Next World Series by Ewing, K. (white hot kiss .txt) 📗

we may rival the ‘fast-food joints,’ as they say. The winner picks a bottle of wine from my private collection!”

“Any bottle?” asked one of the chefs.

“Any bottle you wish.”

Excitement wafted through the kitchen like wildfire, making Rico wonder why he didn’t have a contest every day. Because it wouldn’t be special he heard in his head, reminding him of a post-apocalyptic movie where the young girl’s parents let her release a giant bubble—and I mean the size of four basketballs touching—off the family’s front deck. She asked why she could only do one a day, and they replied that it wouldn’t be special anymore if she did more. “Enjoy your day—and don’t forget, lunch is at noon,” Rico added.

“He’s a good guy,” said Mac, “and it never hurts to be in good with the Head Chef. Let’s get going,” he added. “We will run the entire perimeter of the property twice. The first time, just observe and let’s keep moving. In the second round, I’m looking for feedback. I want to know what’s good, what’s not, and how to fix it. Let’s find any chinks in the armor today, so we can get them fixed tomorrow.”

* * * *

We headed out for the grand tour. I had walked the property many times over as a kid and teenager, although never in one shot. My dirt bike had done it more than once, but I was looking for jumps and bumps back then and not security breaches. Either way, it was good to be out riding and feel safe while doing so. Every tree, bush, and open field brought back a specific memory of my childhood and a friend I would never see again in this lifetime.

Mac and Cory pointed out specific areas needing attention, or at least discussion on our second loop around. I made a mental note to add a few areas I thought could be vulnerable to an advancing army. Each place identified was marked clearly with orange construction tape and numbered 1-14.

Once we returned to the shop, Mac put each location on the Valley map with the corresponding number.

Whitney offered to use her experience in art to draw the Valley in detail and make a legend for each location, so anyone at all familiar with the property could head towards a spot needing repair at a moment’s notice. The Council offered to pay her but she refused, citing helping her grandparents get their home back was more than she could ever repay. She worked long hours on the drawing and met with Mac and Cory to make sure everything was included and to scale.

* * * * * * *

Chapter Three

Lake Trinidad ~ Colorado

Sheriff Johnson left out early with his girlfriend, Kate, pulling the borrowed Airstream trailer behind his truck.

“Well?” she asked as soon as they had pulled out of town.

“Well, what?” he replied.

“I just want you to say I was right about getting away for a few days. It’s nice, right?”

“I guess, and thank you before you ask me.”

“What’s going on with you? You’ve been kind of a jerk lately,” she replied.

“I have a lot on my mind is all. Maybe we’ll catch up to Judge Lowry walking down the road and run him straight over with the truck and trailer. Then maybe I would feel better.”

“Who cares about him anymore? It was him or you, and one of you had to go. All I want you to do is think about me and fishing for the next three days. Can you do that?” asked Kate.

“I’ll try,” he replied.

* * * *

Judge Lowry woke up early, packing his fly-fishing pole and waders for the half-mile walk down to the lake. He wished he had bought a property on the Trinidad side, instead of the Weston side. Even twenty miles out from the Courthouse, he still felt too close. Staying towards the side of the road, he was not worried about other people milling around but more concerned with running into a “Westoner,” as the citizens were called by out-of-town folk. Technically he was still just inside the border he himself declared as part of the town he ran singlehandedly for all those years. He stopped often, scanning in all directions, looking for a familiar face to hide from. After all, if he was discovered this close to town, he would hang for sure.

This side of the lake wasn’t too busy. Some people camped on the lake’s rocky shore, and only a few of those were trying to fish.

“Amateurs,” he said aloud, watching a few spend more time trying to untangle their line than actually fish.

Judge Lowry didn’t care that they were fishing to feed their families. He had a cabin fully stocked with his favorite food, and fish was not included.

Any luck?” he called out, wading past two men with their children looking hopeful for something to eat today.

“Nope,” one called back. “I’m starting to think there aren’t any fish in this whole lake.”

Judge Lowry continued wading out, not responding and blocking out the children’s cries of hunger. It’s getting to be so a man can’t even fish without being bothered anymore, he thought.

Trying out a new fly that everyone had been talking about before the day, the answer would soon be clear. He had to go up to Pueblo a couple of months back and wait in line at the Sportsman’s Warehouse for a mandatory four-flies-per-person buying frenzy. Going once in the morning and again that afternoon after changing clothes, including a baseball cap, the Judge grabbed eight flies in all.

His third cast got a strike. “Fish on!” he said aloud, as he always did.

He smiled, thinking he may just forget about getting revenge on the Sheriff and settle into a fishing retirement. The Judge fished alone, always had, and abhorred anything above complete