go. Not yet. Maybe if he avoided the cemetery, he wouldn’t miss her quite so poignantly.

      Once he drove to the edge of town, he turned right and continued several miles before making a left and then another right. He was going to the ranch. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t care what it looked like, didn’t want anything to do with his father or his half brothers, but he was curious.

      The arched