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HOLY HELL, BECK WAS not having any luck hiring anyone to come out to his mom’s. Most stated that they were overworked, or that her house was too far. Not like he had a huge selection to choose from, about four guys in town, since a lot of men had left town to go make money in the oil fields.
He needed to get to Las Vegas by Thursday night at the latest, and he was fifteen hours away. He was just going to have to do what he could the next two days himself, head to Vegas tomorrow afternoon, then come back later if he could.
The problem with that plan was that Riley was heading to California next, and Beck couldn't exactly fly back to Broken Wheel. There were no airports within two hours of here. Yeah, there was an airfield, but even Riley didn't have money for a private plane, and Beck wouldn’t ask for it, anyway.
So he had a day and a half to figure something out, to prioritize what needed to be done in the house.
Plumbing inspection first, just to make sure his mother was able to use the toilet safely without falling through the damn floor. Then there were those boards on the front porch. He didn't think she went outside all that much, but he didn't want her to go through, either.
Okay. He’d figure out how to tighten up the toilet first, fix the leak on the sink and tub that were leaving rust stains on the enamel.
He headed to the only hardware store in town. He hadn’t been to Nazareth Hardware in years. The place showed some neglect, considering they sold all the supplies they’d need to fix it up. The overhang was sagging on a post that was warped and unpainted. The front windows, all glass, were dusty and pitted from the desert sand blowing against them.
He pushed in the glass door that dragged along the concrete floor, making a racket of the stiff, discordant bell that hung overhead. He tried to disguise the fact that the sound made him jump, but he was pretty sure the three men standing at the corner saw.
Beck squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, since the dirty windows didn't allow much natural light to sneak in. He didn't recognize the men right off, though he was sure he knew them.
“Beck Conover?” one of the men asked. “That you?”
He didn't know the voice at first, but as his eyes adjusted, his stomach dropped.
“Sheriff Talamantez,” Beck returned the greeting in as even a voice as he could. He hadn’t done anything wrong, this time. “How are you, sir?” He extended his hand, remembering how the older man liked the formality.
“Not sheriff anymore, you can relax.” The older man’s face creased in an attempt at a smile. Beck wouldn't know a smile from him, anyway. He’d never given the man a reason to be kind. The man had never seen him at his best.
Beck glanced at the other two men—Mr. Nazareth, the owner of the hardware store, who’d inherited it from his dad, and Mr. Davila, Lacey’s dad.
“Haven’t seen you in some years,” Sheriff—no, Mr.—Talamantez said. “You still serving?”
“No, I did my five years and came home. I’m a mechanical engineer for NASCAR now, for Riley Davidson.”
“Sure, I know who that is,” Mr. Talamantez said. “You come by to see your mom?”
“Yeah, and the house isn’t in great condition. I can’t find anyone who’ll do the work for me, so I’m going to get a few things to shore it up until I can get back.”
“Who’d you ask to go out there?” Mr. Davila asked.
“I talked to Trey Lopez, Lupe Saldivar and even Frank Perales. Everyone said they were too busy to go. Had too much work to do. I’m no fool, I know my mom can be a challenge, but I don't have much time before I need to be in Vegas.”
“Yeah, well, if you talked to those guys, I don't know who else would be able to do the job,” Mr. Nazareth said.
“Like I said, I’m going to get done what I can. I may have to hire someone from out of town, pay for their lodging or whatever. I can’t get it all done by myself. And if no one wants to work...” He shrugged. Maybe the men would pass the word that he was willing to pay a lot. Maybe then someone would be willing to work for his mother.
“They teach you how to build in the, what was it? Army?”
“I’m an engineer. I know what to do.” Mostly. He just didn't want to do it.
“If you need any advice, let us know. The advice I’m good at. The actual work, not so much.”
*****
BECK PULLED UP IN FRONT of his mother’s house with a truck full of lumber and a new toilet. The old men might have said they weren’t up to doing the work, but they sure loaded his truck with his supplies fast enough.
He looked up at the house for a moment, waiting for his mother to come out with her shotgun. When she didn’t, he became slightly alarmed. He didn't want to startle her so she’d shoot him at close range. So he stomped as loudly as he dared on the front porch before banging on the door, then opening it, braced to spring out of the way if she had the gun nearby.
“What are you making all that racket for?” she demanded from the shadows.
A quick glance told him the gun was in its place on the rack on the wall. He relaxed marginally.
“I didn't want you to shoot me if I surprised you.”
