Page 117 of Cowboy Heat

It takes him a little time to realize that’s all I have on me.

He laughs.

“You damn near cost me a heart attack with that barking. I thought you had me in your sights.”

“Don’t worry. I can do enough damage with this,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

The sheriff’s humor starts slouching. He frowns.

“There’s no reason to be talking like that to me, son. I’ve earned more respect than that.”

I hold my stance.

“You’re still on my property,” I point out. “I’d like an explanation for it,sir.”

He sucks on his teeth. Then he waves his cell phone around.

“I got a call from someone out here. Said they needed help.”

He’s lying.

He’s not good at it either.

Still, I bite.

“Who?”

The sheriff’s gaze flits over my shoulder.

I’d bet every penny in my savings account that he’s looking for Kissy.

Which means he probably wasn’t the one to take her. But I can’t rule it out. Nor the fact that if he didn’t take her, then he probably knows who did.

“It was an anonymous call,” he says. “They said I needed to get out here in a flash. There was no time to get permission when you’re trying to save lives.”

He’s smiling now, like suddenly he’s a saint.

“Funny how the last time I talked to you, I was the one asking for help. I guess I didn’t sound panicked enough considering you never showed. Instead, it was two men sure itching for a fight. How do you figure they knew where to go to find us?”

Tension lines the sheriff’s shoulders. His smile goes. I don’t think it’s coming back this time.

“You know, the people who’ve lived on this ranch have had bad, bad luck when it comes to thinking they’re above the law. Thatthey’rethe ones running the show here.” He shakes his head. He’s back to mad. “But none of you are. No matter if you call yourself a cowboy, a shut-in, or are some sad sack who got himself blown up by a thug.I’mthe sheriff.I’mthe law.Youdo not talk tomedown your nose, boy.”

The sheriff goes from the man who would turn around because he’s afraid to the man who would turn around because he’s itching to fight.

I’m going to have to make some decisions quick.

Just not yet.

“Who did Louis Becker and Grant Robertson answer to?” I ask. “You or Guidry?”

Stabs in the dark, but I’m guessing I hit something. He goes from mad to filled with physical rage. His face turns a shade of red that’s unbecoming on a grown man.

“I don’t answer to you. I don’t answer to anyone,” he snarls. “You know, he might not have been your daddy, but you and Mr. King sure act cocky the damn same.”

The sheriff pulls his gun at startling speed.

I throw my weight down and to the right to use the counter as cover. The tile flooring meets me without an ounce of mercy. Pain lights up my side.