Page 20 of Surly Sheriff
“Lots of stuff.”
“Beau,” she whined.
He chuckled and said, “I was a shooter before ranking up.”
Shooter? “A sniper?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. You must have major marksmen skills?”
He gave her a long, penetrating look. “I never miss what I aim for. Come,” he said, grabbing Esmeralda’s key from the counter. “Let’s go.”
Deep in thought, she followed him out of the house, and when he offered her the car key, she shook her head. “You drive.”
While waiting for their order at the drive-thru, she finally asked the burning question. “Do you regret it? Taking a life? Killing a human being?”
When he didn’t answer, she raised her head and looked at him.
“That’s a loaded question,” he said softly.
Rae lifted her brows, his answer important to her.
He finally answered. “The first one … it was hard.” His mouth tightened into a straight line before he continued. “But regret, no. It was war. The person in my scope the enemy. Did my job. Pulled the trigger. Ended a life. Simple.”
She turned his answer over and over in her mind, fiddling with the fraying string dangling down the front of her hoodie.
War. Enemy.Ended a life.Simple.
Yet not.
Their order arrived, and Beau handed her the bag with their breakfast and the coffee cup tray. She ignored the perplexed look he gave her. It was only when he pulled into the parking spot outside the shop that she asked the next question. “How many?”
He stopped the vehicle, shifted into park, and cut the engine before focusing on her. “How many kills?”
She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“My God. Raegan.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth.
“It’s important,” she whispered, maintaining eye contact.
“I didn’t keep count. It’s …” He looked away, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “It’s better that way,” he murmured gruffly.
Rae wished she had never asked. Despite what he’d implied mere moments ago, taking the life of another human had not been easy for him.
“Ah, hell,” Beau muttered.
“What?”
He was staring ahead, his lips compressed in a straight line.
She followed his line of sight. And found three middle-aged women congregated beneath the gildedbella’s bookssignage on the shop window. She had met one, Lorena, yesterday. “Trouble?”
“Not really. But I used to date Mrs. Brady’s daughter in high school.”
“Which one is Mrs. Brady?”
“The middle one.”
