Читать книгу Must Love Horses - Vicki Tharp - Страница 7
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
Trouble had a pretty face…and a rocking ass.
After two tours in Iraq, Bryan “Boomer” Wilcox could sniff out trouble like a drug dog sniffs out crack. And the woman training the black and white colt reeked of it.
Sidney worked from the center of the Lazy S’s fifty-foot round pen, the young horse cantering along the rail. Boomer stood next to Mackenzie Nash, his arms on the top rail. He tugged on the brown ponytail sticking out the back of her baseball cap.
She grabbed his hand and latched onto the pressure point, stopping short of causing real pain, and dropped it. Dangerous mistake, forgetting her quickness.
He shook the annoying sensation away. “If Patton had a way, way, way younger sister, it would be you.”
“And you’re like a bad rash: prickly, irritating, and always popping up in the most inconvenient places.”
“Who told me to check out the new trainer you might want to hire?”
The colt made another pass, his nostrils flaring, sweat lathering his neck, his hooves kicking up dust. Blobs of dirt rained down, hitting his leg and plopping a clod into his ice water. He picked it out and flicked it away, wiping his fingers on his cargo shorts.
“Look how she handles that horse.” Mac’s lips curved higher and higher like a hot air balloon on a cold day. “She’s little, but tough. And she’s accomplished more with this horse in fifteen minutes than I have in the past few weeks.”
“Because she’s a horse trainer, you’re not.”
“Look, he joined up with her, and that crazy-ass, crackhead horse is following her around like a lovesick puppy.”
Boomer grunted. The hair on the back of his neck didn’t raise, the water he’d drunk didn’t slosh in his belly, and his stump didn’t tingle beneath the socket of his blade prosthetic, but something about the trainer was off. If Mac pulled her head out of the clouds, maybe she would see it too.
He slipped his sunglasses down over his eyes, but it wasn’t the sun setting behind the Rockies that prevented him from seeing the truth.
Sidney led the colt to the middle of the pen and started desensitizing him to the lunge whip. She stood in front and a little to the side of the horse, holding a lead rope attached to his halter. She smacked the ground with the tip of the whip, only stopping when the horse licked his lips, cocked his hip, or showed other signs he’d relaxed.
Mac rubbed at her combat-injured shoulder. Was her shoulder bothering her, or did something not sit right with her either? “We should hire her.”
“Don’t,” Boomer said. “She’s trouble.” And not the sweaty-sheets-and-sticky-sex kind of trouble.
“Get real.” Mac’s voice climbed a rung on the octave ladder. “She’s exactly what our training program needs.”
“Someone like her, yes. Her? No way.”
Mac’s lips went flat, flapjack flat. The way they did when she thought someone was being difficult. Only he wasn’t being difficult, just wary.
“Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t hire her, that doesn’t include her cup size,” Mac said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’m more of an ass man.”
He waited a beat for the eye roll. She didn’t disappoint.
“Come on,” Mac said. “Spit it out.”
He stared at the ground. The heat edged up his neck, one hair to the next and the next. He glanced up. “She hesitated before saying her last name.” Yeah, sounded just as stupid outside his head as it had inside his head.
Mac laughed, the pitch a little off, as if he’d stripped his gears and spun off into crazy land. Then she took the glass from his hand and sniffed. No hooch in his drink. Not this time. But the fact that she’d checked made his chest tighten.
She didn’t trust him.
Not completely.
Not like before.
He snatched the glass back. “I’m just keeping an eye on your six, sis.”
“I’m not your sister and this isn’t Fallujah. No mortar rounds. No sniper fire. What do you have to protect me from, Marine?”
“One epically bad decision,” he said, about twenty decibels louder than intended.
Sidney glanced their way, turned the horse loose in the pen, and walked over to them. The horse stuck his neck through the metal rails on the opposite side and nibbled the tips of the long, leggy grass.
“You have a problem with the way I worked the horse?” Sidney’s words carried a quiet heat, as if all she needed was a drop of fuel to go from a low simmer to a full-on boil.
“No. No problem,” Mac said, “We were very—”
“What did you say your last name was?”
Mac cut him an I’ll-take-you-down look. “Boomer…”
Sidney glanced away, then crossed her arms and met his gaze. “Teller. Sidney Teller.”
She looked from him to Mac and back to him. Her shoulders twitched as if she was fighting off a cringe.
“Why does that name sound familiar?” Boomer asked.