“You couldn't have possibly surprised me with all that racket.” She heaved herself out of her chair and lurched toward the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, I thought I’d fix that wobbly toilet, first thing, so you don't fall through before I can get someone out here.”
“You’re going to fix it?”
“I can’t get anyone to come out here, yet, and I don't know how long it will last.”
“But you know how to fix it?”
“I do. I’m going to put in a new toilet, too.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that toilet.”
“Sure, but in case there is, I didn't want to drive all the way back into town to buy a new one.”
“Throwing your money away. It better not be one of those low-flow toilets.”
“Now where have you gone that has a low-flow toilet?” he demanded.
“The church installed them. Said we were being environmental. Have to flush three or four times to get everything to go down.”
He was pretty sure she was exaggerating.
“Not low-flow, though that wouldn't be a bad idea. Why don't you go to the bathroom before I get started? I don't know how long it’s going to take, and I have to turn the water off.” He needed to find the shut-off valve, first. Shouldn’t be too hard, if he followed the water lines.
“Have you had lunch?” she asked.
He’d thought about stopping, but didn't want to get something when he didn't know if she’d eaten. “Nah. I thought we’d go get dinner after I’m done in here.”
Her brows snapped together. “You’re pretty confident in yourself.”
“Maybe. Maybe I’m going to have to put you up in the motel tonight, too.”
“I’m not going to stay there. I already told you.”
“And you’re not staying out here without water,” he countered. “Let me find the shut-off valve and get to work before we head into town.” He walked back out the door.
God, this was going to be a nightmare, he realized when he stood in the tiny bathroom where he and his siblings had taken so many baths, spent so much time when they were younger, just for some privacy. Technically, he should take out the vanity, too, but he didn't have another to replace it, and the sink was mounted to it. He was just going to patch the floor, replace the toilet. That was all he could do before he headed to Las Vegas tomorrow.
He wasn't even going to bother tearing up the linoleum. He just struck at the soft point of the floor and punched a hole in it, then pried up the board, which pretty much splintered into dust.
Hell. This was going to be worse than he thought. He punched another hole to widen it enough for his hand, and when he knelt to pull it up, he heard it.
Rattling. Under the floor.
“Shit!”
“Don't you cuss in my house, Mister!” his mother shouted from down the hall.
Fascinated, but smart enough to keep his distance, he pried up more boards until he saw the space under the house. He pulled out his phone and flicked on the flashlight to illuminate the space.
The ground was moving, and occasional glint caught the light as the snakes—yes, plural—moved around, disturbed by the construction.
“Shit shit shit shit!”
“Beck!”
“Mom, bring the gun.” But no, he didn't want her coming in here, and freaking out. “No, I mean, call an exterminator. One who takes care of snakes.”
“What in the world are you doing?” His mother’s heavy footsteps made their way down the hall.
“There’s a nest of goddamn rattlers under your bathroom!” His pulse was racing, his palm itching for a gun.
She smacked the back of his head, moving faster than he expected. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain in my house.”
“Mom. Snakes. Under your floor. Gun, please.”
But he decided not to wait for her to bring it to him, pushing past her down the hall to grab it from its rack himself.
*****
LACEY PARKED THE CAR in front of the Conover house just as a shotgun blast roared from inside, echoing off the walls of the bluff.
She froze, her hands on the wheel. Then she reached for her phone to call the sheriff.
But no, she didn't have a signal out here. God, what was she going to do? Beck was here—his truck was parked in her usual spot. If Beck had lost patience with his mother and killed her, Lacey didn't want to walk in on that and risk her own life, and that of her baby.
But she didn't think that was the case. Mrs. Conover could make anyone crazy, but Lacey didn't think Beck had a short temper. God, what kind of fool would she be to walk into a house after hearing a gunshot?
She was a nurse, though, and if someone was hurt, she needed to help.
Her dad had insisted she carry a gun, since she was always out, and in some isolated places. He wanted her to be able to defend herself from predators, human or otherwise. He taught her how to shoot and made sure she had her concealed carry license. She always had the gun in the car, but had never needed it.
She hoped she didn't need it now.
Gun in hand, shoulders squared, she marched up to the house, shaking in her sensible shoes. She mounted the steps with just about the last of her strength just as the door swung inward and Beck stepped into view from the shadows, eyes wild.
God, he had lost his mind and shot his mom.
She brought up her gun and took the stance her father had taught her, though she knew she couldn't pull the trigger, not at this close range.
