“So, how’s Laney been treating you? She hasn’t pulled that damn shotgun out again, has she?” my father asked, reaching over and forking up a chicken breast and dropping it down on Gunner’s plate.

  “I tell ya, Floyd, I must be off my game, ’cause I haven’t pissed her off that bad since,” he said, shooting me a wink while biting into his chicken.

  “Well, maybe she’s finally learned how to control that temper of hers,” my father replied, forking up a chicken breast for himself. His tone was condemning in all sorts of ways.

  I buried my head into my plate and started stuffing my face with heaps of mashed potatoes.

  “So, Mom, what’s the occasion for having us over for lunch today?” I blurted out through a mouthful of food.

  My mother had this look that could scare the hair off the back of a cat. And yep, she was using it right now on Gunner.

  “I only invited you, Laney.”

  “Okay, then. Why did you invite me for lunch?”

  “So now there has to be a reason for me to invite my own daughter over for lunch?”

  “Well, there’s usually something behind your invitation. I don’t mean it like it’s a bad thing. It’s just how it usually is.”

  She wiped her mouth with her napkin and placed it back in her lap. “Your father and I think somebody has been in our house.”

  “What do you mean? Somebody broke in?” I asked, not sure what she was getting at.

  “Well, yes. We think.”

  She seemed really hesitant.

  “Why didn’t you call the station if you think you’ve had a burglary?”

  “We’re not entirely certain about it.”

  “What’d they take?”

  She took another drink of wine. “That’s the problem. Nothing’s missing.”

  This conversation was reaching new heights of annoying.

  I took a sip of my tea and asked, “Then what makes you think somebody was in the house?”

  My mother waved her hand behind her head and said, “Things in my Marlboro room were misplaced, like someone had been poking around in there looking for something.”

  Both Gunner and I stopped eating when she said that. We looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. Someone, more than likely one of King’s goons, had snooped around my parents’ place looking for the stolen guns Wyatt had taken.

  “Was that the only room?” Gunner asked. His cop face was on, and it didn’t look too happy.

  My mother looked back at him. Her wrinkly face was strained as she debated which one of us to address. I reckon the woman didn’t have a forgiving bone in that saggy body. Even though Gunner was concerned for her safety, she still didn’t find it good enough to respond to the man.

  She turned my way and kindly confirmed, “No. Things were moved around in other rooms, too, but I noticed my Marlboro room first.”

  “And you’re sure they didn’t take anything?” he asked further.

  My mother rolled her eyes at Gunner. “No. Nothing’s missing. Whoever it was just looked through our stuff.”

  “Was a window broken? A scratched lock? Anything like that?” he continued prodding for information.

  “No!” She sounded truly annoyed at his persistent grilling. Then she looked at me, adding, “There isn’t any sign of someone breaking in. That’s why we weren’t sure about calling the station. We think we might be going crazy.”

  “Well, first off, you aren’t crazy. As far as your house getting broken in to, we’ll look in to it immediately,” Gunner said.

  “I’m just worried that this might be the start of some neighborhood crime spree.” She took a drink. “What if they come back and actually take something?”

  “Well, don’t worry, Mom. We’ll get on it right away,” I reassured her.

  Lunch was finished pretty promptly after that. My father moseyed his way back to his tattered recliner. He clicked the drop bar and sprang himself onto his back. He had adjusted his cooler under his right armrest, easy positioning for grabbing another beer. Gunner was sitting on the couch watching the Mavericks with him. I helped Mom clear the table. She was unusually quiet while we worked.

  “So, are you giving me the silent treatment,” I said, dropping a dish into the sink.

  She spun around, wiping her hands on a towel.

  “Laney, I want the best for you. Don’t you understand that?” she said, placing a tender hand on my arm. “And Gunner Wilson just isn’t it, sweetheart. Now be careful with my china when you put it in the sink. I don’t want it getting chipped.”

  This is when I should have done the reasonable thing and bit my tongue. But hell, when did I ever do such a thing like that?

