Melissa Cutler - Cowboy Justice

Vaughn rubbed his eyelid, grimacing. “That might kill me, actually.”

Dad grinned. “Aw, now, I’m teasing you. Don’t get your undies in a bunch.”

Vaughn grinned and nearly choked on the snickerdoodle he was swallowing. “Undies?What am I, eight?”

Dad chuckled and went back to sharpening his knife. “Does that mean you avoided upsetting her with Gwen’s trials, I hope?”

Vaughn settled on a bench. “Tried my best not to, even though Gwen makes that near impossible most days.”

Dad tested the knife edge with his thumb, then sheathed it in a worn leather scabbard. “I take it today was one of those days?”

“I don’t know where you and Mom find the patience to deal with her.”

“It’s called love, son. No use loving someone if you can’t be patient with their shortcomings.”

Snorting softly, Vaughn opened the nearest drawer. The divider tray of horseshoe nails was a mess, with no rhyme or reason to its organization. He set the tray on the counter and got busy sorting.

“Tell me what’s going on with Gwen,” Dad prompted.

Vaughn sighed, “I’ve got something going on at work. A case involving Wallace Meyer Junior. And Meyer told me out-and-out that if I arrest his son, he’ll be looking to repay the favor next time Gwen has a problem.” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his dad perch on a stool, shaking his head. “Makes me want to treat her to a month-long cruise in the Caribbean so I can concentrate on the case without having to worry about her.”

“What kind of case are we talking about here?”

Vaughn swept a pile of No. 5 nails into the largest section of the tray. “Junior trespassed onto private property in Catcher Creek along with some buddies. They shot the homeowner and a horse.”

Dad whistled. “That boy never was worth his salt.”

“None of the Meyers are.”

“Watch your tone. The Meyers were our clients for a lot of years. They, along with the rest of our clients, put food on the table and put you through college.”

He laid the No. 4 nails in a line on the counter, checking for size inconsistencies. “Yet Wallace and Kathryn treated you and Mom like crap the entire time. Don’t even get me started on the way they treated their horses.”

“They weren’t the most pleasant people.”

He sifted the imperfectly sized nails from the line and set them aside, then gathered the rest by the handful and dropped them in the tray. “Aw, Dad. You can’t say an unkind word about anyone, can you? It’s like you’re physically incapable of verbalizing a person’s faults.”

“That’s not true. The other week I was grousing about Sal Dias forgetting to fill my weed whacker up with gas after borrowing it.”

Vaughn flashed him a bemused grimace. “You’re a real hard ass, all right.” They could joke all they wanted about Dad’s good-naturedness, but it irked Vaughn that he refused to speak the truth about Wallace Meyer. It was a disingenuous way of living, to sweep every unpleasant reality or thought under the rug. He took up a metal file and one of the too-long No. 4 nails. “Grousing about your neighbor is a start, but there’s a big difference between leaving a weed whacker on empty and beating a horse bloody because it threw your child, who didn’t have the handling skills to ride it in the first place.”

“We don’t need to dig that up—now or ever. It has no bearing on the trouble Wallace Jr.’s gotten himself into.” Vaughn registered the offense in his tone, the warning to back off.

“Yes, it does,” he countered quietly. He dropped the filed nail into the tray and started on the next one.

His dad appeared at his side, a file in hand. He chose an irregular nail and got to work. “The past only haunts us if we let it, son. I’ve chosen to let it go, and I suggest you do the same before the bitterness eats away at you.”

The only bitterness eating away at Vaughn was the fact that nobody’d ever succeeded in challenging Wallace Meyer’s unchecked power. He intended to be the one to change that statistic, but he respected his dad enough not to press the subject. He finished shortening the last of the No. 4 nails, and repeated the process with the No. 6 nails, laying them in a row on the counter.

He nudged Vaughn’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Who is she?”

Vaughn sent him a sidelong glance. “Who’s who?”

“The homeowner Wallace Jr. shot. I’m right about it being a woman, aren’t I?”

“How’d you know?”

Dad tapped his file on the lip of the counter. The nails rattled. “Because you’re reorganizing the nail drawer. You only do that when you’ve got a person of the female persuasion on your mind.”

Vaughn huffed. Helluva poker face he’d crafted for himself. “Guess we’ve had our share of chats in the workroom over the years, haven’t we?”

“Yes, we have. So who is she this time?”

None of the No. 6 nails were irregular, so he swept them into the tray. “She is Kellan’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, Rachel.”

“Hold on—Wallace Meyer’s son shot Rachel Sorentino?”

“I don’t have proof it was him. Could’ve been one of his associates.” He ran his tongue over his teeth before asking, “What do you know of Rachel Sorentino?”

He held his breath, weirdly anxious about what his dad might say. What if he didn’t like her for some reason? That was baloney, though, because the man had never made a disparaging comment about anyone in his entire life.

“I farriered for the Sorentinos back when Gerald Sorentino’s father, Albert, ran the place. Rachel is Gerald’s firstborn, if memory serves. She was a quiet thing. Apple of her daddy’s eye. I hear she’s grown into a fine farmer.”

“That she has.” He reached into the tray, turning all the nail heads in the same direction.

“What kind of designs do you have on Rachel Sorentino?” Dad asked.

Vaughn’s hand stilled. He kept his head down, knowing better than to look Dad in the eye when he lied. “No designs.”

Dad held up a nail as though presenting the evidence to a judge. “The nail drawer doesn’t lie.”

Vaughn stuffed his hands in his pockets and pushed off the bench. He paced to the far end of the room. “Look, just because I’ve got Rachel Sorentino on my mind doesn’t mean I have designs on her.”

