CHAPTER TEN
He took a break from swinging the sledgehammer and paused the music in his earbuds, sweat pouring down his chiseled torso.
“Pretty good progress,” Rick Conner told himself, took another swig of water, and pulled out his bandanna to wipe his face.
The past eight weeks had been pretty much a blur. Once he’d gotten the call Uncle Jack was gone, time had seemed to somehow accelerate and slow down simultaneously. His arrival in Pantego had been solemn and quiet, and he’d thrown himself straight into the work to deal with the grief.
Across the room, his cell phone rang. He strode to it, checked the number, and cursed.
“Get a clue, whoever you are,” he muttered, swiping right to disconnect. He didn’t make a habit of answering unknown numbers.
Now Rick took a moment, scanned the
