Page 41 of The Cowboy's Justice

As Portia led the sheriff through to the living area, she abruptly stopped, grabbed his arm, and pointed to the pair of men’s dirty shoes in front of the couch.

“Go back to the car,” he whispered, lowering his lips to her ear as he reached for his revolver.

But before she could take a step William strode into the room from the hall with his gun raised.

“Don’t do it, Sheriff, not unless you want the poor little rich girl to get a bullet in her head.”

“William! Why are you doing this?” Portia demanded, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “What have I ever done to you?”

“Shut the fuck up. Sheriff, put your gun on the floor…real easy…kick it over towards me, then lie face down on the floor with your arms above your head.”

“You’re makin’ a big mistake, son.”

“I’m not your son!” William snapped. “Now do it. Portia, where’s your phone?”

“In my pocket like always,” she replied as the sheriff followed William’s instructions.

“Perfect. Call your personal banker. You’re going to transfer a bunch of money, and don’t try anything or I’ll shoot the fuckin’ sheriff. Got it?”

“Yes, yes, no problem,” she said quickly.

“Once you have him on the phone I’ll give you the bank details. Just repeat them. Don’t add anything, no chit chat.”

“I understand.”

“Good, now make the call.”

Slowly lifting out her phone, she took a deep breath and called Devlin.

“Hey, is everything okay?”

“Hello, James, it’s Portia Peyton here. I need you to transfer some funds from my personal account, the one ending in 2280.”

“William’s there,” Devlin declared.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Three million,” William exclaimed,

“James, transfer three million, and the bank it’s going to is…?” she continued, staring at William.

As William recited the account information she repeated it, then paused.

“Do everything he tells you,” Devlin said quietly, “and Portia, don’t worry. The guy’s toast.”

“It’s being done,” Portia declared, hastily ending the call.

“See how easy that was? You would’ve saved us a whole shitload of trouble if you’d just allowed your broker to sell those fucking shares. Now lie on the floor next to the sheriff and don’t move while I call my bank and make sure the money went through.”

“But it won’t land until tomorrow.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s after three o’clock. It won’t transfer until tonight and won’t show until the morning,” she lied, hoping she sounded convincing. “That’s how banks work. Surely you must know that.”

“Goddamit to hell!” he shouted, waving his gun in the air.

“I have a bunch of cash in the safe.”

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