Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) (8 page)

“Is that how your father earns his living?”

“No, he’s retired. Collects social security and his army pension, and has some savings from his security-business days. He does all right. Has everything he needs – he’s driven the same truck since forever and has lived here for twenty years. Everything’s paid for, and he doesn’t want for anything. It’s not a bad situation.”

“I’ll say. He seems content.”

“I’m not so sure about that, but he’s not hurting. And the ranch gives him something to do. He’d be bored out of his mind just sitting around all day.”

“When did he retire?”

“About five years ago. Sold the company to his employees.”

“You mentioned it did security?”

“That’s right. Based in Austin. Did corporate work and some celebrity and diplomatic stuff. Bodyguards, that sort of thing.”

“I wouldn’t think there’d be a huge demand for that in Austin.”

“You’d be surprised. And he was statewide. Did a lot down in Houston. Some in Dallas and San Antonio, too. It was a good living. Enabled him to pay off the ranch and put me through school, and still retire at fifty. Not a terrible deal.”

“No, not bad at all. What did you major in?”

“Archeology, believe it or not. I should have taken a harder look at what being an archeologist pays, though, before I put in all the work. And maybe considered how many slots there are any given year for each wave of new grads.”

“No luck?”

“Not even a bite. I’ve been out of school for three years, beating my head against the wall. I finally wound up doing clerical work to make ends meet. Dad invited me back home when he heard about it. He said I could do just as well applying for positions from here as from my apartment in Austin. Basically, I was just working to pay for the rent, my car, and my expenses. By the time the tax man took a bite and I’d fed myself each month, I was back to square one.”

“I know that feeling.”

“It sucked having to move home, but what was the point in working at a job I hated just to run in place? Now I do some bookkeeping for a few of the businesses in town, and freelance on research jobs whenever they come up over the web. Way less stress, and I’ve got more to show for it in the end. The only part that doesn’t sit well with me is having to live with my dad, which makes me feel like a loser sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t. A lot of people are in the same position. I probably contacted every paper in the country looking for a gig, with no takers. The last few years haven’t been kind.”

“You can say that again. And he was right about one thing – I have a lot more time to apply for jobs, maybe ten positions a week. It’s only a matter of persistence until something pops.”

“What about teaching? Can’t you do that?”

“I’m not interested in regurgitating what I learned for a living quite yet. I’d hoped to work for a museum or, better yet, in the field on a dig somewhere. Right now that’s just a dream.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “What about you? Are you thinking about going to South America and following in your dad’s footsteps?”

Drake stopped rinsing and turned to her. “What?”

Allie gave him a small smile. “What, what? Don’t tell me it didn’t occur to you.”

“It actually hadn’t. I don’t do stuff like that. It’s crazy. Plus, how would I even go about it? I don’t know anything about finding lost cities.” He shook his head. “Nope. Not for me. I’m in the same boat you are. Filling out apps for a reporter job. My degree’s in journalism. I’m not cut out to be some kind of adventurer living off roots and berries in the bush.”

“It’s not like that. Although it’s funny because that’s exactly what I did study to do. But different strokes. What do you do to make ends meet?” she asked.

He told her about his bounty-hunting sideline, and it was her turn to be incredulous. “No way. You mock hunting for lost treasure, and you chase felons for a bounty? Are you kidding me?”

“It’s not that hard.”

“Are you going to get your own TV show? Drake the Bounty Hunter? That’s too funny,” she teased, genuinely amused. “So, fill me in. Do bounty hunters do well with the chicks? Is it like being in a rock band or something? Do you go all Clint Eastwood on the ladies? Give ’em the steely eyed squint and pretend you’re shooting them in the bar?” She pointed her finger at him and made a
pow
sound when she brought her thumb down like a hammer. “Hey, baby. They call me ‘The Hunter.’ And I’ll take you down.”

Drake had to laugh at the merriment dancing in her eyes – she was clearly delighted with herself, and it was infectious.

“You should try stand-up comedy instead of archeology. You’re a natural.”

“Maybe. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I do all right,” he said, hating how defensive he sounded.

“That’s not what I meant. It was just a joke. Did I touch a nerve?”