  “Mother, you have no room to talk, the way you gallop around town with Mitch Wagner.” I got in her face. “Don’t think I don’t know. People talk,” I said, stomping out of the kitchen.

  Gunner was seated across from my father, and I yanked at his shirtsleeve. “It’s time to go.”

  My voice was snippy.

  He stood, pulled his shirt back over his huge belt buckle, tugged at the brim of his hat, and looked down at my father. “I guess that’s my cue, Floyd.”

  My father gave him a firm nod with his chin.

  “Thanks for the lunch, Ruth,” Gunner hollered, while I dragged him out the front door.

  The screen clapped into the doorframe and jiggled to a lock as I huffily marched down the steps. I stuffed my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans and dug the heels of my boots into the hard dirt.

  “Sometimes that woman needs to keep her trap shut.”

  A steady, firm hand fell along my waist. “So what happened this time?” Gunner asked, breathing down the nape of my neck.

  “The same shit that always happens.”

  “Oh, I see. You all right?” he asked, rubbing my arm tenderly.

  “I’m fine.” I sighed.

  “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

  “My parents’ house getting broken in to, do you think it’s the start of a neighborhood crime spree?”

  “Not at all,” he stated firmly.

  “Do you think Willie King is behind it?” I asked, knowing damn well I wouldn’t like his answer.

  “Absolutely,” he said, whipping off his cowboy hat. “I bet Willie sent one of his guys to search your parents’ house for the missing guns Wyatt stole from him.”

  “Wyatt may be an idiot, but he’s at least smart enough not to stash his take over at my parents.” I kicked at a weed and watched it crumble over the top of my boot. Something wasn’t adding up. Maybe Willie had his hands in the drug pot, too. And there was a big possibility that my boyfriend was withholding information from me. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a long history of fibbing. Stepping in closer, I placed a hand on Gunner’s broad shoulder. “You wouldn’t be keeping any secrets from me, would you?”

  The slow, thick roll of his Adam’s apple was a dead giveaway. His hands cupped my hips as he rocked me forward, only to pull my body flush against him. “You and I are both on the same page here, sweetheart,” he said, lips softly touching mine. “All I know is what you’ve told me about Wyatt being arrested in Lubbock and Willie King’s missing guns.”

  It was highly doubtful my Texas Ranger had no information on my cousin’s impending murder hearing, but he wasn’t ready to cough over the bill. We both knew something more sinister was moving into town, just neither of us wanted to be the first to make the call…well, yet. Soon my cousin wouldn’t be the only problem, and I needed to be prepared.

  My hands fell to my sides, and I felt the weight of mistrust settling heavily on my shoulders. I wet my lips and took a single step back, lifting my eyes into his line of sight. “Let’s make a pact.”

  Gunner nodded.

  “If either of us hears any sort of information about Wyatt, the drugs, or murders, we inform the other,” I said.

  He tugged at the brim of his hat, smiling, and confirmed, “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

  I didn’t believe one fucking word of it.

  Gunner left our house a little after three; work and other pressing matters were waiting back in Odessa. No problem, alone time was my specialty. I skipped downstairs and crossed into the kitchen. Late-afternoon sun bled through the lace curtains, rays of light fluttered across the dingy linoleum floor. There was nothing better to kill time than a tub of Blue Bell Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. I was two-stepping my way over to the icebox when the phone started cattle calling off the adjacent wall. Truth be told, it sort of hurt watching my blissful afternoon flash before my eyes. Taking the shortcut by the kitchen table, I snapped up the phone.

  “This better be damn important, Elroy,” I said.

  A voice mumbled on the other end of the line. Why me? Sometimes I believe I might be a magnet for psychos. I sucked in some air and yelled into the receiver. “I’m giving you three seconds to speak up, and then this line will go dead.”

  The jerk-off coughed on his owns words before wrestling the cat off his tongue. “Laney, it’s Wyatt. Can you talk?”

  My fist instinctively balled around the cordless. “Are you calling me from county?” I asked.

  Wyatt’s end of the line went completely silent.

