Page 8 of Homicide in Water Creek

Otherwise known as Chinos.

“That’s him,” she agreed. “He isn’t here to be a rodeo cowboy.”

Granddad shrugged and started stacking papers. “Maybe not, but he’s here for a reason. Maybe he’s running from a boring desk job, a controlling mother, or an ex. Whatever the reason, I don’t much care, as long as he minds his Ps and Qs and his money is green. Maybe he just doesn’t like wearing jeans and flannel.”

Tapping the table with her fingers, Jacks watched his hands shake as he stacked the mail. “I’m not convinced. I think he’s hiding more than a boring job or a controlling mother.”

“Looks like you’re on the job, then,” he answered, standing from the table. “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow is a long day. Make sure the guys are back by curfew.”

Jacks nodded.

“And if they aren’t?”

“I’ll call The King and have them escorted off the premises,” she answered dutifully.

He sighed in frustrated indignation. “For Pete’s sake, Jackie. He’s the sheriff now. You have to show him some respect. You act like you’re still nineteen around him.”

“That’s the very last thing I have to do.” With that, she stood and left the house, limping down the stairs and across the field to her trailer. Her leg was tired, wobbly, and worn out. More than that, she was tired, wobbly, and worn out. Once inside, she limped to the fireplace and flipped the switch. It lit with a womp, casting a romantic glow across her living room. She snorted. Just what she needed. Ambiance. She was so done with the male species for the night.

The fireplace would warm the trailer while she showered, and then she’d shut it down and crawl into bed, alone, just the way she liked it. At least that was what she told herself. It would be 12:15 before she could fall into dreamland, but if those six guys in town knew what was good for them, they’d make sure they were all in their bunks by midnight.

Sitting on her shower stool, she pulled off her left boot then unfastened the straps securing the carbon-fiber brace on her right leg. The hip, ankle, knee, and foot orthotic brace was clunky, but necessary, if she wanted to remain on her feet. The muscles and tendons in her right leg had long ago given up the ghost, so she relied on outside forces and sheer will to keep her upright.

Once it was off, she pulled it out of the boot and tucked it into her slipper, waiting by the shower. She couldn’t wear the brace without a shoe, so she had no choice but to change her shoes as often as Mr. Rogers. Balancing the brace outside the door, since she’d need it to get out of the shower again, she stripped the long sock from under it and massaged the tissue and bone for a moment before turning on the shower. The warm water washed over her, easing the ache as she massaged her knee. She was used to hard work and the aches and pains that came with it, but tonight there was an added emotional fatigue. A shrink would probably classify it as empathy n’ caring n’ shit. She shivered under the warm water. Those were words she couldn’t use about Dean King.

Shutting off the water with a sigh, she reached out of the shower and grabbed a towel. She couldn’t dally since she had to be watching the CCTV monitor at midnight. Why did her granddaddy insist that the men be back in the bunks by midnight?

Welcome to story time. The older Jackson Miles was a rodeo star in the eighties and nineties, which explained why he didn’t learn about the woman who called him dad until he was well into his thirties. His experience with women as a rodeo rider taught him two things. The first was that one night of fun and games could lead to a lifetime of responsibility you didn’t necessarily want. The second was that a town like Water Creek wasn’t going to appreciate a baby boom because of the business he brought to town.

Did he put it in those exact terms? No, but she didn’t need to be valedictorian to read between the lines. A kid was never on his radar. Neither was a grandkid. The difference between him and a lot of other rodeo cowboys was that he did right by Jacks. That was why, no matter what he demanded of her, she would be there for him until he took his last breath. What happens after he takes his last breath will change the landscape of the Double J, though.

Jacks pulled on a pair of sleep pants and a tank top, then grabbed her crutches instead of putting her brace back on. There was no way her leg would tolerate it again tonight. She’d use the crutches and give it a few hours of rest. After she stopped at the sink to brush her teeth and shake two Advil into her hand, she swallowed them and crutched to the living room, shut down the fireplace, and slowly walked back to her bedroom.

Lowering herself to the edge, she rested the crutches on the floor and lifted her right leg up, slipping it under the covers over the pillow she kept there to elevate it. Once she was comfortable, she pulled the covers over her and opened her laptop. She had seven problems, all of them men. Six of them would show up in a few, but the seventh was a wild card, one she had no control over. Her biggest fear was that one day, King would set his sights on her again, and this time she wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to be his queen.

Chapter Five

It was only eight a.m., and King had already put out too many fires. One of them was an actual fire when Mrs. Leticia decided to clean the barbecue grill on the windiest day of the month.

“Oh, boy,” he muttered as he pulled alongside a man bobbing and weaving through town. “Mr. Harvey, you can’t walk down the middle of the street.”

“Oh, am I in the middle of it?” the man asked, his words slurring. “Was just headed to pick up my car from the shop.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Harvey,” King said, the cruiser now stopped as the man kept stumbling over the toes of his boots. He reeked like booze, making King wonder where he’d slept last night.

“Nah, boy, I’m fine. I can almost walk a straight line.”

“Almost,” he agreed. “But nowhere near straight enough to drive. How about if I give you a ride, Mr. Harvey?”

“Why, that’d be mighty generous of you, Sheriff King.”

Before Mr. Harvey could buckle his seatbelt, he passed out again in the back seat. Rather than wake him, King did his morning rounds of the business district before driving him home. He lived closer to Boone’s than to the bar, and King didn’t believe for a moment his car was in the shop. He probably left the car at The Whistle Wetter last night and planned to walk back to get it. He remembered what Jacks said about him hitting her car. Maybe he shouldn’t have dismissed her anger. It was extremely likely that Harvey had indeed hit Little Suzie Sweet Pea because he was drunk. He rolled his eyes at himself. Cripes, now she had him calling the stupid car by name.

After leaving his passenger with his patient-to-a-fault wife, King drove to Boone’s Boneyard and climbed out. Hopefully, he’d have the paperwork ready for pickup regarding the Porsche with the extra passenger. He let himself in through the side door and stopped short. The tension in the shop was so thick you could cut it with a knife. He waited for someone to show themselves, but no one seemed to be around. Then he heard voices from Boone’s office. He plastered himself against the wall and held his breath. As a lawman, he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but he also knew people tended to say things when he wasn’t around that he might need to know when trying to solve a murder.

“You’re telling me that you finally found a moral compass?” King heard Boone ask before a softer, feminine voice responded.

“I’ve always had a moral compass, Boone. It just took me too long to realize it was pointing in the wrong direction.”