Although as she pulled her patrol car behind the truck and shone her spotlight in the back window, it looked like the owner had deserted the truck. No doubt to walk into town for help.
Still, it was better to err on the side of caution. As soon as she got out, she unhooked her gun safety before moving cautiously closer. Once she confirmed no one was in the truck, she removed the small torch flashlight from her belt and shined it in the side window.
The inside of the truck was as pristine as the outside. No empty beer cans or fast-food wrappers littered the floor mats; no cheesy souvenirs sat on the dash or dangled from the rearview mirror. The only clutter in the truck was a half-empty bottle of Smartwater and a container of Tic Tacs sitting in the middle of the turquoise leather bench seat.
Which confirmed her scenario.
Someone had taken their classic truck out for a Saturday drive when it broke down. At that very moment, the owner was probably walking around town trying to get phone reception. Or find something open.
Good luck with that.
Promise Springs rolled up their sidewalks tight at nine o’clock. And as for cell reception, it had never been good. Probably because the town council was convinced cell towers were part of a worldwide conspiracy to collect information from unsuspecting folks and take their lifesavings.
Which probably explained why gossip was still the main source of information. Tully didn’t doubt for a second that rumors of the stranded Chevy truck would be spreading through town while everyone enjoyed their first cup of morning Joe at Grounds For Divorce, the only coffee shop in town . . . along with how Little Tully Gentry had handled the situation.
Like her daddy, the townsfolk did not believe in her deputying skills. To them, she would always be the freckled-face, curly-haired, clumsy little girl who never could get things quite right.
Tully was determined to prove them wrong.
First things first, she needed to locate the stranded traveler and help him, or her, get back on the road.
She headed to her vehicle, intending to cruise through the town square, when a loud crash had her freezing in her tracks. With her heart thumping overtime, she whirled and flashed her torch at the dancehall where the sound had come from. But the windows and front door were boarded up tight so she couldn’t see inside.
Now was the time to call her daddy. But that would only prove she wasn’t a capable law officer who could handle situations by herself.
She took a deep, shaky breath and slowly released it.
Stop freaking out, Tully, and review the facts.
First and foremost, there wasn’t anything of value left in the dancehall. So the only crime being committed was trespassing. And maybe it wasn’t even a person. Maybe a rodent searching for food or a rotted beam falling from the ceiling had caused the crash. Those scenarios seemed more likely than the driver of the classic pristine truck breaking into a burned-out building.
Still, she needed to make sure.
Pulling her gun from the holster, she moved around the dancehall, flashing light at each boarded up window. Everything was secure . . . until she reached the back of the dancehall and saw the crowbar lying on the ground next to the door-sized piece of plywood.
So much for the rodent and rotten beam theory.
Adrenaline rushed through her body as she turned to head back to her car to call her daddy. The sound of squeaky hinges had her startling and dropping her flashlight. She whirled to see the door slowly opening. A spike of fear raced through her before her law enforcement training kicked in and she raised her gun, her voice shaking as much as her hands.
“This is the C-C-Culvert C-C-County Sheriff’s Department. You are trespassing on private property. C-C-Come out slowly with your hands held high and in clear sight.”
The door finished opening, but it was impossible to see anything in the dark shadows of the dancehall. A tense, palm-sweating moment passed before a man stepped out the doorway and into the moonlight.
A man that did NOT go with the classic truck.
She’d pictured a clean-cut, city guy who wore Eddie Bauer, ate kale salad, and ran in marathons. She had not pictured a tattooed, muscular cowboy with a chiseled, stubbled jaw and long, ebony hair that brushed broad shoulders.
She should have trusted her first instincts and called for backup right away. Especially since those muscular, tatted arms weren’t raised in surrender. In fact, there was nothing submissive about the man’s stance. All he exuded was defiance.
From his tense jaw to the wide spread of his scuffed cowboy boots.
“I said get your hands in the air!” She inwardly cringed at her high-pitched voice . . . especially when compared to the deep, controlled reply.
“I’m not going to raise my hands like some criminal. Not when this is my property and you’re the one trespassing.”
“Your property? The owner of this bar passed away a week ago.” She adjusted the gun in her sweaty hands. “Now explain what you’re doing here or I’ll be forced to arrest you.”
She couldn’t see his eyes in the shadow of his black Stetson, but she could feel their intense gaze. “Doubtful. Now holster that gun before you accidentally shoot me. I can see your hands shaking from here.”