Sidney drew her body up and sucked in a deep breath. Boomer tried not to notice how her T-shirt tightened across her chest.
Tried real hard.
He wasn’t a complete cad.
Now wasn’t the time to notice her breasts or her pixie face or even her short, red hair—a style that should have looked masculine, but didn’t. She looked like an Irish fairy, especially when those green eyes flashed with a redhead’s fire. Maybe she had Mac under a spell. Would explain why Mac refused to listen to him.
Sidney’s lips moved, but her words didn’t register as he contemplated how she’d feel beneath—
Mac elbowed him in the gut.
“Ow!” He rubbed a hand over his belly and tuned back in.
“Clive and Marta Teller are my parents.” Sidney’s words came out like a dare. Like she dared him to pass judgment on them. On her.
“That couple in the news a few years back? The ones who beat and abused their horses, went to prison?”
At her slight nod, he huffed out a harsh laugh. Vindicated.
That was one hell of a stink-ass albatross dangling around her neck.
* * * *
Shock. Disgust. Revulsion. Boomer’s face flicked through the expressions and settled on contempt. Not a good look for him.
Those reactions Sidney had expected. What she hadn’t expected was his lack of surprise. Like he’d known something was off about her. Like her parents’ savagery had rubbed off on her, tainted her and made her unworthy. Her heart thumped in her chest, like a kick from a pissy mare—powerful, painful, destructive.
Because of her damn parents, her career was doomed almost before it got started. Horse training was her life. Long, hard days and short, sleepless nights. Aching muscles and saddle sores. Soft muzzles and hard hooves. She craved it all.
Boomer gave her a calculated look, as if he was ten moves ahead and reaching across the table to knock Sidney’s queen off the chessboard.
“Mind explaining what I’m missing here?” Mac asked Sidney.
Sidney had to look up to meet her in the eye.
“Spell it out for me,” Mac said. “Big, bold, blocky letters, so I don’t have to read the fine print.”
Mac’s expression remained blank of emotion. No frustration. No anger. No apparent ego for a boss lady. Had Sidney found someone who would give her the break she needed? There was a tingling in her chest, pins and needles and hope.
Sidney’s parents’ crimes were all public record anyway. Here goes nothing. The pins and needles pricked and poked, ripped and rent. “My parents were respected horse trainers until they were arrested on multiple counts of animal cruelty—starvation, beating, neglect. They made Michael Vick look like the poster boy for the Humane Society.
“I wasn’t involved,” Sidney added maybe a tad too quick, “but the truth is, if I hadn’t made excuses, if I hadn’t stayed away, if—”
“If, if, if,” Mac said. “Ifs are nothing more than half-fleshed skeletons in your closet stinking up your life. Sometimes the best thing to do is bury them.”
“But if I’d gone home, I would have noticed. Would have done something about it. Before the horses suffered.” Before my family’s reputation suffered.
The man beside her—Boomer, was it? What the hell kind of name was that?—stood with his arms over his broad chest, his eyes unreadable behind his reflective lenses. His dark hair was close cropped, his full lips now pressed thin, his expression stuck somewhere between a scowl and resignation.
Probably best she couldn’t see his eyes; she didn’t think she’d like what she would see there. Contempt? Derision? Pity?
Yowza. Better she didn’t know.
“I’ll work for a trial period. No charge. Let me show you what I can do, let me prove to you what I am, what I’m capable of.” Her words bumped together as if she’d never learned punctuation. Her stomach tipped and dipped and dived. Her heart thumped a slow, hard, bruising beat against her chest, waiting for Mac to speak. Waiting to hear her fate.
“No,” Mac said.
No? Sidney’s gut twisted like it had been hog-tied with a lariat. She opened her mouth to argue. To beg, maybe. No. Not beg. She would fight, would work hard, would graze her horse in hand on the side of the highway if she had to, but she had too much pride to beg.
“No,” Mac repeated. “If you’re going to work here, you’re going to get paid. Starting wages, plus room and board for you and your horse. A month trial. A raise after that if you work out. You’ll report to Bryan, nickname’s Boomer.”
The lariat was now a noose. She pasted on a strangled smile.
“Mac,” Boomer said, a warning and a reproach.
Mac turned to him. “My decision.”
Boomer shifted his weight back, then pulled his sunglasses down his nose and eyed Mac over the top with a look that clearly said I don’t want any part of this. She held Boomer’s gaze and Sidney could tell they were having a whole lotta conversation without saying a word.
