Blood Lines (24 page)

>> Rafter M Ranch

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 2441 Hours (Central Time Zone)

The mare delivered her foal without any trouble, but Tyrel McHenry stood watch all night just in case. Since he'd laid the foundations of the ranch house, there hadn't been a horse born on his ranch whose birth he hadn't attended.

The same could be said, more or less, of the cows. When the calving season began in the winter and extended into the spring, it made for long days and long nights. Tyrel stayed horseback for days on end, making cold camps and watching over his flock. From time to time, he had to help out with the birthing. Sleeping on the ground when it was still holding on to winter temperatures had gotten harder over the years, but when the day came that he couldn't do it anymore, he figured they could just cover him on over.

Sitting there on a bale of hay and watching the mare nudge her new baby to its feet, Tyrel reflected that maybe he wouldn't have too many more years to watch miracles like the birth of a new animal. He was getting older. He could see it in the wrinkles on his face and the slackness and weathered cracks of his skin.

Growing old bothered him. He disliked the idea of infirmity. He'd seen people—some of them younger than him—who just couldn't seem to take care of themselves anymore. If he ever reached that time in his life, he figured it would be better to just cash in his chips and get up from the table.

But it doesn't really happen like that, does it?
he told himself.
You just keep right on drawing cards, even if you got a losing hand, because you just can't stop yourself.

Death itself didn't bother him. A good part of him had died in Qui Nhon all those years ago.

Grimly Tyrel turned his thoughts from that time. He'd promised himself that night while looking down on the dead man's face that he wouldn't think of what had happened ever again.

He had been unsuccessful. Even when he didn't think of that terrible event, the weight of it rode him around like a determined bull rider. No matter what he did to shake that weight—drinking and fighting and just pure cussedness—it would never go away.

The only person who had ever been able to remove the old fear and gentle him down had been his wife. He missed her. Every minute of every day. There wasn't a thing about the ranch that didn't remind him of her. And he was trapped by everything that had happened in his life.

It would have been better for her if they'd never met. Or if he hadn't fallen in love with her despite the fact that he knew better. But he hadn't been able to help himself, no matter how much he felt that he hadn't deserved her love.

If she hadn't loved him back, he could have walked away from everything. Vanishing into the back roads would have been better than trying to pretend he was a normal person.

Because he hadn't been normal since that night in Qui Nhon.

His wife had paid the price; he couldn't talk to her about anything that had happened in the war. His sons had paid the price as well.

And now you got grandbabies paying that same price, you inconsiderate old fool.

Although he'd never admit it, Don's words on Father's Day had hurt him in ways he didn't know he could still be hurt. When he'd put his wife into the cold, hard ground, he'd thought it would be the end of those feelings.

Life was like that, though. He'd never truly been able to figure out what it was he was supposed to do.

Or why.

Mostly it was the
why
of things that got to him and made everything difficult.

He reached for the insulated cup of coffee he'd brought out with him and took a sip. The coffee was cool now because he'd been out in the barn so long, but it was still strong. He liked his coffee strong. He made it the way his daddy had. Strong enough to put hair on a rock.

His daddy had been a tanker in World War II. That had been the last of the simple wars, where everything was black-and-white, and a man could fight for what he believed in and know that he was right for doing it. The same couldn't have been said about Vietnam.

Tyrel sat there and thought thoughts he'd promised himself he'd never think again, and he didn't know why he was thinking them. Nothing good could come of this.

Maybe, he mused, he was putting himself through his own particular hell again because he'd stayed at the ranch instead of going with Don to check on Shelton.

What kind of daddy wouldn't go to the hospital to see his nearly shot-to-death son?

Your kind,
that hard voice said in the back of his mind.
The kind that's scared of what's lying out there for him.

But that wasn't all of it, he knew. He didn't go because he didn't want Don or Shel—or the grandbabies—to think on him too hard. He couldn't be there for them. He couldn't ever be there for anybody.

He'd known that since Qui Nhon.

>> 0112 Hours

Satisfied that the mare and her new colt were going to be fine, Tyrel got up from the hay bale. His knees cracked in protest.

When he was standing, he walked over to where Ramon Sanchez lay. Ramon was fourteen years old, the oldest grandson of Miguel. He was a handsome boy and looked a lot like his granddaddy.

“Hey,” Tyrel said gruffly. He kicked Ramon's boots hard enough to wake the boy.

Ramon came awake instantly and looked apologetic. “Sorry,” he said in Spanish. He rubbed his eyes. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“You were snoring so loud I thought you were gonna spook the horses,” Tyrel said. He spoke in Spanish, but his was awkward even after all these years. Shel was the one who had taken to the language like a native.

