Page 3 of Big Daddy Mountain Man

Sawyer continued to watch the men, the mirror giving him a good view.

“Oh man. I guess I deleted it,” the guy said after making a show of checking his phone. “Too bad. You should have seen her. Dude, she was wasted and after I fu—” He stopped talking.

Pamela, the manager, waitress, and dishwasher of the place, walked up and said, “You boys need more beers?”

Sawyer figured she was trying to cut off their conversation. He tensed as he held onto his mug’s handle, still looking in the mirror to see how the guys would respond.

“No. What I need is some of that,” the idiot with the pool cue said. That’s when he reached out and tried to slap Pamela on the ass. Thankfully, the woman’s reflexes were too quick, and she dodged the swat by about an inch.

That was all Sawyer could take.

He spun around on his stool and put his booted feet on the floor, ready to stride toward the arrogant loudmouth and give him the choice of leaving or getting his ass kicked.

Sawyer kind of hoped he’d pick the latter. The former just wouldn’t be much fun.

It would be even better if the asshole’s idiot buddy joined in. A two-for-one asskicking? It had been a long time since an opportunity like that had come along. Too long, in Sawyer’s estimation.

He was not a violent man by nature. But every now and then the universe smiled upon him and delivered an opportunity for him to teach some abusive prick a lesson. For the most part, Sawyer Greystone was a live and let live kind of guy. Open-minded. Wishing the best for almost everyone. But when it came to lowdown sons of bitches who’d abuse a woman and brag about it, he really got riled up.

He'd almost closed the gap between him and the jackass when the door opened and a booming voice said, “Tim Rutlidge?”

The idiot turned to sneer at the newcomer, but a bit of his bravado noticeably drained when he saw who it was.

Sheriff Quinn Hardin had that effect on folks, and Sawyer couldn’t help but smile at the fortuitous timing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have handled those guys by himself.

That would have been a piece of cake.

His relief came from the fact that now he didn’t have to. He could go back to minding his own business and save himself a lot of hassle. While he’d be slightly disappointed he hadn’t gotten that two-for-one deal, things were easier this way.

He plopped back down on the barstool, turned to face the mirror again, and took a sip of beer.

“What the hell you want, Sheriff?” the man—evidently Tim Rutlidge—asked.

When the law officer answered, his voice was measured and professional, but Sawyer picked up on the steel that lined his words. He wondered if the dumbass at the pool table was smart enough to notice it.

“I was driving by and saw your vehicle, so I thought I’d stop to ensure someone else drove you here.” He grinned—a fact that Sawyer appreciated as he watched through the mirror—and added, “Being as how your license is revoked and all.”

Rutlidge remained as still as a statue and kept his mouth shut for the first time since coming into the Thirsty Logger that afternoon.

“Of course, I need to verify you finally got insurance on it, too, regardless of who is driving it,” the sheriff added.

“Insurance?” Rutlidge said.

“Insurance,” Quinn repeated.

“Well, Con drove.” Rutlidge jerked his head toward his friend.

“That’s right,” the guy said.

“Great,” Quinn said. “I just need to verify that insurance and then I’ll be on my way.” He turned his focus to Pamela. “That is, unless there’s a problem here.”

“I want them to leave,” she told the sheriff. “He tried to slap my ass!”

Sawyer kept watching, noticing Quinn’s back stiffen.

“She’s lying!” Rutlidge growled. “Who are you going to believe? Her or me?”

“Her,” Quinn said quickly and flatly.

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