Melissa Cutler - Cowboy Justice

“My client needs his rest,” Tsai grumbled.

“Don’t get your undies in a bunch.” Vaughn could see why his dad liked the phrase. Rolled off the tongue real nice. “We’ve got a cozy room for him at the jail as soon as the docs clear him for transfer. He’s got a lifetime of leisure ahead of him.”

“Get on with it,” Tsai said.

Vaughn fished the arrest warrant out from the stack of papers and handed it to Tsai. Then he placed his hand over his heart. “I’ve been waiting years to say this to you, Junior. You should know, from the bottom of my heart, I mean every word.” It was a shame Junior’s wrists were already cuffed to the bed, because Vaughn had always wanted to do the honors. “Wallace Meyer Junior, by the power vested in me by Quay County and the state of New Mexico, you are hereby under arrest . . .”

As the afternoon sun glinted orange off the windows of the squat, nondescript sheriff’s office perched on the edge of Catcher Creek’s four-square-block downtown, Rachel pulled her rusty red pickup into the parking lot. She walked to the building with grim resolve, the flash drive of graffiti photographs in her pocket, a folder stuffed with hate mail and the petition against Heritage Farm tucked under her arm, and a foil-covered plate of scones in her hand.

Such were the ways of a small town, she thought wryly. God forbid someone arrive at a gathering empty-handed, even if that gathering was a police interview. At least Vaughn’s patrol car wasn’t parked out front. Thank God for small favors.

She’d called ahead and spoken to Irene Beckley, the sheriff’s department dispatcher-slash-office manager, inquiring about when Irene thought the sheriff would return to the office because she had a file to deliver. Irene estimated his return at five or six, so Rachel made sure to arrive at four.

Irene sat behind the welcome desk. A pillar of the Catcher Creek community, she’d worked at the sheriff’s department as long as anybody could remember, doling out divine guidance to near about every person who called or walked through the door. More than once, when Rachel had retrieved Jenna from the station house after she’d been caught for underage drinking and partying, Irene was sitting with her, working to sober her up with black coffee and a stern lecture on the perils of sin.

Undersheriff Stratis was the only other person in view. She’d never been comfortable around Wesley Stratis. He was around town a lot, and from all accounts, he was excellent at his job, but she couldn’t shake the impression that when he looked at her, it was with harsh judgment in his eyes. He’d never been overtly hostile to her, and for the most part, she chalked the sensation up to an effect of the lingering guilt she harbored from her affair with Vaughn.

When Stratis saw her, he rose from his seat, his expression curious. “Ms. Sorentino.”

“I promised Sheriff Cooper I’d bring in photographs of vandalism around my farm.”

Stratis approached her, tapping a handful of files against the palm of his left hand. “I heard about that. Thank you for bringing them so promptly. What’s under the foil?”

“Scones,” she said, feeling like a moron.

He reached for the plate.

On instinct, she pulled it out of his reach. “For the sheriff.”

The second the words crossed her lips, her face turned hot. Stratis’s expression turned sharp, like he knew all about her history with Vaughn and he thought she’d brought him a treat she’d baked. “No, I don’t cook. They’re from my sister—Amy, the chef. It’s nothing, really. You can have one.” She pushed the plate into his hands.

He peered under the foil skeptically. “Okay . . . Now, about those photographs?”

“Yes.” Relieved for the topic change, she handed him the file, then produced the flash drive from her pocket. “The folder’s full of hate mail the farm’s received since opening the inn, and the photographs are on the drive, along with a record of dates and locations.”

He nodded toward the hallway. “Why don’t we go over those dates and locations right now so our department has all the facts straight?”

She glanced over her shoulder, through the glass door at the lowering sun. It was later than she hoped. The evening chores would need to be started soon, and who knew when Vaughn might appear.

“Looking for Sheriff Cooper’s car? I guess you had your heart set on talking to him instead, is that it?”

The way he said it made her hairs stand on end. Maybe he did see her sins when he looked at her.

She raised her chin, defensiveness setting her mouth in a tight line. “I didn’t have my heart set on anything. You or the sheriff or any other deputy—doesn’t matter to me who I talk to.” That was absolute horseshit, but how dare Stratis turn nothing into something.

“Well, then. After you.”

Oh, he’d played her, all right. Tapped right onto her rawest nerve, and she let him do it. Irritated with herself, she brushed past him and stalked down the hallway. He followed her into the conference room and, leaving the door open, took a seat on the far side of a dark brown rectangular table. Rachel settled into the nearest chair.

After she’d declined his offer for a glass of water, Stratis propped his elbows on the table and pressed his hands together. “Before we talk about the information on the flash drive, I’m confused on a few points regarding the events that took place on your farm on Monday. I’d be much obliged if you could fill in some of the blank spots in my mind.”

Slick police work, to throw her a curveball like that as soon as he had her trapped in the room. Her fingers fidgety with nervous energy, she reached for a scone and broke off a bite. It tasted like cardboard in her dry mouth. She pushed it around with her tongue, wishing she hadn’t declined the water. “Undersheriff, I don’t mean to be a pain, but I have a lot of work to do before sundown. I agreed to talk about the contents of the flash drive, nothing more.”

“So, for the record, you’re declining to cooperate with our investigation?”

“I didn’t say that. I—”

“Then you don’t mind going over the timeline of events again. I appreciate that. Start at the beginning.”

