by Jodi Linton
I arched my back onto the table and boldly spread my legs. “Yes, they do.” I gasped when his stroking forefinger and thumb teased my hardening nipple.
“Please be careful around Gunner,” Nathan begged through a raspy breath.
I tugged at his falling blonde locks and pulled his face into view. “‘Careful’ is my middle name.” I laughed and kissed his sweaty cheek.
Nathan grinned and peeled back his zipper. “That it is, Laney Briggs,” he answered back as the pressure of his thighs weighed down on me.
He kissed the side of my neck and slammed inside me.
…
Moments later, Nathan lifted his hot cheek from my face. He pecked me on the lips and stood up, tugged up his pants, and tucked his shirt back in, moving purposefully over to the kitchen cabinets. I sat up, my legs hanging over the table edge, feeling a tad bit unsatisfied with his performance. I fastened my jeans and pulled out a chair. Nathan had started the coffeepot. I watched his arm mechanically move from the pot and back to the coffee tin. When it finished brewing, he poured us both a cup.
“By the way, I’m leaving for Houston tomorrow for a veterinarian conference,” he said, handing me a steaming mug. “You’ll probably be hearing from Rusty sometime tomorrow since I sent the lot of dead cows his way on account of me being out of town.”
Rusty Weir owned the local watering hole in town, and when Nathan was swamped with ranchers demanding his attention during breeding season, he’d lend a hand to help out with Nathan’s workload. Plus, it didn’t hurt that the man had dabbled in the field of taxidermy a few years back.
I took a sip of coffee. “When will you be back?”
He slightly frowned. “By the weekend, honey.”
I wish the answer made me feel better, but it didn’t. Gunner being in town just plain made me feel…restless.
Nathan smiled, bending down and kissing me on my forehead. “I should be going, Laney. My flight leaves at six a.m.”
He picked up his briefcase and went out the back door through the kitchen. I heard his Dodge truck fire up. Gravel cracked under the tires as Nathan disappeared down the driveway, leaving me alone. Being alone always gave me cabin fever. It also always brought to the surface the memories of the dreadful day Gunner turned in his keys to my farmhouse and left me love-wrecked. I could still see him driving off into the sunset, leaving behind the life we’d built together quicker than snow melts in west Texas. For the past five years, I’d hidden beneath a thick skin. At least, I’d tried. I’d pieced my heart back together and salvaged what little dignity I had left by jumping back in the saddle with a man safer than a Katherine Heigl chick flick. Unfortunately for me, old wounds can be a bitch the same way straying cowboys can be heartbreakers.
I worked my way through the living room, pulling the curtains closed on the front window and switching off the lamps as I went. I’d almost made it to the stairs on my way to bed when the sound of crunching gravel roared up my drive. I went to the front door thinking Nathan had probably left something behind. I was fixing to un-latch the chain and unlock the deadbolt when a set of headlights lit up my front porch. They were too bright to be coming from Nathan’s truck.
Considering maybe it was a better idea to sneak a peek out the window before opening my door to just anybody, I tip-toed over to the front bay window and pulled back the lace curtain. Parked in my driveway was Gunner’s black Yukon. The driver’s door swung open, and he hopped out. He smiled at my face pressed into the window pane, tipped his hat, then abruptly got back behind the wheel and started up the engine. The tires spun in the dirt as I watched him back away, vanishing down FM 167.
Chapter Three
I awoke to the steady cooing of mockingbirds, billowing wind, and Hank wailing at the empty country road. Sometimes I just wished that damn dog would shut up. Now I had a headache to start the day. I tossed the hot sheets aside, slid out of bed, and sluggishly walked across the wood floors and through the bathroom door. The heat from the shower rippled against my skin. We desert dwellers learned early not to waste what we often didn’t have.
I searched the hangers in my shoebox of a closet for something to wear. Focusing on a pair of jeans and my trusty, uniformed sheriff blouse, I yanked them from the closet and slipped them on. Attaching my gun and holster to my belt, I glanced at the time. Already eight o’clock. Work had started without me. I hurriedly snatched my keys off the kitchen countertop, forgoing morning coffee, and locked the front door on my way out.