Finally, Mac said to Boomer, “So, we good?”
“Dandy,” he said, the word slathered in sarcasm. He nodded, but the throbbing vessel at his temple said he was probably a few beers away from dandy.
Sidney tried to act cool, like of course she’d gotten the job, but the goofy grin cramping her cheeks blew the cool away. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”
Boomer grunted. Gruff. Disgruntled. But he could piss and moan all he wanted. She was there to train horses, not to make him happy.
“Where do I put my things?”
“We’re limited on space until Boomer finishes building the new cabins. You can bunk with him, or you can stay in the barn. The caretaker room is practically a closet, and the bathroom is down the barn aisle, but you’re welcome to it if you prefer a place to yourself.”
“The barn works.” If she wasn’t mistaken, Boomer’s lips twitched a fraction with an infinitesimal smile she read as relief.
“I’ll help you get settled.” He sounded like the perfect gentleman, but his face was concrete on a hot Texas day—hard, gritty, impenetrable.
She could have unloaded by herself, but after the fourteen-hundred-or-so-mile haul from Texas, she was too tired and road weary to argue.
The sun had slipped halfway down the distant ridge line of the Rockies, and a cool breeze kicked up. Her buckskin fox trotter pawed impatiently at the fender of her two-horse bumper pull trailer, making an irritating clang-scrape, clang-scrape as he hit his hoof on the fender and dragged it across the rusty paint because his hay net was now empty.
“Where do you want me to drop my trailer?”
He pointed to the left side of a new looking barn, where other trailers and tractors were parked. She headed for her truck while he peeled off and headed for her horse. Her truck was one of those small Ford Ranger pickups with only a front bench seat. At one time the paint had been green, before the hot Texas sun had faded and stripped the color away like a brunette gone to gray. Once the gas tank hit empty and Eli’s last two bales of hay were eaten, the insurance company could declare it totaled.
Sidney watched Boomer in her side mirror until he had Eli safely away from the trailer, then turned the key in the ignition. The engine spun. She pumped the gas, but the engine refused to catch. It didn’t even sound like it was trying.
She checked the gas gauge: needle-width above E. A problem she didn’t have the money to fix. She yanked the key from the ignition and banged her forehead on the steering wheel.
Eli nickered as her door latch clunked and Boomer forced her door open. The rusty, bent hinges creaked and groaned like an old arthritic man. With her forehead still on the wheel, she turned her head as Boomer—no, Bryan, she liked his real name better—leaned on the edge of the open door. Eli stepped up and rubbed his soft nose on her forearm like he was telling her everything was going to be okay, but it was also past his feeding time. Eli did like his pellets. So it could have gone either way.
“Where’re your bags?”
“Tack locker of the trailer.”
They unloaded her bag and tack and led Eli to the barn. Once inside the sliding doors, Sidney dropped the saddle and pad in the aisleway while Bryan dumped her duffel in the room. She let Eli’s lead go and checked out her new home. A counter and sink lined the far wall. It had a foot of prep space, a coffeepot, a microwave above, and a small refrigerator beneath.
“Breakfast and dinner is served at the big house. Lunch is on your own, but they’ll supply the groceries.”
Bryan stepped around her, opened the cabinet above the sink, pulled out a giant Ziploc baggie with bedding, and tossed it on the naked mattress. Eli wandered past the open door, sniffing his way down the aisle, checking the place out.
“Thanks,” she said. “I can take it from here.”
He nodded, and she saw a flash of buckskin in the room’s only window overlooking the foaling stall. Eli had slid the stall door open; he was bad that way. His legs buckled beneath him and he rolled in the thick shavings, kicking his muscled legs in the air. Then he stood and shook the shavings out of his jet-black mane and tail. He walked over and blinked at her through the window.
She glanced at Bryan. He had a lazy smile on his face as he watched her horse. Her stomach felt light and wiggly and she waited for it to grumble, to demand to be fed, but it didn’t.
It didn’t want food.
Well…crapola.
Okay, so being attracted to her boss wasn’t so bad. He was easy on the eyes, especially when he smiled like that, but that didn’t mean she liked him. In fact, she was pretty sure she didn’t, and was confident that the feeling was mutual. Still, that didn’t stop her from eying his cargo-shorts-clad caboose as he turned to leave.
At the door, he turned back. Her eyes shot up to his, but not before he’d caught her ogling. Double crapola.