  “Is Ruth pissed at me?” he sputtered out.

  I let out a resigned sigh. “That’s pretty much a no-brainer.”

  “On a scale of one to ten?”

  “She’s a twenty.”

  “Dang!” he grumbled in response, the phone rustling at his ear.

  Man, was my birdbrain cousin even stupider than I thought.

  I gripped the phone and made a point to remember I was practically questioning a toddler. “You have bigger problems than my mother to worry about. You just need to stay quiet until your lawyer comes to talk to you, and I’ll try to help you sort through this whole damn mess on my end.”

  “I won’t be needing a lawyer anymore,” he told me.

  “What do you mean by not needing a lawyer anymore?” my voice spiked.

  “Detective Brock dropped the charges.”

  “Wait…what?” I gasped. “Where the hell are you, then?”

  “I can’t drag you back into this, Laney.”

  I was at a loss for words. Maybe that bong really had scrambled his brain like a Denny’s omelet.

  “You already have, dipshit,” I said into the receiver. “I arrested Mule on drug solicitation the other day.”

  The silence lingered eerily over the line.

  I decided to carry on even if Wyatt had no intention of throwing a bone my way. “You wanna tell me about this new capital venture of yours?” I asked.

  I heard a choke, followed by a harsh swallow. “There ain’t nothing to tell.”

  “Mule might beg to differ,” I shot back. “What the hell were you thinking peddling a new drug into town while being on Willie King’s hit list?”

  “You don’t know everything,” he told me. “I think we should just consider ourselves lucky and walk away from this one.”

  “Shit, Wyatt. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that one myself.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “You really think I can just brush this goddamn case under the rug? It ain’t gonna happen, cuz.”

  “Well that’s just dandy!” Wyatt shouted back at me before hanging up the phone.

  I stood there in my kitchen, holding the phone, pissed off that I hadn’t accomplished prying any information out of him as to his whereabouts. Like I always do when I need to throw a pity party, I went to the fridge, but the mint chocolate chip ice cream I had been fantasizing about was gone. It really irked me when Gunner didn’t replace things. I decided a trip to the Piggly Mart was in order. I grabbed my red cowboy boots and scooped the keys to my pickup off the kitchen counter, then walked out the back door. After a good smacking to the dashboard, I peeled out of the gravel driveway.

  It was a straight shot just about five minutes down the road. The Piggly Mart appeared up over the hill as I cornered Spillage Road. I chugged the gurgling engine into the only empty spot. And what do you know, Mitch Wagner’s blue Chevy diesel truck happened to be parked right next to it. I got out of my pickup and swung the door shut. Clinching my wad of cash, I made my way up to the front doors.

  I pulled a shopping cart from the lineup, twisting the green handle bar in my hands, and pushed it out into the open. The Piggly Mart was no fancy grocery chain like the ones found in the big cities. If a person needed deer feed, well, it was perennially stacked outside the front door, but it would’ve been a long drive out to Dallas if a customer was looking for organically grown lettuce to make a dinner salad. The square whitewashed space was filled with ten aisles, a front that held five large bins of produce, and then Sammy the butcher was at the back by the meat lockers. Old 1950s-style cardboard-cutout posters were taped to the front windows of the store to let customers know of new products, promotions, and sale items. Two cash registers were lined up on the right side near the exit, although one was broken, so there was usually a wait to check out. To make matters even worse, the store still hadn’t switched to using barcodes, so Simon Baker, a pimply-faced fifteen year old and the only cashier, had one hell of a time as checkout clerk, punching in the cost of every item. Needless to say, Sam wasn’t the most-liked person in town, and bless his poor little heart he wasn’t even out of high school yet. If he heard the words “Thank you, Simon” more than twice a day, well it’d surprise me more than if Ted Nugent came out calling for greater gun control.