Ten minutes after I pulled out of my drive, I’d reached the station. There were two black Lincoln Town Cars parked on Center Street—Bosley must have called in his big-city lawyers. I drew down the mirror and double checked my hair. No strand had popped free of a bobby pin on the way over, so I was good to go.
The station was bustling with commotion when I opened the door. Two men in black suits with Texas Ranger badges were sitting on top of my desk. I scanned the tiny room for Elroy. He was hunkered down in a corner in his black rolling chair with an overload of treats—a Butterfinger, a half empty bottle of Dr Pepper, and a Big Grab of Cheetos sat in his lap. Our visitors were apparently getting to him.
I strolled on over to my desk and leaned over the top of it. “If you don’t mind guys, this here is my desk.”
The older gentlemen tipped his ten-gallon hat and stood up. “Sorry about that, miss.”
The younger one dropped his chin, and he winked suggestively at me.
I took a deep, calming breath, walked up behind him, and shoved him off my desk. He looked at me, shocked.
“Don’t ever make me ask twice,” I said.
A firm hand fell at the small of my back and rubbed up my shirt. I shot around, staring straight into Gunner’s smiling eyes.
“I’d do what the lady asked. Sometimes she scares the shit out of me.”
The young Ranger nodded and moved aside, all the while keeping a wary eye on me.
I turned my back on him. “Saw you outside my house last night,” I told Gunner.
“Just doing my job.” Gunner winked and sat down on the edge of my desk.
“Spying on me isn’t—” I began, but the older, button-nosed Ranger wearing the Stetson moved into my view, arresting my attention. He was round at the waist, and his hair had seen better days, back when he had some. There was also a jelly stain on his left boob that I couldn’t stop starring at.
“Gunner, we need you to take a look at these files that the Houston office faxed over,” he said.
Nodding, Gunner tapped the outer edge of my desk in a goodbye or see you later, then followed the button-nosed man toward the back by the cell. Not only did I have to bite my tongue and play nice with Gunner Wilson in town, I was also being asked to let the Texas Ranger have free range of the station. I was a broken heel away from a nervous breakdown.
A little too quickly, Gunner reappeared at my desk, waving a piece of paper at me. “Want in on this, Laney?”
I snatched the paper from him. “What is it?”
“Bosley’s financial records. Take a look.”
“How did you get this?”
“Just came over the fax.”
“We have a fax?”
He grinned and winked. “Big boys are in town. You do now.”
I scanned through the documents, shocked at what I was finding out. Bosley was belly up and set to lose Arrowhead Range to the bank. “Wow.” I looked up at Gunner. “Some motive, huh? You think he’s after the insurance money?”
Shrugging, Gunner grabbed my arm and lifted me from my chair, dragging me after him to the back of the station. “C’mon,” he said, “Let’s go ask him. Bosley could be up to his eyeballs in debt, or he could just want to stick it to Mitch Wagner out of spite. Either way, it’s bound to be pretty darn juicy.”
You didn’t hear me arguing with that assumption. Be it as it may, Gunner might not have been the most attentive boyfriend, but he sure had that “I’ll get my man attitude” down flat. It was definitely an ad
mirable trait in my book—especially since I’d taken up crime stopping myself. Questionable lover material though he might be, the man sure knew his way around a case—which often made it even harder to stand my ground around him.
Near the one cell, Dobbs was slumped over, asleep in his chair. His snoring was drowning out Walter Gibbons, who was hunched over in the corner, crying. Jacey had found himself a nice seat in Walter’s lap and was strumming his fingers through Walter’s hair. Dobbs snorted and popped forward at the kick of Gunner’s boot.
“Asleep on the job again?” I asked, not surprised.
Sheriff Dobbs wiped his chin. “No, I wasn’t.” He glanced over at the wall where Bosley was cuffed to the other chair. His face was droopy, and his cheeks sagged into the crevasse of his mouth. When Gunner tucked two fingers beneath his chin and tilted his head back, Bosley shot to angry attention.