His eyes lit with amusement, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he glanced at the watch on his left wrist. It was clunky, with a big face and some kind of dial on top. It looked like it could withstand a nuclear blast and remotely pilot the International Space Station. “Dinner at the big house in fifteen. You coming?”
She hadn’t had a solid meal since that morning, but the bed called much louder than the food. And she still needed to feed Eli and settle him in for the night.
Eli nickered as if he was Carnac the Magnificent and could read her mind. He stomped an impatient foot and licked the window.
“Nah,” she said. “I’ll catch you guys in the morning.”
Bryan didn’t try to cajole her into coming. Just gave a little-too-quick “suit yourself” as he turned to go. Then he stopped and turned back again. “My cabin is down the hill, far left, if you need anything.”
He didn’t lower his voice, raise his brows, wink, or pause suggestively before he said the word “anything,” but for some reason that only made it sound even more like an invitation.
Or maybe that was just her libido talking.
* * * *
Sidney woke to the distant sound of her Ford’s engine spinning, spinning, spinning. The only window in her room overlooked the stall Eli had chosen. The one she couldn’t see out of because Eli’s wide ass blocked it.
She thumped the window with her fist. He swished his tail and cocked a hip. She didn’t fight the smile. Cheeky bastard.
Light filtered in through the top corners of the window that her horse’s butt didn’t obliterate. In the near darkness of the room, she stumbled to the switch and squinted against the light.
Her jeans and boots were in front of an armless chair, toes pointing toward her, the cuffs of her jeans over the shafts of her boots, spurs tight against the heel, the legs and waistband of her pants accordioned on her boot tops, like a fireman’s turnout gear ready to be pulled on.
Sitting in the chair, she tugged on her last clean pair of socks, threaded her legs through the fabric and her feet into the soft leather of her boots. Every morning when she put her boots on it was like coming home.
She finished dressing, brushed her teeth, and finger-combed her hair. No mirror in the small room, so that was as particular as she got. She threw Eli a couple flakes of hay and he chuffed a muffled thanks around a mouthful as she headed out the back of the barn, searching for her truck.
It was a lot earlier than she’d thought. The pink hues of dawn had just started to fade, and the light breeze swirled warm thermals around her. She caught hints of warmth, but it wasn’t enough. She rubbed her hands over her bare arms, wishing she’d grabbed her hoodie.
Her little trailer had been unhitched and maneuvered into place beside one of the big stock trailers. Her truck was off to the side of the tractors, out of the way, the hood up—a big gaping mouth half swallowing a man. The gravel crunched beneath her feet and the man turned as she approached. Bryan. She glanced down at his right foot. There was a cowboy boot where the blade had been. He noticed her looking. Didn’t comment. Didn’t explain. Not that he owed her one.
She tossed her chin toward her truck. “What’s up?”
“Keys were in the ignition. Thought I’d take a look.”
To make it easier for her to leave if she got fired? But his blue eyes were sincere, like he wanted to help. So maybe he had a thing about damsels in distress. Not that she was either a damsel or in distress now that she had a job, but she knew how some men were.
Observation, not complaint.
“Help yourself.”
She wanted to wrap him in a bear hug and plant a fat, wet smack on his lips. Mostly it was the gratitude urging her on.
He ducked under the hood and held a grease-stained T-shirt beneath something he’d disconnected. “Start the engine.”
She climbed in. The engine cranked and wheezed like an asthmatic looking for his inhaler—not that she’d expected it to start with whatever it was that was disconnected.
“Cut it,” he called out.
She tugged the keys from the ignition and tossed them on the seat. “Well?”
“Fuel pump is shot. Here.” He motioned for her to lean in next to him and pointed out the fuel pump and the gas line he’d disconnected. “No gas coming through the line when it’s cranked.”
“Sounds expensive.”
One more expense she couldn’t afford. But she wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon, so maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. At least Eli was healthy and it wasn’t a vet bill.
Under the hood, with no breeze, she thought she caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. The air in her lungs caught and she had to force it to move again.
She took an involuntary step back. Her brain didn’t want any part of a man with alcohol issues, while at the same time her heart found excuses. His eyes were clear. Maybe it was mouthwash.
Mouthwash my ass, Practical Sidney, one of her alter egos, said. Sidney much preferred Impractical Sidney. She tended to be a lot more fun.
No, she had to stop jumping to conclusions and leaping headlong into an abyss of worst case scenarios. Besides, at this point, a paying job training horses pretty much made it worth putting up with whatever other bullshit was involved.