“Not at all. I’ve got a whole harem of hoes. ’Cause that’s how I roll.”

She returned to washing the last dish. “I have no doubt.”

“How about you? Line of suitors outside the gate?”

She chuckled good-naturedly. “Hardly. Around here, a classy pick-up line is asking whether I’d like to do beer bongs in the back of some yeehaw’s truck. Let’s just say I’m keeping my options open while I’m in transition.”

“You don’t like beer bongs?”

“Back to the subject. No girlfriend?”

“Just the hoes.”

“Besides them.”

“Can’t tie me down…”

She eyed him with amusement. “That’s actually pretty popular these days, looking at the bestseller lists.” He almost choked on his tongue as he struggled with a comeback. She waved him off. “I think my dad’s waiting for you in the living room. Probably wants to talk about old times some more.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry for taking up so much of his day. It’s just…I never knew my father, so finding his best friend…I’m just being greedy, I guess.”

“I don’t know about that. Seems natural to me. Go on. You’ve kept him waiting long enough, regaling me with your bounty-hunting stories.”

“I didn’t tell you any.”

“We can save those for another time. Should I call you Hunt? Hunter? Which do you like better?”

“‘Hey you’ works pretty well.”

Drake returned to the living room, where Jack sat with a photo album in his lap. He looked up when Drake settled into the couch again, and passed it over to him.

“There’s some shots of me and your dad in there. Back in the day. A few from South America. Not many. We weren’t playing tourist.”

Drake opened it and went through the pages. There, and there, a photograph of his father. Grinning as he held up a fish. Another where he was toasting the camera with a half-empty beer. On the next page, Jack and Ford standing by a pair of Harley-Davidsons, wearing bandannas and sunglasses.

“You’re welcome to take any you like. I’ve looked at them all enough. About time they made it out of here.”

“That’s…I’ll probably take you up on that, Jack. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it. Oh, and I almost forgot. I have something for you. Something of your father’s I’ve been keeping for over twenty years. His pride and joy.”

“Really?” Drake said, looking up from the album. “What?”

Jack rose and crossed the room to an armoire. With a nod to Drake, he swung the two wooden doors wide. Drake caught a glimpse of a row of rifles as Jack leaned over and slid one of the drawers open. When he turned, he had a cloth-wrapped bundle. He returned to the coffee table and handed it to Drake, who took it, staring at it with open curiosity.

“He never went anywhere without it down in South America. Called it his equalizer,” Jack said as Drake unrolled the cloth.

Inside was the largest knife Drake had ever seen, with a black wooden handle smooth as glass. He slid the blade free of the sheath and held it up to the light, the stainless steel shiny as chrome, the top of the blade a line of wicked saw teeth, the curved cutting edge sharp enough to shave with.

“That’s a survivor Bowie knife an old friend of mine custom made for him back in the day. The man was a master, long gone to his reward. Twelve-inch blade, Pakkawood handle. You could practically use it as a machete. Indestructible,” Jack said with reverence. “Feel the heft? Balanced. Fits neatly in your hand, and all business.”

“This was his?”

“He loved that knife. Had a thing for it.”

Drake slipped it back into the sheath and inspected the hand tooling.

“Your dad stamped that himself,” Jack said.

“What do the initials stand for?” Drake asked, noting the stylized script.

“He named it after the two most precious things in the world to him. His son and his wife. DAR. Drake and Anna Ramsey. He used to parade around the campfire, waving it like a pirate after a few drinks, saying it over and over. Dar.
Darrr
. It was funny, but it got old. Anyway, there it is. DAR’s yours now. Which is as it should be.”

Drake set the knife on the table and sat back against the soft sofa cushions. “Thank you, Jack. You know my mom passed away six years ago?”

“I heard through the grapevine. I’m sorry. She was a saint.”

Drake swallowed hard. “She was. Cancer got her, but for a long time I thought it was heartbreak. She never got over him. You could tell. She had plenty of offers, but she wasn’t interested. I used to hate my dad for it. I blamed him. And now that I know that he abandoned us to go chase after some stupid dream…”

“It wasn’t a stupid dream. He believed he knew where the treasure was, and that it would secure your family’s future for generations. He made a sacrifice. And he did it for you. That was all he ever talked about. You and your mother, and how different your lives would be once he’d found the treasure.” Jack glowered, and then his expression softened. “You probably see it as a selfish decision. It was anything but. I understand how you feel, but you couldn’t be more wrong.”