Embarrassment flushed Ramon's face. “My grandfather is going to be upset with me. He told me to watch over you—I mean, the horses.”

“Well then,” Tyrel said, “I guess we ain't gonna tell your granddaddy. Get up and let's get you to bed. We got an early morning coming if we're gonna get everything done.” He reached down and pulled the boy to his feet.

“The mare? How is she?” Ramon glanced at the pen.

“She's fine. Baby's fine too. It was an easy birth.”

“Good.” Ramon sounded relieved. Then he focused on Tyrel. “You can deduct tonight from my pay.”

“Ain't gonna do that,” Tyrel said. “The agreement was that you'd be here if I needed you, not that you'd stay awake the whole time. The way I look at it, you held up your end of things.”

“Thank you.”

“Now let's get you on to bed.”

>> 0127 Hours

Despite his fatigue and the long day he'd put in, Tyrel couldn't sleep. That wasn't unusual. He hadn't slept all that much when he was a young man, and he'd always been told that old people needed even less sleep.

In front of the television, Tyrel reached for the remote control and switched on ESPN.

For the most part, the ranch operated the way it had when he'd grown up. He still worked the cattle on a horse, and both his sons had learned to ride.

Shel had been the one to bring a motorcycle home one summer, and he'd used it for a while. Until it had broken down on him and left him with a five-mile walk home. Tyrel had taken great satisfaction—maybe a little too great, looking back on it now—pointing out that a horse didn't break down.

For a time, Shel had nurtured his love for motorcycles anyway. The boy was stubborn, but Tyrel had to admit that Shel hadn't gotten that from his mama. He'd been cursed with that by his daddy.

The only concession Tyrel had really made to the twenty-first century was the satellite television receiver. He'd done that mostly for Don's kids, but Tyrel had learned to love the fact that ESPN had sports programming on around the clock.

He checked a few box scores, but none of them really interested him. He hadn't had a vested interest in a baseball team since Hank Aaron had stepped out of the box and Nolan Ryan had come off the hill.

Those were men in Tyrel's book. They weren't necessarily supermen or even men who always did the right thing or always succeeded. They were just quiet men who stepped in and got the job done.

That was the kind of man he'd always wanted to be.

That was the kind of man, he realized, that both his sons had become.

The old sadness filled Tyrel then. It had a bittersweet ache that plumbed the very depths of his soul. He closed his eyes and was back there in Qui Nhon staring at the dead soldier's eyes.

Tyrel hadn't meant to kill him.

It had just happened.

24

>> NCIS Offices

>> Camp Lejeune, north carolina

>> 0258 Hours

“Estrella?”

The voice, quiet and unexpected, startled United States Navy Petty Officer Third Class Estrella Montoya. She turned from her computer and looked at the forensics tech Will had called in to handle the couriered drug sample he'd sent from Charlotte.

“Yes?” Estrella said, then cleared her throat. She hadn't spoken in hours. The last time she'd had conversation with anyone, it was to tell her son, Nicky, a bedtime story. He was currently staying with Nita, Joe, and Celia for the night since Estrella had to run files.

Actually, she didn't have to. Will had cleared her for the evening. But Estrella had worked with Will long enough to know that he wasn't going to stop trying to figure out a way to get Victor Gant away from Shel.

After she'd heard the story of how the motorcycle gang leader had walked out of FBI custody and accosted Will in the hospital parking lot, Estrella had known she wasn't going to rest until she found Will the leverage he was looking for.

She thought she had that now. If forensics had come up with the physical tie they needed to the unsolved case she'd found, they were golden.

The forensics guy was a human scarecrow. Philip Carmichael was tall and lean, with a lantern jaw and razor-cut blond hair that sprouted from his head like a weed. His ill-fitting white lab coat hung on him. Despite the soft drinks and candy he habitually ate, nothing seemed to find a home on his too-thin frame.

“I got the spectroscopy results from that sample Will sent.” Philip pushed them in her direction.

Estrella leaned back in her ergonomic chair as she took the pages. Her Latino heritage marked her with bronze hair and an olive complexion. She had brown eyes and a full figure that belied the strength and endurance she had.

A quick scan of the printouts confirmed what she'd hoped for.

“The two samples are a match,” she said.

“Definitely.” Philip leaned back against the desk behind him. He fished an energy drink from the pocket of his lab coat.

“Have you got electronic copies of these printouts?”

“I've already e-mailed them to you. I wanted to stretch my legs, so I thought I would bring you the paper copy.”

“I appreciate the extra effort. I know Will does too.”

“Hey,” Philip said, “I love being here. This job is so much cooler than the video store I worked at till I got my science degree. I just appreciate Commander Coburn taking a chance on me.”