“Didn’t you used to barrel race with that Quarter horse of yours?”

“Trevor says rodeo events are cruel to the animals.”

My hand was still in its plush prison. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Trevor.” I pulled hard. He pulled back.

“Please, Mace.” His voice rose. “You can’t go in there to eat. It’s immoral.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion. It’s a free country. But we’re just going to have to agree to disagree on this issue.”

He finally let go, and I immediately stuck my hands in my pockets so he couldn’t trap me again. Raising his arms to either side of the giant head, he lifted it off. His dark eyes burned with passion and idealism and maybe some desperation. Had I ever felt that strongly about anything?

“You should love animals, not eat them.” His voice quaked with emotion. “When you do, it’s like you’re the animal’s executioner.”

Were those tears filling his eyes? It may just have been a reflection from the restaurant’s neon pink Pork Pit sign.

I was about to step away, when his words triggered a memory.

“Speaking of executions, did y’all hear about the wild hog’s head that was left at Alice Hodges’ front door?”

Linda-Ann’s head wobbled from side to side. Shock registered on Trevor’s face.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Alice is the one whose husband got killed at the VFW this week.” When Linda-Ann turned her head to explain to Trevor, her voice missed the mouth hole and came out muffled.

“Alice’s murdered husband ran a barbecue business,” I said. “The day he died, somebody cut off a wild pig’s head, and left it on the widow’s porch.”

“That’s so cruel!” the pig’s foot flew to cover Trevor’s mouth.

“Well, it was already dead,” I said.

“But the disrespect that shows!”

“To Alice or the hog?” I asked him.

He considered. “Well, both.”

“When you said y’all have to do more to get your message across, I was just wondering how far you’d go to do that?”

Trevor’s brows knit together in confusion. For a guy in graduate school, he didn’t seem that brainy. Maybe he was too tall for his available blood supply.

“Mace is accusing us of having something to do with that hog’s head,” Linda-Ann explained.

I put up a hand. “Not accusing. Just wondering.”

Revulsion raced across Trevor’s face. Then he got angry. “How could you say something like that? I’d sooner cut off my own head than hurt a pig, wild or not. I’d never, ever, ever hurt an animal!”

A stray drop of spittle flew my way. I stepped back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

A big-bellied trucker got out of his rig on the road’s shoulder and headed for the Pork Pit. Without another word to me, Trevor slipped his pig head on again. “Boycott Barbecue!” he shouted at the trucker. “Meat is Murder!”

The big man didn’t even break stride. He just flicked a cigarette butt at Trevor’s pig head and kept walking.

“That was rude!” Linda-Ann called after him.

The cigarette bounced off the plastic head and fell to the gravel. Crushing it under my boot, I headed for the door.

Inside, almost every table was taken. The protest didn’t seem to be making much of a dent in business. It wasn’t until I’d gotten my take-out order of ribs, pulled pork, and all the fixin’s, that I thought about what Trevor had said.

I’d never, ever, ever hurt an animal!

If they’d still been outside, I would have asked Trevor how he felt about hurting a human.

Matched against the sweet, spicy smell of barbecue sauce, my willpower caved on the drive home from the Pork Pit. One hand on the wheel, I gnawed on a second take-out rib as I made the turn onto my property. Moments later, my mouth hung open, the rib swam in a pool of sauce on my lap, and I struggled to figure out how Tony Ciancio’s green Lexus came to be parked under an oak tree in my front yard.

I flashed my brights. He flashed back. So at least I knew he wasn’t hiding in a closet inside my house with a silencer on his gun, waiting to kill me. I really had to cut back on my diet of Mafia movies.

Tony got out of his car and raised his hand in a wave. In his aquamarine polo shirt and pressed khakis, he didn’t look like a hired hitman. I parked, and he walked over to meet me.

“Hey.” I opened the door to the Jeep. “How in the world did you manage to find me way out here?”

“GPS,” he said. “I called your mother and she gave me your address.”

Of course she did. Tony was an eligible male, Mafia ties or not.

“I’ll admit I had my doubts on some of these dark, lonely roads. I didn’t think the computer knew where the hell it was sending me.”

He slapped at a mosquito on his neck.

“C’mon, let’s get inside,” I said.

“Can I carry anything?”

I handed him the take-out, making note again of his courtesy. Too bad I’d have to rudely inform him I was involved with someone else. After my afternoon interlude, I felt closer than ever to Carlos, especially with the glimpse he’d allowed me into his childhood pain. I was through playing games.

Once we were inside my cottage, I started putting out plates and silverware as he arranged the take-out on the kitchen counter. “You hungry?” I asked.

“Starving. Do you have enough?”

“Plenty.” I didn’t want to mention I usually buy enough for three people and manage to eat it all myself. “I love barbecue.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Smiling, he pointed to the corner of his own mouth and his chin. “You’ve got a little evidence right there.”

I studied my reflection in the glass door of the toaster oven. Tony’s description had been kind. I looked like I’d had a ring-side seat at a wrestling match held in a vat of barbecue sauce. And there was that big blotch of orangey red on my lap, too.

Dabbing with a wet paper towel, I said, “Yeah, those little packets of moist napkins they give out are a joke. I need to be run through a car wash after I eat at the Pork Pit.”

Tony laughed. “I don’t mind seeing a woman enjoy her food. It always kills me when I take a girl on a date, she orders some expensive entrée, and then sits and picks at a salad.”

“I hear ya,” I said.

“That won’t happen with you, right?”

He flashed that dazzling smile, and I saw Carlos’ face float in front of his. The feel of Carlos’ hands on my body was so recent, I think my skin still sizzled where we’d touched.

“Yeah, about that, Tony. We need to talk.”

“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.”

I dished some mac-and-cheese and coleslaw onto his plate. I held up the carton of collard greens. He sniffed, and made a face, so I finished off his portion with a serving of pork and several ribs.

“Let’s eat before we talk, okay?”

“A condemned man’s last meal, huh?” His smile was on its lowest setting.

I blurted out, “I’m serious about someone else.”

He tilted his head. “That cop in the bar?”

I nodded.

“Well, I could see that. You barely took your eyes off him.” Shrugging, he plucked a rib off his plate. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

That was it? I was relieved it wouldn’t be a long, drawn-out discussion. But I was a little insulted at being dispensed with so easily. Then again, Tony probably didn’t lack for female company. No doubt a honey or two waited for him back in Hackensack.

Being insulted apparently had no effect on my appetite. I slathered butter onto a piece of cornbread and reached for my third rib. We ate in comfortable silence, punctuated only by an occasional “Pass the salt, please,” or, “Can you hand me another paper towel?”