Jed finished ringing him up, and Edge paid with his credit card. He opened the door for Skye, and they walked out into the night.

“A halfway house,” Skye said. “That sounds exactly like something Henson would do. He can play preacher again, or something close to that.”

“He’s probably got somebody on the inside sorting through the prisoners being released, picking the ones who’ll do his dirty work for him.”

From the café, Edge drove to the opposite end of town and parked in front of the Buckhorn Bar and Grill, which was more a saloon than a restaurant. Just a long bar lined with stools and a room full of battered wooden tables. There was a big-screen TV behind the bar, so the stools were all taken.

A couple in black motorcycle leathers waved goodbye to the bartender and headed for the door, leaving two empty spaces halfway down the row. Edge set a hand at Skye’s waist, urging her forward, and they bellied up to the bar.

The crowd at the tables was a little on the rough side, a mix of men and women, a few more bikers, a couple of guys in cowboy hats. The bartender who mopped the place in front of them had slicked-back brown hair pulled into a man bun on top of his head. “What’ll ya have?”

“I’ll have a beer,” Skye said. “Got anything local?”

Eyes the color of ink ran over her head to toe, rested for a moment on her pretty breasts. Edge clamped down on the urge to grab the guy by the throat and pull him across the bar.

Inwardly, he sighed. How had he ever convinced himself he wasn’t the jealous type?

The bartender flashed Skye a lecherous smile. “Got a Metal Snake Stout that’ll put hair on your chest. Comes from the Turtle Mountain Brewery down toward Santa Fe.”

There was a hint of challenge in his words. It was clearly a potent brew, but Skye didn’t back away. “I’ll try it,” she said, looking the bartender straight in the eye.

Edge’s fake smile was brittle, though he couldn’t hold back a touch of amusement. The Delaneys were Irish. Skye Delaney could drink any ten men under the table.

“I’ll have a Bud,” he said.

The bartender drew two tall tap beers and set them down on the counter. “Where ya’ll from?”

Edge tipped up his beer and took a long swallow. No way was he mentioning Denver, not with Henson being chased by half the Colorado State Patrol.

“Kentucky,” he said. Fort Campbell was home to the 5th Special Forces Group, US Army Green Beret. It still felt more like home than Denver.

The bar towel made circles in front of him. “I don’t hear no southern accent.”

Edge just shrugged and took another drink of beer.