  Pushing my rickety shopping cart around the corner of aisle number five, I headed for the cereal. I was just going to get the essentials: milk, a box of Lucky Charms, a six-pack of beer, and ice cream. Beyond that, Gunner could pick up whatever he needed—it wouldn’t hurt the man to take on some responsibility. My cart was loaded down when I turned into the beer aisle and banged head on into Mitch Wagner’s ankle, hearing that dreaded sound of metal hitting bone. The pained expression on his face must’ve been nothing to the shocked expression on my own when I noticed he had an arm wrapped around my mother’s waist.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the darling little Laney.” Mitch Wagner stated my name with a hint of disgust. “Heard from your mother here you’ve been hanging around my son.” Mitch practically growled at me, never letting his hand fall from my mother’s waist.

  I was rendered speechless. I’d died and gone to hell. I had always known she had a thing with Mitch, but I’d never actually seen the two of them together.

  “She must’ve gotten her manners from her father,” Mitch Wagner said to my mother, then turned to me and hissed, “I asked you a question. Are you gonna answer me?” His piercing black eyes bore into me.

  They were the kind of eyes that I read about in stories when I was a kid that were capable of turning a man to stone. My mother, like always, was giving me her best sourpuss smile, wedging it up into her boney cheeks.

  I looked Mitch Wagner in the face and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.”

  I flicked a look over at my mother, whose smile was truly forced. “Mother,” I said calmly, “good seeing you again today. How’s Dad?”

  “He’s at home drinking beer,” she said, the words stumbling out of her mouth. “I’m just here to get him some more.”

  “Hmm.” My hands tightened on the shopping-cart handle bar. “Well, the High Life is right over there,” I said with assertion, pointing toward the cooler. “I’m sure Dad’s waiting by now.”

  Some days I know my mother wishes she’d stuck with Mitch Wagner when she’d had the chance all those years ago. All parties claim there’s no hard feeling. Still it’s pretty darn shitty that last Christmas Eve, Mitch snagged the last of the Miller High Life (my father’s singular taste) off the Piggly Mart shelf, then waited out in the parking lot for my devastated father to watch him blow the six-pack away with a twelve-gauge shotgun. Not one to hold a grudge, my father gave Mitch a surprise Christmas gift by pitching a couple rattlesnakes into the bed of his truck. I suppose the score’s been settled.

  “I was just about to go,” she responded defensively.

  “And that’s what I’m gonna do right now.” I walked over to the Shiner and grabbed a twelve-pack. “Mitch, I wish I could say it was a pleasure,” I said drily as I placed my beer next to the cereal in my cart.

  I didn’t hesitate at all to spin the shopping cart around. I felt it glide in my hands as I casually rolled it away, allowing my back to be the last thing Mitch Wagner laid eyes upon.

  I’d just tucked my groceries up under my arm and reached down into the pocket of my pants for my keys.

  “Come on, sexy! Dig a little deeper for those keys!” a man hollered at me.

  I shot my eyes in the direction of the voice. Luke had a shoulder propped against the adjacent brick wall. His boot was resting on the window ledge, and he had his white cowboy hat angled low over his sun-blistered nose. He shuffled to the side, lifting his white T-shirt. Just a quickie snapshot of his rock-hard six-pack clearly sent my heart fluttering. Luke twiddled a toothpick about his mouth. He was laying his charming smile on thick. I gulped and felt a lump lodge in the back of my throat. Lately, in more ways than one, it had been nice seeing him when I did. Keep ’em together, Laney Briggs. I slung my bag of groceries up under my arm. The toothpick fell to the ground, and a brown boot snapped it in half before walking my way. I moved around the rancher.

  “Why are you always sneaking up on me like this?” I asked, continuing to dig for my keys.

  That question was met with a slow, mischievous smile. Then my groceries were snatched right out of my hands. Oh, boy. I could already tell where this was heading.

  “We live in Pistol Rock. Tell me what else there is to do,” Luke said, tossing me that bait-and-switch wink. “Let me help you with these.”

  “So what are you doing here?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “You’re looking at it.”

  “So you’re here just to pester me?”

  He smiled. “Yep. I saw your truck and thought, ‘What the hell?’”

  “Guess what just happened?”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23