“It doesn’t feel wrong.”

“It should now that you have all the information.” Jack paused. “Son, I’ve been around for a while. Let me tell you something. You don’t have the right to judge others. You can only judge yourself. I know at your age you think you know it all, but you’re not the absolute barometer of good and bad, and you got your dad plain wrong. Was he perfect? Hell no. But he was a good man, and you can take that to the bank.”

Drake didn’t say anything. He reached up and rubbed his eyes, tired from only three hours of sleep the prior night and the long day.

“I should go. I would like some of the pictures, thank you. And thanks for keeping the knife for me, and for giving me a feel for who my father really was. It means a lot to me.”

“He would have wanted you to have it. Drake, he loved you more than you can imagine. Both of you.”

A crash sounded from the kitchen, followed by a muted curse from Allie.

“Honey, are you okay?” Jack called, pushing himself to his feet.

Allie’s voice rang out. “Yes. Sorry, Dad. Damn slippery fingers. I dropped a dish. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”

Jack lowered himself back into the chair, and they sat quietly as Drake paged through the photo album. After a few minutes he set it down next to the knife.

“Jack, thanks for the hospitality. If it’s all right, I’ll be back in the morning. Is there a decent motel around here?”

“Hell, boy, you don’t need to go to any motel. If you don’t mind a little dust and Allie’s snoring sawing through the walls, you can take the third bedroom. Got plenty of space.”

“I feel like I’ve imposed on you enough.”

“No skin off my back.”

Drake smiled. “I thought you were going to shoot me earlier?”

“You try to sneak into Allie’s room, you can damn sure bet that prophecy’s going to come true. Knife or no knife, a double load of twelve-aught buck’ll stop you dead.”

“I can hear you threatening the guest, you know. I’m not deaf,” Allie called from the kitchen.

“You mind your beeswax. I was just laying down the ground rules.”

The kitchen doorway darkened as her slim form moved into it, the warm glow of the lights behind framing her like a soft halo.

Her brow scrunched as she frowned. “Right. I heard. No rape. Good rule. We should have it stamped on the soap. Or I could embroider it on the pillows.
Y’all come back now, but no rapin’, ya hear?
”

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea–” Drake started, but Allie cut him off.

“No, now
I
insist. And you better bar your door. Double lock it. Because those Texas women can eat you alive, like a black widow. Wanton lust on the plains. Isn’t that right, Dad?”

Jack regarded Drake with a tired expression and shrugged. “You may need that little knife of yours.”

Drake looked at Allie and grinned. “I’ll be fine. I know karate.”

Chapter Eleven

The night crawled on as Drake tossed and turned, his mind running at hyper-speed to process Jack’s revelations about his father. He eventually drifted off at two a.m., no soft knock on the door and invitation to romantic interludes forthcoming.

He awoke to pans clattering in the kitchen and the mouthwatering smell of bacon and coffee. After a hurried shower in a claw-foot antique tub, he ran a comb through his wet hair, pulled on a shirt and jeans, and made his way down the hall to Allie in the kitchen. Jack was watching her go about her chores from the dining room table, a steaming mug of coffee before him.

“There he is. How did you sleep?” Jack asked.

“Fine. Like a baby,” Drake lied, surreptitiously eyeing Allie as she broke three eggs into a bowl and expertly whipped them with a fork.

“Hope scrambled’s okay. It’s the only thing I know how to make,” Allie said.

“I love scrambled eggs. Especially with bacon.”

“Then you’re in luck. Coming right up.”

Breakfast was delicious. When Jack had finished, he moved into the living room with his second cup of coffee and took up his familiar position in the easy chair. Drake joined him after being shooed out of the kitchen, his offer to help with the dishes rebuffed. He sat down across from Jack and went through the photo album again, carefully removing a half-dozen snapshots before closing the cover.

“I’ll get these copied and bring them back. I’m sure there’s some place with a scanner around here,” he said.