Chapter 1
Oswald Nightingale walked from one painting to another, looping his Resistol hat around his hand as he walked. Sitting didn’t work. He was too tall for the small eighteenth-century settee, and it was lumpy–probably still filled with horsehair from some beat-up elderly horse a hundred years ago. So this was the governor’s outer office, where peons waited next to the seat of power. Looked old and smelled musty with a faint hint of furniture oil.
He’d never been summoned to the big house. Should be impressed. Instead, he had these doubts. If this was the way she treated everyone, it was no wonder nothing got done in government. Granted, he showed up ten minutes early. Still no reason to make a guest wait.
The room had doors to the east, the west, and the north, each one with frosted carved panes in the top half. The wall to the south had windows covered with heavy drapes. An antique bar stood between Nightingale and the eastern door.
Roy McGowan shoved the door behind the bar open, so that the glass rattled. A half-apologetic smile swam across Roy’s face, as he stuck his hand out to shake. “Glad you could come, Oz. We’ll have some beers and discuss old times later.”
Nightingale liked Roy in a way that he couldn’t explain. The point man had a hell of a job because his charge was to always give the governor the truth, even when the boss didn’t want to hear it. Nightingale had grown up with McGowan. In junior high Roy quickly showed his talent for politics by running for class treasurer and winning. Now Roy worked for a semi-conservative woman in a very conservative state and had helped her win. Patricia Daniels, with her maternal air and dimples, had taken much of the state by surprise.
Nightingale and McGowan had been in touch through the years. Nightingale knew McGowan worked hard to get to be the right-hand man to the governor, so he was not surprised at his status.
McGowan wore a pink shirt and gray tie with a gray suit. His reddened face protested the heat with dribbles of sweat. McGowan must have come in from outside, or he had just had a cross-purpose encounter with someone. Nightingale searched the man’s face for clues about what lay ahead, but McGowan avoided his eyes.
As a Ranger-Investigator, Nightingale had been the go-to man for several previous governors, but one case involved a murdered friend and left him wondering about the direction of his life. Then there had been a different case which led to accusations, the fingers pointed at him for, of all things, theft. He was pulled into his former boss’s office, and in a moment of outrage, he’d quit.
He’d decided to be a detective and a writer. That was a few months ago. He’d had a letter from his boss, which he had ignored. Now there was a new lady governor and, a couple of days ago, a call from McGowan: “The Governor wants to talk to you. How soon can you be here?”
At the time, Nightingale had hesitated, all the while feeling the urge to get out of Broken Rock. “You know I’ve got my own business now?”
He heard the smile in the voice of his childhood friend. “I keep up, Oz. You’re not that busy.”
The truth was that he liked powerful people calling on him, and he found writing to be a challenge. Three pages of narrative over a few weeks’ time did not bode well for his literary career. McGowan delivered the final plea. “The state needs you.”
So, he packed a duffle bag and drove, mulling over what could be so important. He’d heard nothing in the news. What was this female governor like? What had Roy McGowan told her about him? How much did Roy know about his job situation? And, most important, what did the Governor want from him?
The Governor walked in behind McGowan. She had on the political smile that he’d seen on TV, as she stuck out her hand in greeting. “Mr. Nightingale, I’ll call you Oswald if that’s all right. Thank you for making this trip. Does your back hurt after that drive?”
Her left hand covered his hand as they shook. Nightingale felt the pull of power, but more than that, she had an aura. She exuded intelligence and influence like he seen in many politicians. Had to be the eyes, a deep brown that switched on the warmth—or ice—as necessary. She’d be hell in a poker game.
“I’ve learned to get out and walk every couple of hours,” he said.
She turned away before he finished answering, obviously not interested. She wasn’t used to power yet. With such capacity she could be dangerous. He guessed she didn’t believe much of anything unless a poll backed it up.
McGowan herded them to the room next door, made sure the doors were locked, ordered iced tea for the governor and coffee for Nightingale. Governor Daniels chose a big leather chair, motioned to Nightingale to sit in one across from her. She was a good-sized woman at about five foot eight. Well-padded, but not overweight, she sat comfortably in the big chair.
“I don’t know whether to throw these out or get more,” she said, patting the buttery leather arm of her chair.
Nightingale studied the room. It was about six hundred square feet of wide-planked hardwood with oak and pecan tables, chairs, and cabinets divided into areas for living, eating, working. A gargantuan desk sat in front of two windows draped in heavy green fabric. The head of a buck adorned one wall; several old maps of the state covered another wall. A Remington sculpture sat in the middle of a small table in front of them.