“You can use Mac’s computer at the house, check prices online. About time for breakfast anyway.” He wiped the grease from his hands and shrugged into a jean jacket that molded to his body better than a tailor-made Italian suit ever could.
“Wha-at?”
He grinned when she pulled her eyes up to his.
Smooth, Sidney, real smooth. Practical Sidney rolled her eyes.
Sidney’s stomach grumbled. At least a part of her was paying attention to something other than the fit of his clothes.
“Food. Big house. Now,” he said, slow and simple as if she’d been clocked in the head with a hoof.
He dropped the hood and they headed toward the big house which really wasn’t that big. Three or four bedrooms maybe. Old enough it could have been original with the small second story added on at some point over the years. Deep porches both front and rear.
As they climbed the rear steps, Sidney saw cabins down the hill. An older log cabin, a shell of a cabin with the roof nearly complete, and two concrete foundations where she assumed two others would go.
“My cabin is down the hill just out of sight.”
She nodded, not knowing what else to say to that, but it didn’t seem like he was expecting a reply.
He grabbed the handle of the screen door and ushered her into a large kitchen, warm with the heat of cooking and full of delicious smells. Eggs, bacon, hot maple syrup, biscuits, coffee. Mmmm…coffee…
The rich scent of fresh ground coffee beans gave her system a small jolt. Her mouth watered and she fought the urge to dig bare-handed into the spread on the table.
“You must be Sidney.”
Sidney did a double take. She’d been so focused on food and coffee she hadn’t noticed the woman in the kitchen behind a bright purple apron. By the woman’s gray hair and sun-worn features, she pegged her to be somewhere in her sixties, but she was solid. Not as in fat, but strong and fit for her age. A stiff breeze wouldn’t blow this woman over—in fact, Sidney got the impression Mother Nature would probably think twice about messing with her.
The woman wiped her hands on her apron and extended it to shake. “Welcome to the Lazy S. I’m Lottie. My husband Dale and I own the ranch. Mac told me so much about you.”
The good and the bad, Lottie’s expression said, but as Sidney gave the woman’s calloused hand a firm pump, she realized that, unlike with Bryan, there was no judgment there. Only the acknowledgment of her situation, and somehow the air suddenly felt lighter, easier to breathe. “Ma’am.”
“Grab a plate and a seat before the piranhas pick the bones clean.”
She didn’t see how that was possible; the long table practically groaned under the weight of the spread. Bryan leaned in and gave Lottie a peck on the cheek as he reached around and stole a piece of bacon off a platter. Lottie swatted his hand, but there was no heat behind it.
“Take that to the table,” she ordered him, indicating the plate of bacon.
He grinned, the slice of bacon sticking out between his teeth.
Sidney took the closest vacant seat. Bryan deposited the bacon in front of her and took the empty seat across the table as the slice disappeared between his lips. She introduced herself around. Dale was at the head of the table. Lottie brought a carafe of coffee and sat to his right. Mac was to his left and beside Sidney. The man on her left was a hand named Santos.
As soon as they were all seated, it was like the feeding bell had rung and everyone dug in and started passing plates. Her stomach growled again, and even over the scrape of forks and knifes Bryan heard it. His eyes lit up and her face flushed. Damn her fair complexion.
Bryan dropped an extra scoop of hash browns on her plate and opened his mouth to comment, but someone knocked on the jamb of the back door. The hinges of the screen door cried out for oil as it opened and a man stepped in.
It was like a scene in an old western, when the cowboy steps into the saloon and all heads turn. The morning sun backlit his large frame as he nearly blocked the doorway. A gun hung at his hip and a wide-brimmed hat covered his head.
“Morning, Sheriff.” Dale stood and held out a hand toward an empty seat at the other end of the table. “Join us.”
The man stepped in, his boots clapping on the hardwood floors as he removed his hat and stood at the end of the table, his gaze stopping on Sidney. The only thing missing from the scene was the jingle of spurs. “New here?”
His face was clean shaven, his brown hair wasn’t short, but it wasn’t long either. The ends curled up over the collar of his tan uniform. He was muscular, and a Kevlar vest added to his bulk.
Sidney stood and offered her hand. “Sidney Teller. I’m the new trainer.”
His eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, like he thought he should know the name but couldn’t place it, then he took her offered hand. It was one of those weak, half-hearted shakes men sometimes give to women. She caught herself before she wiped her hand on her jeans.