“Mm-hmm. If you say so.”

“Dad, you know I can’t have a relationship with someone involved in an investigation. It’s unethical and immoral, and, in this case, it would be illegal because there’s a decent chance she’s going to face charges for possessing an unregistered firearm. Hell, Wallace Meyer wants me to charge her with attempted murder because she shot Junior in the back.”

“Are you going to charge her with that?”

“Hell, no. She had a right to defend herself on her own property.”

“If that’s all there is to it, then why is my nail drawer the neatest it’s been in over a year, when you told me about some girl—who, I might add, you never saw fit to bring around for dinner—breaking it off with you? You had your head in a storm cloud for a good long while after that.”

Dad had a hell of a memory for a man who didn’t like to remember anything unpleasant. Vaughn dropped to the bench again and looked him in the eye, ready to stop skirting the truth. “Same girl.”

Dad rubbed his mustache. “Well, now, that complicates things.”

“Tell me about it.”

They both reached for the cookie bag at the same time. Vaughn let Dad choose first, then dipped his hand in for two.

“How does she feel about her ex working her case?” Dad asked.

Hereximplied they’d had more than a scorching four-week fling. It implied that they’d dated, when in reality he’d never so much as taken her to dinner. The realization hit him like a loss. What he wouldn’t give to go back in time and do things differently with her. “Hard to say. I think she’s as torn as I am. She seems relieved I’m looking out for her interests, but, like me, isn’t much enjoying the reminder of all the reasons why we didn’t work out.”

“What are you going to do?”

Vaughn released his breath in a long, slow stream. “Only thing I can. Use my badge and my position to protect her from Meyer. That’s all I’ve got left to offer her, and she needs it because Meyer could make her life a living hell if he got it in his mind to.”

Dad gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I know you’ll do your best to be fair. You don’t have anyone to answer to but your own conscience, and you don’t have anything to prove to me or your mom. With everything on your plate, and Rachel needing your help, don’t give another thought to Gwen. I know you want to save her from herself—we all do—but you’re her brother, not her keeper. She’s in therapy, and on meds, and she’s a grown woman. All any of us can do is love her no matter what.”

“Yeah, I know.” He stood and stretched his legs. “I’d better get back to work.”

Dad gave his shoulder another squeeze and shake. “Things’ll work out. You’ve grown into too good a man for them not to.”

He gave his dad a skeptical grin as he sealed the cookie bag. “I don’t see how that would matter, but thanks nonetheless.”

Dad stood, motioning to the bag. “I’d better swipe a couple more of those before you leave.”

Vaughn tucked it in the crook of his elbow and covered it with his hand. “I don’t think so. You’ve got trays full of cookies in the kitchen. This is all I’ve got to tide me over.”

“I didn’t raise you to be helpless. You could bake cookies.”

The idea had Vaughn belly laughing as they walked to his patrol car. “That’s a great idea in theory, but you’re talking to the guy who uses his oven as file storage. I think my best option is to start visiting Mom more often on her baking day.”

Vaughn opened his door, tossed the cookie bag on the passenger seat, then shook his dad’s hand. That or a shoulder squeeze was the closest they got to hugging, but that was fine with Vaughn. If there was one thing he could count on besides death and taxes, it was his folks’ love and support. A hug couldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.

But as he drove, his mind got stuck on something his dad had said. You don’t have anything to prove to me or your mom.

Funny, that. Because at the crime scene, Rachel had made a point to remind him he didn’t have anything to prove to her either. But wasn’t that what life was about? Proving your worth to the people you love. Proving your mettle as a man. Before Vaughn’s career in law enforcement was over, he was going to prove that wealth and power didn’t also come with a free pass to abuse it.

And he was starting with Wallace Meyer and the Tucumcari Police Department.

Rachel woke achy and disoriented after dreaming of Vaughn, her body wet with perspiration and arousal, her mind filled with visions of bound wrists, merging bodies, and unbearable pleasure.

She’d always had that type of dream, even in high school. What an odd thing for a country girl to crave, she’d thought. What a strange, wicked fantasy. But it wouldn’t leave her alone. Sometimes, not all the time, she liked it rough. She liked not to be in control. In that one sliver of her life, she wanted someone else to be in charge.

None of the lovers she’d had over the years understood that about her, or shared the same proclivity. No one except Vaughn, who seemed to know instinctively what she needed, and made no issue of giving it to her. Expertly, passionately, perfectly.

The clock read four a.m., which meant she’d slept thirteen straight hours. No wonder she felt disoriented. She sat, pushing the covers away, but the top sheet stuck to her left arm and pulled at her bandage. She clicked on her reading lamp, blinking until her eyes adjusted.

The gunshot wound had oozed though the bandage and crusted on the sheet. Nasty.

Gingerly, she peeled them apart, then, bleary-eyed, stumbled to the bathroom that adjoined her bedroom. Removing the bandage, she inspected the wound. It was a couple inches long. The scab tugged at her swollen skin. Double nasty.

With a grimace, she popped three ibuprofen and turned the shower water on. She didn’t feel much like doing farm chores at the moment, but, really, did four o’clock ever come around to find her fresh as a spring daisy, ready to work?

The shower helped. Not because she found it refreshing, but because the streams of water hurt like the devil on her wound. That woke her up good.

Back in her room, she did her best to apply a new bandage. Then it was to the kitchen for coffee. Amy was at the stove, stirring something. Mr. Dixon, a retired navy cook and local farmer who worked as Amy’s sous-chef, sat at the kitchen table nursing his own cup of coffee.