Oh, he was good. She plucked a raisin from the scone in her hand and squished it between her fingers, wondering why she felt so trapped and defensive when she hadn’t done anything wrong and the sheriff’s department was on her side. Besides the time lost for her evening chores, she had no valid reason to deny Stratis’s request.

Thus resigned, she gathered her memories with a slow inhale, then launched into the story at the start of the trouble, when she and Lincoln first spied the truck on the mesa. As she talked, she picked at the scone, gathering the crumbs into a pile on the table. Stratis listened intently, scribbling notes and prompting her when she paused.

“You thought these were the same vandals you’d encountered before on your ranch?”

“Exactly.”

“What was your theory on why the vandals were targeting you?”

She sniffed. “Turning our farm into a tourist destination has been a sore point for more than a few townsfolk.”

“Like who, in particular?”

She gestured to the file she’d handed him. “All the names are on the copy of the petition I gave you.”

Stratis opened the folder, tapping his pen against the paper as he scanned the petition with a blank expression. “Why didn’t you notify the sheriff’s department about this sooner? You might’ve been able to prevent what happened Monday.”

“It would’ve been bad for business if word got out about the trouble, and I thought if that happened and we lost business because of it, I’d be giving the protestors what they wanted, especially when I knew I could handle it.”

He scratched his neck. “You thought you could handle it? Isn’t that the same flawed logic that got you into trouble Monday, Miss Sorentino?”

Her hackles raised at the accusation in his words. “I suppose it is, Undersheriff. Are you planning to arrest me for using flawed logic?”

His face broke out in a hard smile. “If that were a punishable offense, we’d have every citizen of Quay County behind bars at one time or another.” He lifted a scone from the plate and took a huge bite.

“True enough. Look, as I mentioned, I’ve got a lot of work to do before sundown, so may I go on with the story?”

Stratis set the scone down. “One more question. Why didn’t you call 9-1-1, instead of firing off those warning shots?”

Didn’t she just answer that? She thought she could handle it. What more did he want her to say? “Because I have the right to defend my property and my family, and a warning shot had been effective with the other vandals. One shot and they got in their cars and beat it off my land.”

“Not this time.”

“Obviously.” She kept her expression blank, though her heart rate picked up its pace. His hostility was throwing her off balance. Her stomach acid flared, demanding her attention, but she refused to eat an antacid, not when doing so might tip Stratis off to her inner turmoil.

More than anything, she wanted to leave. To bid Stratis a good day and go. In fact, the more she contemplated the urge to flee, the brighter it burned inside her. She’d give this five more minutes and then she was out of there—no matter what.

He took another bite of scone, then gestured with it in his hand. “Go on with your story, Ms. Sorentino. Please.”

He listened silently. Rachel found herself omitting certain details—her fear, her pain over shooting Lincoln. Her instincts warned her against trusting Stratis with her feelings. When she got to the part where she stuffed her pockets with extra ammo, she did not admit to her desire to kill the four men. She never would have done it. Even though she wanted them dead, as soon as she’d snuck up on them and had one in the sights of her revolver, she knew she’d never shoot to kill, no matter how enraged she was, or how much the men deserved to die.

Stratis raised a finger, a puzzled look on his face, and Rachel stopped talking. “When the four trespassers drew their weapons and you realized you were in over your head, why didn’t you flee?”

“I was hidden from view in the canyon. If I’d have run, I’d have given them a clear shot at me and my horse.”

“As it was, they did have a clear shot, didn’t they? They shot your horse.”

Rachel wiped her hand on her jeans. “Anyone who’s ever fired a gun knows there’s a difference between a clear shot and a lucky shot.”

“But you still didn’t call 9-1-1, even after the men proved they were different from previous trespassers, that they were violent and wanted to do you harm. Instead of dialing dispatch so Irene could get the nearest patrol car to your property, you dialed Sheriff Cooper’s personal cell phone. Why did you do that?” His tone, though matter-of—fact, had a flinty edge to it, like his professionalism barely won out over his urge to shout the words.

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, not that she had any idea what she’d say. She couldn’t very well admit he was the first person who came to mind when she needed help. “I don’t know. I can’t remember why I made that choice.”

Stratis stood so abruptly that his chair tipped and thumped against the wall. He towered over the table, his hands braced near the scone plate. “Can you remember why, even after you phoned the sheriff and knew help was on the way, you didn’t sit tight? Instead, you went on your own violent rampage.”

Rachel flinched, surprised by his sudden and aggressive movement. When had the conversation turned into an interrogation? Using her feet, she pushed her chair away from the table and stood, reestablishing the boundaries of her personal space. Though her legs were weak and shaky with adrenaline from the sudden change of Stratis’s mood and her stomach ulcer burned in protest, she forced herself to be bold. Leaning over the table, she met him nose-to-nose. “What I did was no rampage.”

She willed her lips into a brazen smile.

He countered her smile with a tight-jawed smirk. “No, you’re right. It was premeditated. You reloaded twice—”

“That’s enough, Stratis.”

Rachel’s spine snapped straight. Relief and exhilaration whipped up inside her like a dirt devil in a field. Vaughn stood in the doorway, his expression stoic. The gear belt hugging his waist shifted as he propped his shoulder against the doorframe and smoothed a hand over his pressed blue shirt. He devastated her, wearing that uniform. Drove the breath from her lungs and made her head spin.