Page 11 of Preacher

The sheriff looked back, and Preacher said, “You hear about other businesses getting leaned on, you might want to pay attention.”

White’s expression sharpened the second he heard that. “You know something?”

“Not enough.”

“Then when you do, you tell me.”

Preacher said nothing, and White gave a humorless laugh before getting into his cruiser and driving away. I watched the dust settle behind him.

“He really is doing this alone. Nobody sends help?”

“From where?”

I didn’t have an answer, and judging by Preacher’s expression, he hadn’t expected one.

Preacher looked toward the road White had taken. “Warren still believes the law ought to be enough because it’s the law. I don’t care what ought to be enough.” It was probably the most Preacher answer possible.

We went inside, where the warehouse still bore the marks of the intrusion. Drawers hanging open, papers disturbed and a chair knocked onto its side. I started sorting through the material they’d touched while Preacher moved around the room behind me, saying little and noticing everything.

Most of it was routine stuff. Old driver schedules, maintenance records and delivery paperwork. Then I found a stack of receipts pulled from one of Dad’s private files.

“Preacher, these shouldn’t have been out.”

He came over and looked down at them. “Southbound.”

I checked again and realized he was right. The receipts followed routes heading toward the border, along with fuel stops, driver names and delivery times. A cold feeling moved through my stomach.

“They weren’t just randomly searching. The buyer appears, pushes for a fast sale, knows things they shouldn’t know, then somebody breaks in and goes straight for route information.”

Preacher’s expression hardened. “That’s what it looks like.”

I looked at him and caught the faint satisfaction he was trying to hide. “Okay. Don’t enjoy being right.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“That’s worse,” I said, and his mouth twitched.

I sat in Dad’s old chair. I’d driven into Salvation intending to sell this place, sign and leave; now somebody wanted the business badly enough to break into it.

“I didn’t leave because I hated this place.”

Preacher leaned one hip against the desk. “Never thought you did.”

“Dad did sometimes.”

“He knew better. He just missed you. That isn’t the same thing.”

The words caught beneath my ribs. Dad and I had spent years disagreeing about Salvation, and he’d always assumed eventually I would get the need to leave out of my system and come home, but I never had.

“I didn’t want this to be the only life I ever knew.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“He built Curtis Freight from nothing.”

“Almost nothing. Rowan stole his first forklift.”

I stared at him, suddenly suspicious of how much history I’d missed. “Do I even want to know?”