“Come to bully me again, Gunner?” Bosley snapped, clanking his pearly whites.
Gunner slapped the financial papers into Bosley’s lap. “You mind telling me what this is?”
Bosley glanced at the top page and winced. “I’m not telling you shit.”
“These financial records show the bank was going to take everything you own,” I said grimly, reaching past Gunner to thump the documents in Bosley’s lap. “I’m willing to bet old Wagner would love to get a nice, little discount on your land when the bank puts it up for sale. Isn’t that just eating away at you?”
Bosley snorted. “Never seen the damn things before in my life.”
“A bunch of dead cattle out on your ranch might turn away a buyer or two, wouldn’t you think?” Gunner told Bosley.
“Like I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bosley replied, maintaining his innocence.
“There’s nothing to get.” Gunner rocked Bosley back in the chair to stare into the rancher’s quivering face. “It’s all here in black and white. You’re hemorrhaging money. Did Pacey Monroe find out about this, old man?” Gunner shook the papers in front of Bosley’s face. “Do you reckon he was going to clue in Wagner? Let him get a jump on your property?” He straightened, pulling Bosley upright with him.
“I want a lawyer,” Bosley said.
Disgusted, Gunner turned to Dobbs. “Lock him up until his lawyer gets here,” he told the sheriff.
Nodding reluctantly, Dobbs hoisted himself out of his chair and, thankfully, when Bosley started to kick and scream, called Elroy in to do the deed rather than leaving it to me.
Gunner proceeded back up front, and I followed.
“Well, that went smoothly,” I said when we reached my desk. “You got a lot of information out of him.”
Gunner laughed wryly. “Yeah.”
The smirk returned to the corner of his mouth as he closed in the gap between us. I could feel his breath brush up against my neck. “Those red boots look good on you.” He stroked his finger tip along the edge of my chin. “But they’d look even better lying next to my bed.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Stop that. I’m engaged.”
“I give it a week,” he scoffed and walked away.
There was no way in hell that I was going to hang around here for the day. Since we now had two active investigations to look into, and Dobbs and Elroy seemed to have it under control here, I decided to practice my shooting skills out at my cousin Wyatt’s shooting range. I figured it’d make a good excuse to grill my bird-brained, weed-slinging cousin about the recent outburst of Special K in the area since he was the go-to guy for all under-the-table dealings around Pistol Rock. After that, I’d look further into our tight-lipped rancher’s financial records, his butt load of stiff cows, and the dead ranch hand—all of which, at the moment, seemed about as straightforward as a wild goose chase.
I checked to make sure Gunner still had his back to me, then quietly grabbed my keys and hustled out of the station.
The cruiser had become unbearably hot after only being parked for thirty minutes. If it’d gotten any hotter, we all might’ve ended up running around in our skivvies like Walter Gibbons. I fired up the engine and aimed the air vent directly on me. Dry, hot air blasted at my sweaty chest. I had just put the car in reverse when the passenger door was ripped open—one of Gunner’s signature moves. I slammed on the brakes before he wound up under my wheels. He hunched over to peer in at me.
“So, where are we heading?” he asked, sliding into the passenger seat.
“We are not going anywhere.” He gave me a ‘wanna bet’ smile and pressed his head back on the head rest, covering his eyes with his black cowboy hat. I sighed and backed away from the curb. Who was I kidding? Gunner wasn’t ever leaving. “We’re going to the shooting range.”
“Just where I wanted to be—around you with a loaded gun.” His voice was muffled under the brim of his hat.
…
The firing range was a ten minute drive from Center Street off to the east side of town. I cruised up the narrow, dirt path. The billowing dust of the empty space came into view, welcoming us to my cousin’s land. I figure everyone has a family member they’d like to disown, and my cousin Wyatt Bennett was mine. The branches didn’t flourish on his side of the family tree.
Wyatt had bought the property about three years back, stationed a doublewide on the hill, and opened up Locked and Loaded as a legal means of “supplemental” income. His other hobby was wheeling and dealing weed to the local, high school potheads. As a classy, reputable family, we Briggs chose to dust that piece of valuable information under the rug.
