by Nora Roberts
“I’ll do that. I told her they’ve started tearing down the old place.”
“How’d she take it?”
“She was fine with it. Didn’t matter. It didn’t seem like she was putting that on, and I made a point of asking Savannah about it. She said the same, Ma’s okay with it. She really loves having the piece of flooring, especially since Justin made it into picture frames. And the rosebushes, especially those. So it was the right thing to do.”
“Was that weighing on you?”
“Some. Off and on. Now it’s not. So, only this. Wouldn’t you rather stay back here tonight while I go deal with Clintok?”
She stabbed some potatoes, looking at him with a little smile while she ate. “Clutching my pearls while I pace the floor? And having a ripped petticoat for bandages ready.”
“Never seen you wear pearls, or a petticoat—though I imagine you’d look really good in both. And why do you assume I’d need bandages?”
“Grammy’s pearls are set aside for me, and I could borrow them if I wanted to clutch them. I don’t own a petticoat, so you’ll do without bandages ripped from one. But I already tossed a bag of frozen peas in your freezer because Clintok’s big and he’s a brawler. I may not have a doubt you’ll kick his ass, but he’ll land a few.”
Watching him, she licked sauce off her finger. “But to answer your question, don’t start thinking because I cooked you a meal I’ll go full stereotypical female.”
“You’re not stereo or typical anything.”
“Damn right. I’m going. Somebody’s got to hold your coat, and nobody’s robbing me of the pleasure of seeing you bloody him some.”
“How about after our fancy dinner next Saturday we get a fancy hotel room?”
She polished off her sandwich, downed a little Coke. “Have you got money to burn, Skinner?”
“I’ve got it to spend.”
“Looks like I’ll be packing an overnight bag. Let’s get these dishes done and get going.”
“I was thinking I could eat another helping.”
She poked a finger against his taut belly. “You’ll regret that thinking if he lands those couple in your gut.”
“Can’t argue with that,” he decided and pushed back from the table.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Step Up Bar slouched beside a two-pump gas station that primarily stocked cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and ammo. You could buy coffee there if burning a layer from your stomach lining caused no concern, but the soft drink machine stuck out front offered the better bet on the rare occasions it was stocked.
Across the weedy, pitted gravel lot, a twenty-room motel with a reputation for dubious sanitary standards welcomed only the most desperate of travelers.
Still, some locals enjoyed the fuck-you ambiance and patronized the bar for some serious drinking. And occasionally, enough drinks lured a couple or two over to the motel for the nonadvertised hourly room rate.
The three enterprises largely stayed afloat due to bikers traveling through who preferred cheap drinks, a hard-eyed game of pool, and the occasional brawl over the niceties.
Before he’d taken off for California, Callen had dragged Chase in there with him for a couple of rounds of rebellious, underage drinking, as nobody in the place gave a New York rat’s ass about checking IDs.
As Callen pulled in, passed the flickering vacancy sign for the One Shot Motel, he saw nothing much had changed.
He heard the insect buzz of the vacancy sign swatting at the still night air. Rising over it, the moon rode, a bite away from full, on a star-struck sky.
He steered away from the line of parked bikes, slid in next to a pickup. Shook his head.
Chase leaned back against the truck, Rory beside him, with Jessica and Chelsea flanking them.
“Didn’t know we were having a party.”
“That’s how it goes,” Bodine said as she climbed out.
Callen got out, walked over, scanned the lineup. “I appreciate the support, but it looks like I need an army to tend to my business here.”
“I don’t care how it looks.” Chase pushed off the truck. “Clintok did what he did on our land. We won’t get in his way or yours unless he tries something dirty.”
“He’s in there.” Rory wagged his thumb behind him. “His truck’s down there.”
Callen tried one last time. “It’s not the best place or circumstances to bring dates.”
Now Rory grinned. “You brought one. Plus … tell him, Chelsea.”
“I’ve got a black belt in tae kwon do.” When she lowered into a fighting stance, Callen could only wonder. “I took it all through college.”
“And I have a mighty and fatally accurate bitch slap,” Jessica added.
Couldn’t change it, Callen decided, so he’d trust the brothers would keep the women out of harm’s way should harm rise up.
“All I need to do is punch him in the face. That’ll square it for me.”
Chase nodded. “Then you get that done, and we’ll all be on our way.”
Callen went in with what he thought of now as his damn entourage, and saw the interior hadn’t changed much, either.
