Page 8 of Hell and Gone
A shotgun lay tucked into a saddle scabbard on the man’s right side.
Everett rolled down his window and kept both hands on the steering wheel. He waited until the rider pulled back his horse at the gate and stared him down. “Mister Jackson?”
The rider’s face twisted like he’d taken a punch to the stomach or downed a shot of sour whiskey. “Don’t call me ‘mister,’” he growled.
“Are you Lawrence Jackson? Is this the Lazy Twenty-Two ranch?”
“S’what the sign says.” Even through the sunglasses, Everett could feel the man’s hardened stare. “And that’s my name. Who’s askin’?”
“Everett Dawson. I’m a stock detective from Helena. I’ll show you my creds.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his leather bifold holding his credentials and license as a state law enforcement official above his new, shiny gold star badge. Emblazoned across the badge, it readStock Detective. He held the bifold out his truck window.
“Finally,” Lawrence snapped. “We got all kinds of trouble up here. Been waitin’ for you folk to get here for ages. How many detectives did you bring? What’s the plan to sweep the Crazies? Are you wantin’ to set up base camp at my ranch? This is a good spot for it. You just let me know how many bunks to clear for your team—”
“It’s just me, Mister Jackson.”
Lawrence froze, and his expression went ugly. His jaw dropped, then closed slowly. “Just you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then what is ‘just you’ doin’ here? Ain’t much good ‘just you’ can do.”
He wanted to fight, that was for sure. Braddock’s words echoed in his mind.Spitfire pain in my ass and damn son of a gun.“Sheriff Braddock sent for our help last week. I was sent down from Helena to help with your rustling problem.”
“We got a murder problem here, too.”
“Sheriff Braddock mentioned you dumped a body on his desk this morning. Would you like to tell me about that?”
Lawrence snorted. He looked away.
“Mister Jackson, I served eight years in the Army as an M-P. I’ve done my share of investigations and caught my share of killers. Montana hired me for my investigative experience. I am here to help you and I was told you wanted that help. If I was told wrong, I can turn around and go back to Sheriff Braddock and tell him you’re doing just fine on your own, and then I can keep going back to Helena. You called for me, Mister Jackson.”
Silence. Wind rolled down from the peak, shadowing over the pasture and making the grass wave. A dust devil kicked up, dancing gently between Everett’s truck and the gate.
Lawrence punched a button on the inner gate’s panel and the heavy wrought iron swung back. He rode up the drive without waiting for Everett, whistling at his horse and taking off, leaving Everett behind in the dust. He was back in the horse corral before Everett parked and swinging off his stallion when Everett climbed down from his truck.
Lawrence never took his eyes off Everett as he peeled an apple and fed his stallion in the center of the corral.
Everett waited. If Lawrence wanted to waste his time, that was his choice.
After, Lawrence dusted his gloved hands off and strode to the corral fence, leaning against the rail and lacing his fingers together. He thrummed with a casual kind of arrogance, a ruggedfuck youaura pulsing off him that could slap a man silly upon meeting the man. It washed over Everett, one of the thousand things he didn’t react to anymore. That he couldn’t feel anymore.
Still, Lawrence Jackson had an attitude that barely fit in the Crazies, barely fit in the state of Montana. Everett was a product of the United States Army, though, and he excelled at investigating crimes, three-hundred-fifty-yard takedown shots, and being a stubborn mother fucker. When he dug his heels in, the earth rotated around Everett.
“You ain’t from ‘round here.” Lawrence said, one casual wave of his fingers calling Everett to the corral. There were canyons between those vowels, lingering spaces where Lawrence’s voice lengthened and spread like warm honey. His accent was as thick as the forest on the mountains and rolled like the wind, on and on.
“I’m from Texas.”
“Texas, huh?” Lawrence peered at him, his head tilting just so. The way he stood, Everett could finally take him in, get the measure of the man. He was tall, six feet or so. His shoulders were broad, axe-handle wide, tapering slightly to a barrel chest. He had a rugged strength built up from years of manual labor, and the body to show for it. His flannel shirt clung to his chest and his arms and was tucked into jeans covered in shotgun leather chaps. Everything was well worn and practical. No fringe, no finery.
“And you was in the Army?”
“82 Airborne out of Fort Bragg. I did three tours in Afghanistan.”
“And you left?”
Everett nodded.
“You ever investigated a murder before?”
