Page 24 of Hell and Gone
“My hands all quit,” Lawrence spat. “On account of the Crazies not bein’ safe under your protection.”
Braddock glared, but ignored Lawrence. “Any of the other outfits gonna ride with you, Dan?”
“Warner’s long gone. Heart’s Rafter is empty.”
“You already put in an offer on his ranch, Howell? A deal he can’t turn down?” Lawrence, from the corner, seemed determined to piss off both Howell and Braddock. This time, Everett turned and glared.
Lawrence wasn’t helping or doing himself—or anyone else—any favors.
Howell and Braddock ignored Lawrence again. Everett sensed a pattern. “I’ll call at the Rocking H. See what Martin has to say.” Howell tipped his hat to Braddock and turned to the door. “Boys, we ride for the ranch. We’ve got work to do!”
A parade of cowboys emptied from the office, escorting Howell like he was their king. Modern day cowboys who rode for the brand, who bled for the brand, who lived and worked on the land and built a loyalty that couldn’t be bought, were close to feudal knights from the Medieval times. The clothes and weapons were different, the range and the land, but as Howell strode out of the sheriff’s office with his men, it sank deep into Everett’s bones: Howell was a powerful man, not just because of his money or the size of his ranch. He had the blood loyalty of those men, and whatever he’d done to deserve their loyalty, he’d earned it the hard way.
Everett stood. “Wait, Detective,” Braddock called. “You stayin’ in town tonight?”
“I can.”
“Get a room at the hotel. I got to organize my men. Then you and I are goin’ to dinner at the steakhouse.”
“Yes sir.” Everett trailed behind Lawrence out of the office. In the hallway, he tried to catch up to the man, but a deputy crossed his path, and another wanted to ask him about lifting the horse’s print out of the dirt. By the time he told the deputy “later” and pushed his way through, Lawrence’s broad shoulders had disappeared through the side door.
He jogged outside in time to see Lawrence roaring down the road in his truck, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust.
Chapter 10
Timber Creek wasa one main street, one hotel, one gas station, one strip club, and five liquor store kind of town. The high schooler checking him into the hotel blew a bubble as she explained the Wal-Mart was twenty miles down the highway, and if he went thirty miles the other direction, there was a burger drive-through.
When he asked where the steakhouse was, she pointed across the street.
It might have harkened back to the mining days or had been the original saloon when Timber Creek first laid its foundations in the 1800s. Now, it was a dusty, tired kind of place, with creaking saloon doors and faded maroon wallpaper. Bulbs in the chandeliers were out, and the main waiter played on his phone at the bar when Everett walked in.
“Just one?”
“I’m meeting Sheriff Braddock.”
He was shown a booth in the back and left alone.
Braddock showed up half an hour later, pushing both swinging doors open like he was a lawman of the Old West.
Everett had gone over his little speech in his head during the wait, and he squared his jaw and looked Sheriff Braddock in the eye as he shook his hand. “Sheriff, I want to apologize. I don’t mean to step on your toes here. I didn’t mean to undermine your authority on the investigation. Certainly not in front of all your men.”
Braddock grinned. “Son, you ain’t steppin’ on any toes a’tall. You ain’t underminin’ my authority. I got forty years on you, and I’m not so fragile as all that. You don’t threaten me, same as those young bucks in these mountains don’t threaten me. I got long years of workin’ and trainin’ fine young men under my belt. We can work together just fine, long as you don’t got no problems with me.”
“No problem at all, sir.” Everett pumped his hand and squeezed again before letting go.
“Drop the sir, for the love of God,” Braddock grumbled. “Call me Darby, son, please. We’re workin’ together. I’m not your father.” He winked and threw Everett a warm smile.
Braddock was like his old platoon sergeant, a grizzly bear of a man who roared at them all, whipped them into shape until they were perfect, and then made them practice perfection until even their shits were sounding off in formation. He was a hard man to work for, but he was also the best man protecting them Everett had ever seen. When his platoon sergeant was proud, it felt like God himself was blessing the men.
It seemed impossible to call a man like that by his given name. Everett nearly choked on “Sure, Darby,” as he fumbled while he sat down.
Braddock ordered giant prime rib steaks for them both and then accepted a beer sent from the bar. Everett declined, and they sat in silence, sipping their drinks for a minute while Sheriff Braddock eyed Everett. He didn’t blink, and seemed to take all of Everett in, studying him like he was reading Everett’s history, taking the measure of him in a sagging booth in a dusty saloon on the edge of town.
Everett stared back. He was nothing for Braddock to see. He had nothing inside of him, not anymore. There was nothing at all for anyone to see when they stared.
“How did you get along with Law?” Braddock finally asked.
Everett shrugged. “He’s a handful. But you were right, he’s a skilled rider.” He left out the implied insult Braddock had paid to Lawrence, him being the finest no-good cowboy in the mountains.