I punched Gunner in the stomach. “We’re here.”
He readjusted his hat and sat up. “Don’t you think a kiss would have been a nicer way to wake the handsome prince?”
He was the devil, tempting me with one of his knee-buckling kisses. It’s true I craved him. And damn did I want to drink in every ounce of bad-boy, cowboy attitude he could throw my way, but he’d thrown the towel in on us, and I wasn’t about to sink my teeth into his dangerous mouth again. It always left me high, dry…and wanting.
“Nice try, but no.”
His gaze stayed fixated on my mouth. He licked his lips, smiling, and leaned a smidgen too close for comfort. “When you’re ready sweetheart”—he made a lovely show of tipping the brim of his hat back at me, then winked again—“you know where to find me.”
Unwillingly, I dragged myself away from him. This…whatever this was with him…was not going to end well. I had painful past experience to fall back on.
I opened the car door to smoldering heat and planted a heel in the dirt. Immediately, dust collected on the red patent leather. The wind flapped at my shirt, alternately pressing it tight across my breasts and belly or making it billow with air. Gunner swaggered around to the front of the car and did a quick scan of the stark land.
“Don’t tell me, Wyatt owns this place?”
It hadn’t take Gunner long to notice the banners flying around the place. Wyatt had gotten the brilliant idea of plastering his smiling image on bulletin-board-size flags, a rifle in hand. He said it was a good welcoming, made the people feel at home. Something I doubted, since he was missing two front teeth and had a mullet. I shaded my eyes from the blazing sun and gestured for Gunner to follow me up the hill. It was a trek. My red cowboy boots wobbled on the rocky earth, and I slid a few times, only to have Gunner catch me each time before I landed belly-up on top of a prickly pear.
The pea-green doublewide sat on cinder blocks, adorned with three faded, blue plastic lawn chairs and empty Icehouse beer bottles tossed about the dirt, front lawn. One potted fern hung under the awning, fried to a brown crisp. I walked up the rickety, wooden stairs and beat down on the chewed-up screen door. I heard Wyatt jumping inside, then him scurrying through what sounded like boxes of trash. Gunner was grinning widely, really enjoying this too much. Everyone knew that Wyatt was a paranoid bastard. Before I got the chance to knock again, a pair of beady eyes appeared from behind a burnt-up mini-blind and just as quickly disappeared.
His jittery fingers rattled the deadbolt.
“Who’s the other guy? I don’t want any trouble, Laney.”
“That’s Gunner Wilson. Now open the damn door.” I knocked again. “You’re in some pretty deep shit, and once Aunt Connie gains wind of it, she’ll have your scrawny ass up for order at the next sheriff station catfish fry.”
It worked every dang time. All I had to do was put the fear of his mother in him, and he came running.
I dropped my hand when I heard the lock click back, and then the door sprang open. Wyatt was standing a few feet back, dripping with sweat. He had on an orange tank top that looked as if it hadn’t been washed for weeks, tan cut-off shorts squeezing the middle of his thighs, and a pair of mangled flip-flops. And of course, the one thing that Wyatt could always be reliable for was his dirty, brown mullet he’d had since seventh grade. It was shaved to the scalp on both sides, revealing his flaky skin, and just now it was accompanied by a pair of blood-shot eyes.
“Well, hell. Gunner Wilson.” He rubbed his jaw. “Didn’t think you would ever come back here, on account of what happened and all.” Wyatt looked my way and snickered.
“Me, too. It’s just your cousin here can’t stay away from me.”
“You are such a dirty liar, Gunner.”
“Takes one to know one,” he grinned. “Ain’t that right, Wyatt?”
Wyatt leaned into the door frame. “He’s got a point there, cuz.”
“Oh, shut up, the both of you.” I shot them both a look that would wipe the smile off a hyena.
Grinning, Gunner leaned against the doublewide’s siding. I’d never known him to back down, except when he got caught with his pants down. My idiot cousin, on the other hand, took five steps back and began to close the screen door.