“Elmore St. John,” he said.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee?” Lottie held up the carafe.
“Thanks, no.” He fiddled with the brim of his hat, rotating it around and around in front of his body. If he did it any faster, they’d all be hypnotized. “I’ve got a bunch more ranches to stop by today.”
Dale rubbed the thumb and forefinger of one hand down the sides of the silver mustache bracketing his mouth. “What’s wrong?”
Bryan stopped with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth and eyed Mac for a heavy second. Mac sighed. Again it was as if she and Bryan had a conversation with one quick look.
“Have any of you heard of El Verdugo?”
Santos muttered a curse in Spanish. “The Hangman.” His face screwed up at the words like he wanted to spit and clear the foulness from his mouth, only he had better manners than that.
The hat in St. John’s hands stopped turning and he tossed it on the end of the table. “What do you know about him?”
“Bad hombre.”
“What kind of bad?” Mac asked, her eyes flicking to Bryan again.
“He string a rope around your neck and cut off your air, then right before you pass out he loosens rope. Beats you like a piñata. Over and over and over again until you talk. Everyone talks. I had a cousin in Mexico…” Santos cleared his throat, but he didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Bryan’s fork clattered onto his plate and he wiped his mouth. Lottie held her breath and Dale just looked resigned.
“What kind of trouble are we talking about?” Dale said.
“The drug kind of trouble,” St. John said. “El Verdugo makes El Chapo look like the ice cream man.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Bryan said. “We’re what? Seven hundred, eight hundred miles from the Mexico border?”
“Yes, but the Lazy S backs up to thousands of acres of BLM land, Forest Service land, and the rest of the Rockies,” the sheriff explained.
“I guess Fed land is not just for grazing anymore. Uncle Sam not like El Verdugo growing weed on his land?” Santos asked.
St. John shook his head and the corners of his mouth dipped down. “I wish it were just that. Law enforcement has cracked down on the drug corridor up and down I-15 west of the Rockies and I-80 in southern Wyoming. El Verdugo and his men are finding other ways through, or rather, around the checkpoints.”
“They’re packing the drugs across the mountains?” Mac asked.
“There have been reports, indications that they either travel through or have stashes along the mountain range. And weed’s not the half of it. Cocaine, heroin. And, like a good investor, El Verdugo has diversified.”
“How so?” Bryan said around a bite of fried egg.
“Human trafficking.”
Dale cut to the chase. “What does this mean for us?”
“We hope nothing.” St. John picked up his hat again, stared down at the sheriff’s insignia on the front and said, “We hope they steer clear of our corner of the world, but we want everyone to keep a lookout, to report anything or anyone unusual, to stay safe, vigilant, and above all else, leave the law enforcement to those sworn to uphold the law.”
That last bit was directed at Mac and Bryan. Mac shifted uncomfortably but held the sheriff’s gaze. Boomer’s mouth went flat and Sidney saw the heat rise in his eyes. What was that all about?
“We—” Dale started.
“Just so we’re clear, Sheriff…” Bryan glanced at Dale as if concerned he’d overstepped his place, but Dale nodded for him to continue.
Bryan didn’t raise his voice, but the sharp steel wrapping his words could slice iron. “We take care of our own at this ranch. We will protect ourselves. With or without or in spite of law enforcement.”
“Now look here—”
“I think Boomer made our position clear, St. John,” Dale said, as if he were the sheriff putting his deputy back in his place. “You know our history. You know what happened with your predecessor.”
Sidney got the impression the sheriff hadn’t needed the reminder. He picked up his hat, palmed the crown, and planted it squarely on his head. “I have worked my a—” St. John caught himself, his lips going flat with the effort to keep what he was going to say tucked inside. “I have worked very hard these past two years rebuilding this department—”
“No one says you haven’t, son,” Dale said. “But there’s a lot of land out there and very few of you. Even if you are on our side.”
St. John grimaced and snugged his hat on tighter. He nodded once to the group then turned on his heel and strode out the screen door. The hinges screeched and the frame slapped back against the jamb.
Sidney glanced around the table. Bryan and Santos tucked back into their food. Mac pushed her half-eaten plate away and kneaded her left shoulder as if she were trying to relieve some pain. Lottie pushed her eggs around like a four-year-old trying to make it look like she was eating. Dale threw back the last of his coffee and swallowed hard.
“What was that all about?” Sidney asked.
