I’m woozy. Soaked. Must have missed a downpour. I raise up on my knees and peer back at the hut. Fresh shivers ripple down my already chilled spine. Smoke is rising from a stand of pines near the top of the ridge, and flames are licking the boughs of nearby live oaks. The rain has stopped, but dark grey clouds are still racing across the sky, broken up by wide patches of blue sky. Guess the storm hung around long enough to set this tinderbox on fire. That means the two sheriff deputies standing in front of that hut are the least of my worries. My legs wobble as I struggle to my feet. Another wave of lightheadedness strikes. My shotgun. I look around. Damn. Left it back in the hut. Teresa must have used it to finish off the dying cowboy, figuring he was on to her scam. Probably wiped her fingerprints and left it behind to put the blame on me. Baker will want me for a third homicide. I kneel and grab a long stick lying at my feet.