The governor sat on the edge of her chair and leaned toward Nightingale. “The state needs your help, Oswald.” She put up one hand to stop a protest before he made it. “I don’t know you personally, but I know your reputation. I need you as a Special Ranger up in East Texas.”
“Do you know about my troubles in my job?”
“Yes,” she said. “This is more important than some man making accusations. I go by your history. Just hear me out.”
Nightingale shifted in his seat. Never hurt to listen.
“We’re in the worst drought since 1956,” the governor said, “and it’s hurting the state worse than the one in ’56 because we’ve got people moving in every day.”
Drought? This woman had no idea about dry weather till she’d been to his home. Anger crept into his gut. “I wondered when anyone up here would help us out in Broken Rock. Lubbock and Amarillo are suffering, too.” Usually more thoughtful, he stopped the rush of words.
The governor wasn’t listening anyway. “I haven’t been in office long, and people who should know,” here she raised an eyebrow at McGowan, “people who advise me say you can’t run a state like we have for the last few years with no thought about water policy.” She got to her feet, carrying the glass of tea to a massive conference table. She turned to face him. “I grew up about as poor as you can in this state, and I know what the people want, but I’m worried that we are on the verge of great growth with not enough water to keep up with it. The legislature supported my water plan, but we’ve got folks buying up water rights before we can implement the plan.” She walked closer to the window, lost in her message. “Legislators love power and if they see a chink in the action, they’ll turn on me quicker than a dog in heat.” Tiny lines criss-crossed the skin of her jawline. At sixty-two, she was fourteen years older than him, but still a fine-looking woman.
Nightingale glanced at a glass shelf of books to one side of the window. Along with the books, another Remington cowboy kept watch. The room still showed a person in charge. Her voice brought him back.
“So, I have this plan where we can make a difference. We’ve got to have the whole state, including your area, to agree to help each other, and what we’ve got is one woman in Beulah standing in the way of a legacy of progress. We’ve all got to sacrifice. Don’t you agree?”
Nightingale nodded, thinking that drought and legacy made it clear what the governor wanted. After years of the state doing nothing about the water problem, Patricia Daniels had decided to do something.
“We can declare this a matter of eminent domain, but I don’t want to do that because the state will look like a bully. I know how touchy that subject is to you.” The governor glanced at McGowan.
Nightingale sat up straighter. His parents had lost the major portion of their farm to eminent domain when the government took their land for a railroad. His stomach tightened. He looked at McGowan. This was a set-up.
“One little old woman stands between you and greatness–is that it?”
McGowan stood up, glaring and stepping toward Nightingale.
The governor stopped pacing, squinted at Nightingale. She flushed and a flash of animosity glinted in her dark eyes. Then she smiled, patted the air for Roy to sit, making clear that she could choose to be angry, or she could let it slide. “The press will see it that way, but that’s what we need to avoid. It can’t be seen as her against me, or the state.”
Nightingale bit back a retort. He usually regretted moments of grand honesty. Now was the time to listen and see if bullshit from the promiser-in-chief could ever mean anything.
“Roy, why don’t you tell him the rest.”
This was smart on the Governor’s part. Roy gave out the orders to save the chief’s hide if anything ever got in court. Nightingale glanced around for any sign of a camera or tape, but saw nothing.
“We want you to meet a man named Posey up in East Texas. I’ll call and set up the meeting. He’s to get the land procured from Mrs. Dearborn, the lady who’s stopping this whole thing,” McGowan said.
“Why this man?”
“He’s a lawyer,” the governor said. “I know his family and he’s a good man. Got his degree in real estate law. He hasn’t been in state in a while. He’s not used to the rough edges of some folks. He needs help persuading the seller to sell.”
“There’s an environmental group–some elves or forest creatures–who’ve said they’re gonna help the woman,” McGowan said. “You can keep ’em from getting out of hand.”
“Be sure and take your gun.” The governor sat back down in the big, soft chair and leaned in.
Nightingale had read she once said it was hard for a woman to get anywhere on brains alone.
The governor put a strand of hair behind one ear. She had her elbows on her knees, her voice low. “You know this affects the whole state. People are angry. The state is seething. You can help make life easier for the folks in Broken Rock–they can have water, I give you my word–if you help us grease the way on this last bit of problems.”
They stared at each other for a minute. He’d just been told–not directly, but with innuendo, how things would be. Meanwhile everyone in Broken Rock, Obsidian, and other small towns in the way, would suffer for a while longer, but he could be their savior. He hadn’t expected this. Silence seemed best. He tried to think if he had any choices.
He clasped his hands, leaned forward into the governor’s space. “Your word.”
She nodded.
He started to hike himself out of the over-soft chair. “Seems to me the best thing for the state is to get this done quick. Let’s get in touch with Posey.”