Free Sounds of Silence by Elizabeth White Page B

Coahuila. Governor Avila has charged me with finding a stallion suitable to breed with his prize mare, Music Box Dancer.”
    “Icharus is not for stud,” Hatcher said. “He’s a working cutting horse.”
    “Understood.” Pablo removed his Stetson to wipe his perspiring brow. The dust had turned to mud beneath his hat band. “But perhaps our fee will change your mind. The stallion is a most amazing animal, and we are willing to pay well.”
    “I’ll think it over.” Hatcher turned away as the roar of a barrel race thundered inside the fence.
    Carefully concealed rage flamed between Pablo’s eyes. He would not be dismissed like a child. “I trust you will, señor . I’ll be in touch. Ah, and I almost forget that I am charged by the governor to extend condolences on the recent trouble with your son.”
    Stiffening, Hatcher fixed Pablo once again with piercing gray eyes. “My son is deceased.”
    Pablo sighed. “Yes, it is very sad when a boy dies so young in such…tawdry circumstances.”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “You have put on a brave front, señor . Is it not frustrating that one’s progeny are not so subject to authority as one’s horseflesh?” Progeny . Pablo grinned a little, proud of his wide English vocabulary.
    “Medieros, what do you want?” Hostility, confusion and distrust radiated from Hatcher’s upthrust chin and lowered brows.
    Pablo loved being the puppet master of such strong emotions. He began to feel almost benevolent toward his victim. “I do not want anything.” He shrugged. “I am simply offering to avert disaster from your family name.”
    Hatcher cast a quick look around. Apparently deciding the conversation was covered by enough noise that it could be continued in the open, he said, “If you don’t want me to throw you out of here on your keister, buster, you’d better tell me exactly what you’re hinting at. My son was murdered. He didn’t do anything illegal.”
    “It is a good thing I am not easily offended, señor ,” Pablo said silkily. “I will extend grace under these tragic circumstances. Your son most certainly did do something illegal, even in our liberal country. He was running drugs.”
    “You lie!”
    Folding his arms against this ridiculous, yes, childish denial, Pablo waited for Hatcher to cede the truth.
    After a full, pulsing moment, the gray eyes narrowed in hatred. “Get out of here,” Hatcher said through gritted teeth.
    “I will leave, señor , when you acknowledge the generosity of my offer. I wish to make certain your important friends in the oil industry do not jump to conclusions about your involvement in your son’s activities.”
    Pablo was all admiration. Not one curse word escaped those finely sculpted lips; only a single muscle ticced in the rancher’s lean, weathered jaw.
    “What do you want?” Hatcher repeated.
    “Ah, well, if we are returning favors, then among friends, yes, I would ask a small thing.” Pablo stepped closer, but not too close. Americans liked their personal space. “The U.S. Border Patrol has become interested in your son’s death. I would like for you to have the investigation called off.”
    Suspicion darkened Hatcher’s gaze. “Why? What do you have to do with it?” He leaned down. “If I find out you were involved with my son’s murder—”
    “Please.” Pablo laughed gently. “Do I look like a man who would soil my hands with violence? No, it is simply that many complex business arrangements will be disturbed if la migra sticks its large nose across the border.” He studied the turkey feathers in his hat, considering his words. “Clearly it would be in your own best interests as well, to keep them out.”
    “I’ll—see what I can do,” Hatcher said jerkily.
    “Good.” Pablo smiled. “Also there is one other thing if I might continue to beg your indulgence.” He replaced the hat on his head. “There is a little girl of about six or seven years, who lived in a bar your son