Immediately his eyes dropped to the gun and his hands went up, empty of weapons. Behind him, his mother appeared, shotgun tucked under her arm, and Lacey’s own stance wavered in shock, the barrel of her pistol dipping toward the porch.
Mrs. Conover scowled. “What are you doing in my house with a gun?”
“I—heard a shot.” She couldn't stop her voice from sounding accusing. Lacey double-checked the safety before lowering the pistol awkwardly to her side. She’d left her bag in the car, and the gun was too big for the pocket of her scrubs.
“Snakes,” Beck said, a little out of breath himself. “Rattlers. Under the floor of the bathroom.”
A chill washed over Lacey’s entire body. She had made a point never to use the bathroom of her clients, but she had cleaned them week after week. And the floorboards of Mrs. Conover’s bathroom weren’t the sturdiest. Her knees weakened a little before she got a hold of herself.
“Yeah, we’re going to have to get an exterminator out here before we do repairs. Meanwhile, I need to move my mother into the motel.”
“Hell no, I’m not going there,” Mrs. Conover exclaimed. “I’ll go finish off those snakes myself.” She turned back toward the hall.
Beck caught her arm, dropped it almost immediately. “You can’t. If you hit a pipe and it ricochets, or punches a hole in it, we’ll have a worse situation on our hands. Just...get a few things and I’ll drive you over to the motel.”
“You think snakes are bad, no telling what old man Aguilar will have there. That motel is older than I am.”
“Yeah, but it’s been completely remodeled and updated,” Beck told her. “I’ve been staying there and it’s pretty nice. New beds and sheets and carpets and fixtures. And you can’t stay here. The bathroom is all torn up. It’s unusable. Please, Mom, just go pack a few things, and as soon as I get you settled, I’ll get someone out here as quickly as possible to exterminate and repair.”
Lacey recognized the stubborn expression on Mrs. Conover’s face. She was not going to be swayed, no matter the inconvenience.
“Unless you have a friend you’d rather stay with,” Beck persisted.
“I will stay here, and I will dig a hole in the yard to do my business before I go stay in town.”
“Mrs. Conover, you can barely walk down the steps. How are you going to do that?” Lacey said quietly. “Really, at the motel, you’ll be on your own, they have cable TV, you can even order in from the diner.”
“How do you know all this?” Mrs. Conover demanded, eyes narrowed.
Lacey stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “Everyone knows. They have signs. I mean, the Aguilar family has owned it for years. They were the first ones to get cable, remember? I used to go watch with Sofia when we were younger. Come on, I’ll help you pack. Do you have a suitcase? Or should I get some bags from the kitchen?”
She didn't wait for an answer, just guided the older woman down the hall to her room. She could sense Beck relaxing a bit behind her.
Lacey didn't look into the bathroom as they passed, as if just by looking she would see a snake crawling through the open floorboards. She suppressed a shudder.
Once Mrs. Conover got into the bedroom, she dropped to the bed and set her shotgun against the wall. Her shoulders slumped.
“Let’s check your sugars and your blood pressure before we do anything else. I’ll go get my bag out of the car.” She wanted to put her gun away, too.
“My blood pressure’s going to be through the roof.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure mine would be, too. I’ll be right back.” She took the shotgun in her free hand, to give to Beck to put back in its place on the wall.
“Thank you for that,” Beck said, when she walked out on the front porch.
“For what?” she asked with a breathless laugh.
“For getting her to listen to reason. For coming in to protect her. I mean, that was what you were doing, weren’t you?” He turned to face her and folded his arms over his chest. “You were coming in to protect her from me?”
“I didn't know what was going on,” she said, taking a small step back and lowering her gaze to the warped boards of the porch. “I didn't know what to do. I just thought that if someone needed help, well, I’m a nurse. I didn't know what might have happened.”
“Thank you,” he said again. “It’s...I know she isn’t easy. She wants to be independent and it just isn’t possible and I want to thank you for the patience you show her.”
“I am not always patient,” Lacey replied.
“Well, that’s good for her, too. She needs to have some push-back, you know, or she’s just going to run over you.”
“I really need to get her blood pressure and her sugar level tested.” She edged past him to the steps. “Get her packed before she talks herself out of leaving.”
He looked at her a long moment before he moved out of her way.
She hurried down to the car, replaced her gun in the glove compartment, grabbed her bag and hurried back to the house, past Beck, who hadn’t moved.
“You can still check on her, right? In the motel?”
“Of course.” It would be easier, but she didn't say so, and ignored him when she walked past him into the house.