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Inside he found cash. Smiling to himself, he sat there on the floor and began to count.
“Thirty-six thousand, three hundred and sixty-two dollars.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Jane, you dead whore, thanks for the tip!”
He got his shower, then dealt with his wound again. Put on fresh clothes.
Her towels were sandpaper, and a glance at her sheets said the same.
He’d make a trip into Two Springs—it was closest and nearly twice as big as Gabbs—buy new, Egyptian cotton. Some decent soap. With her money.
He tossed her clothes into the crate, and damned if he didn’t find more cash. Just a couple hundred hidden here and there, but cash was king.
Since all the work stirred his appetite, he got a nice, fat plum from her recent shopping spree.
The goat was bleating, the chickens cackling, the pair of pigs snorting. He’d enjoy the fresh eggs, but damn if he’d milk a goat even if he knew how. And he didn’t know how the fuck to butcher a pig.
Still, if the stupid animals starved to death, he’d have to deal with it.
To ward that off, at least for now, he went back to the shed, dug up the feed for the goat. He even pumped out water for its pail.
“I’m a frigging ranch hand, so I guess I’d better rustle up some grub.”
He found eggs, and plenty of them, and in a chest freezer pig meat, chickens that would no longer lay eggs. Rounds of bread marked with the dates.
Bitch made her own bread, for God’s sake.
He didn’t know how to cook any of the meat, but that’s what Google was for. Right now, he’d settle for eggs.
A hunt through her supplies netted him plenty of canned goods, and a couple of bottles of good whiskey.
He scrambled up some eggs, a little singed, but they filled the hole, had them with what remained of his bag of chips and two fingers of good whiskey.
While he ate, he made a list on his phone of what he needed when he went to Two Springs. Sheets, towels, soap, some good wine, cheese, flatbread crackers, more chips. Maybe some dip to go with them.
After dinner, he sat on the porch and realized, despite the burning arm, he felt relaxed for the first time in weeks. Weeks and weeks.
Part of it came from the kill. He’d felt just a little of that tingle, even though he’d killed her too hard, too fast. Like the eggs, it filled the hole.
And the rest? Knowing he had a place, had the time. They’d never find him here. Why would they even look? He was sun; they were rain.
They’d still be chasing their tails when he was ready to finish with long-legged Morgan.
That time would come.
But now? He thought he’d pour another whiskey and play with the toys Dead Jane had left him.
After all, he was now home sweet home.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Since Miles had his family meeting/dinner on Sunday, Morgan slept in on Sunday morning, then spent some time in the garden with her grandmother.
It amused her when she realized they both wore floppy-brimmed straw hats, sunglasses, shorts with big pockets, and battered high-tops.
“We look like a couple of hippie farmers, Gram.”
“I come by my look naturally. You’re just a copycat.”