The decor ran heavy to taxidermy with bear and buck heads mounted, the Montana State flag framed beside the Gadsden. One new element? A sign reading:
GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE, I DO.
A couple of biker types smacked pool balls around, and a couple more drank bottled beer and watched.
The place held two booths. In one, a couple of old guys who looked permanently pissed off sat across from each other, working on their beers and playing cards.
He judged the second booth commandeered by the bikers, as empty bottles littered the table and leather jackets formed heaps on the seats.
Seven stools lined the bar, all full. At first glance he didn’t recognize a soul but Clintok at the end, then felt a little tug of recognition for the big guy center bar, chomping down on beer nuts.
As the others filed in behind him, the balls stopped clattering, asses shifted on stools. Callen hoped to hell the fact the female population of the bar now numbered three didn’t stir up trouble.
But he knew by the way Clintok straightened on his stool that at least one patron knew trouble had walked in.
“Skinner? That you?” The big guy gestured. “Kiss my ass, that’s you, Cal Skinner. Heard you were back.”
“Sandy Rhimes,” Bodine muttered, and a lightbulb switched on.
“How you doing, Sandy?”
“Could complain, won’t bother. Hey there, Chase, Rory, Bodine, ma’am, ma’am.” He had a big, homely face and a sweet, almost angelic smile. “You bunch make a wrong turn somewhere?”
“Nope. I’m where I aimed for.”
“Well, if you’re having a beer, stick with the bottles. Slats here would tell you the same,” he added, wagging his own bottle toward the hefty, bored-eyed bartender.
“We’re not drinking right now. I’ve got some other business.”
Sandy took a peer down the bar. “Clintok? If you got a beef with him, I’d … Wait.” His mile-wide shoulders straightened, stiffened, and the sweet smile vanished. “He’s the one who shot your horse? I heard about that.” Sandy slapped down his beer, started to push his mighty girth out of the stool.
“It’s okay.” Christ, he didn’t need to add another. “I’ve got this.”
“Hope you do.”
“Just stay back here,” Callen told the rest, and walked down the bar to Clintok. “We’ve got business to finish.”
“Fuck you, Skinner.”
“I figure you’re carrying, so I’m going to say if I see your hand go where I think your gun is, I’ll break that hand at the wrist.”
The red started creeping up into Clintok’s face. “You’re threatening a police officer?”
“I’m threatening an asshole, an unemployed one, I hear. I’m threatening a coward who hides up in the trees and shoots a horse. So you’re going to want to keep those hands where I can see
them.”
Callen felt rather than saw the man on the stool behind him slide off, ease away.
“Coward?” Clintok pushed off the stool. “You’re a murdering coward. You killed two women.”
Now Callen sensed the bikers tuning in. “You want to believe that. You know different, but you want it to be true. What is true is: You shot my horse.”
Clintok rammed a finger into Callen’s chest; Callen let him. “I was shooting at a snake.”
“Even your aim’s not that bad.”
“Same as you ever were.” Eyes hot, teeth bared, Clintok jabbed the finger again. “No-good, no-good whelp from a loser who gambled away everything and hanged himself from the shame of it. And here you come? You come in here with the Longbow men, and women to hide behind.”
“They’re just here as audience for the ass-kicking. You want the ass-kicking in here or outside? That’s your choice.”
“You take it outside.” The bartender brought out a bat, slapped it against his palm.
“Outside then,” Callen said.
He saw the punch coming, made another decision to let it come. It landed hard enough to set his ears ringing, but he just wiped the blood from his lip.
“Keep coming.” Callen backed up toward the door.
Clintok took two charging steps, and as Callen braced, Sandy flung out a beefy arm.
“Now, what’re ya reaching for back there, Garrett?” He yanked the .32 out of its holster. “Man’s a bushwhacker,” he announced to the bar. “Shot this man’s horse out from under him. We don’t stand for that. Nosiree, we don’t. We don’t stand for trying to draw down on an unarmed man, neither.”
He slapped the gun on the bar. “Best put that behind the bar, Slats. Now, are you walking outside to settle this on your own, Garrett, or do you want me to help you?”
“Keep your hands off me. Useless retard of a drunk.”
“Get back there and keep the door open,” Callen murmured to Chase. “I’ll get him through it. Let’s go, Clintok. If you try to run out the back, I bet I’m faster.”
“Run from you?” Clintok charged forward. He grabbed a beer from the bar, smashed the bottle, continued to charge, slicing with the jagged glass.
Callen danced aside, let the momentum carry Clintok forward, and booted him hard enough in the ass to propel him through the door.
Chase grabbed Clintok’s wrist, twisted. The broken bottle fell on the gravel.
“Thanks.” Callen came roaring through. “Stay out of it.”
He knocked the off-balance Clintok to the ground, had the pleasure of seeing him skid over the gravel and leave blood smeared on the stones.
Then stepped back, waited.
Bodine kicked the broken glass aside and like Callen watched as Clintok slowly gained his feet. His hands bled from their rude run over the gravel. Under the big moon and the snap and sizzle of the vacancy sign, she saw the darkening stain on the knees of his jeans from the spill.
And the hot blaze of rage in his eyes.
“Go get him,” she murmured to Callen.
But to Callen’s mind—remarkably cool at the moment—words delivered as sharp an insult as fists.
“Guns, broken bottles. Suits you, Clintok. Just like hiding out in the rocks and trees and shooting down at a horse. Just like putting a bullet in some helpless pup’s head suits you.”
“He shot a puppy?” This from one of the bikers as they filed out to watch the fight. “Son of a bitch!”
“That all suits you,” Callen continued. “Like ambushes suit you, like having your friends hold a man down so you can beat on him. That one didn’t work out so well for you as I recall. Time to see how you do one-to-one, in a straight-up fight.”
“Should’ve put the bullet in you.”
Callen smiled. “Which time? Back when we were kids and you killed that little dog, or now when you shot my horse?”
“Both.” With that, Clintok charged.
Callen dodged the jab that flew as wild as any temper tantrum, followed it with a solid right cross, snapping Clintok’s head back, bloodying his nose.
He’d told himself he’d be satisfied with this, with one bare-fisted punch that drew blood. But by God it lit a fire in him, one that had simmered for years.
Before he actively thought it through, his left hook landed on Clintok’s jaw.
Maybe the two rapid blows cleared Clintok’s head, or maybe he had instincts of his own. Either way Callen took a couple of punishing strikes to the ribs before he blackened his opponent’s eye.
Behind them, Jessica closed her hand over Bodine’s. “We should stop them.”
“Oh, hell no.”
Bodine winced when Callen took one to the face, jabbed her own free hand out when he delivered a pair of breath-stealing gut shots, followed it with a wicked uppercut.
Boots scraped over gravel as they lunged, as they circled. The metallic scent of blood wound around the smell of beer, of sweat, and surprisingly of the jerky Sandy gnawed on.
Animal grunts, the snap and crunch of knuckles meeting flesh, meeting bone. Beside her Jessica shifted, gave up, and put her hand over her eyes.
“Tell me when it’s over.”
“Nearly is.”
Working all her life with cowboys, growing up with two brothers—not to mention Callen himself—Bodine figured she’d seen her share of fistfights and dustups. And she could judge them.
Clintok had the advantage of sheer power, but Callen had the weight on strategy. Then there was hot rage against cold fire.
Each time Callen landed a blow, Clintok’s response grew sloppier. He’s telegraphing, she thought. Come on, Skinner, can’t you see … ouch.
Then she watched Callen return the glancing punch off his cheekbone with a jab fast and slick as a snake, a gut-punishing follow-up, and that vicious uppercut.
The last knocked Clintok off his feet, and Callen was on top of him. He didn’t pummel his downed opponent, though she wouldn’t have lost an ounce of respect for him if he had. The onlookers not only expected it but vocally encouraged it.
Instead, Callen pinned his man down, spoke clearly.
“It’s done. You come back at me again, come back at any who matter to me, I won’t just put you on the ground. I’ll put you in it. Believe it.” He shoved up. “Now get gone.”
He walked away—leaning heavy on pride to keep from limping—taking from Bodine the hat that had flown off his head during the battle. Set it comfortably on his head.
“I guess I ought to buy everybody a drink.”
“You’re bleeding,” Jessica said.
After a swipe of bruised knuckles over his bruised face, Callen shrugged. “Not much.”
“Is it men?” Jessica wondered. “Is it men altogether, or is it men in hats?”
“We’ll talk about it over a beer.” Amused, Bodine started to give her friend a tug toward the door, then shouted a warning.
Clintok stumbled back into the light, a gun in his hand.
Callen shoved her clear, stepped quickly away from the group as Clintok raised the gun.
Her world stopped in an instant, slowed to an endless spin in that same snap of time. She heard shouting, like voices in a