WTF?
She’d kissed him.
Of all the crazy, ridiculous, regrettable things she’d done in her lifetime. From climbing onto the back of Mack Connally’s restored Harley and losing her virginity to the baddest boy in high school at the tender age of fifteen. To telling off old lady Bertha Walters Sawyer in the middle of last year’s Founder’s Day picnic because she had refused to eat the potato salad that Callie—aka a Tucker—had brought. And all the rash stunts in between.
She’d kissed him.
Not that it would have been any better if he’d kissed her. It was the kissing, itself, that posed the biggest threat.
Okay, so it wasn’t the kissing. There was nothing wrong with kissing. Kissing was fine. Great. No, the problem here was that she’d liked kissing him.
She’d liked it too damned much.
Her lips tingled and her mind raced and her hands shook.
Kissing him should have been a huge letdown. The way it had been with Chuck. And before that, Kevin. And Stan. And the half-dozen other nice guys she’d done her damnedest to fall in love with. The anticipation was always there. The hope that lightning would strike and bells would ring and the angels would sing and finally, finally, she would find it with a decent guy instead of some noncommittal bad boy.
But they’d all been a huge letdown.
That’s what tonight should have been. That’s why she’d done it in the first place. To give herself a big reality check.
But then she’d kissed him and now she wanted to do it again.
Uh-oh.
The doom whispered through her and denial kicked in.
Damn straight she wanted to do it again. She was crazy horny. Past the point of rational thought. Beyond reason. She could have kissed a poodle in her current state and she’d have sworn it was Ryan Reynolds/Brad Pitt/the super-hot guy who bagged groceries at the Piggly Wiggly and rode a Harley.
It wasn’t Hunter DeMassi, himself.
Hell, no.
Guys like the sheriff—the kind, thoughtful, door-fixing kind—didn’t press her buttons. She didn’t lie awake thinking and fantasizing and wanting one when she should be sleeping.
Sleep?
Fat chance she decided later that night as she lay awake and stared at the ceiling.
She tossed the covers to the side, climbed out of bed, and headed for the cluttered attic.
A half-hour passed and she finished boxing up the pile of fifty-year-old newspapers that filled one corner of the massive room and turned to the stack of suitcases and trunks that sat nearby.
Grabbing one dusty leather trunk, she set it on the floor, popped the latch, and flipped open the lid. Hinges groaned and dust billowed. She blinked against a sudden burning and stared at the contents. A mess of clothes. Some shoes. An old baby doll. A pair of ancient reading glasses …
The list went on as she unearthed each item and either tossed it into her KEEP box, or the one that read TOSS.
If she couldn’t sleep, and she certainly couldn’t go back for seconds, then she had to do something.
* * *
“Last I heard it wasn’t against the law for a man to buy bullets.”
“A case of bullets,” Deputy Bobby Sawyer McGuire pointed out, motioning to the boxes stacked on the glass countertop above a display of handguns.
“Nine boxes,” Gerald Sawyer insisted, “is not an entire case of bullets. Why, it’s a full box shy.”
“One measly box is nothing. What could you possibly need nine boxes of bullets for?”
“Not that it’s any of your damned beeswax,” Gerald told the officer, “but Lorelei just bought a new SUV.”
“And?”
“And we’re talking top-of-the-line Lincoln Navigator with a touch screen and heated seats. You know how much extra I had to pay for those seats?”
“What do heated seats have to do with bullets?”
“Hold your britches. I’m getting there. See, the SUV is black,” he announced, as if that said it all.
“And?
“I’ve got more than a dozen oak trees hanging over the driveway. That means birds. And lots of birds means lots of bird shit. And lots of bird shit means I won’t just be washing that blasted Navigator on my day off. I’ll be rinsing it off at least a few times a week. Maybe more. I cain’t very well do that in my condition.” He indicated the bandaged foot stuffed into a flip-flop. “I can barely walk, so I figured I’d just sit on my porch and take care of the bird situation. A few hundred rounds into those trees and it’s bye, bye, birdie.”
“So all this is just so you can shoot birds?”
“Not the birds themselves. I’m shooting at the trees, which stirs up a ruckus, which gets rid of the birds.”
Bobby’s gaze narrowed. “That’s it? All this is just to clear out your trees?”
“Damn straight it is.”
The deputy’s gaze narrowed. “And you’re not even the slightest bit anxious for a little payback where Haywood is concerned?”
“If I wanted to give that no-good Tucker what was coming to him, I’d toss one of them grenades I brought back from Iraq through his front door. Blow off a few body parts the way he did me. Come to think of it, that ain’t a half bad idea—”
“Forget it,” Hunter cut in. “Haywood’s already in custody. There’s no need for grenades.”
“Or damn near a case of bullets,” the deputy added. “You don’t seriously think we’re buying this whole bird shit business, do you?”
“It’s the God’s honest.” Gerald crossed his heart and tried to look devout. “Though it does say in the Bible that vengeance is mine.”
“God’s the one doing the talking in the Bible,” Bobby countered. “That means, he’s the one carrying out the vengeance.”
“That’s one way to interpret it, I s’pose.”
“That’s the only way.”
“Says you. It really depends on who is talking.”
“God’s talking,” Bobby insisted again.
“Not right now. I’m talking, so mine refers to me. Yours truly. The Big G. And whose side are you on, anyway? Last I looked, you’re every bit a Sawyer. The both of you. You ought to be taking up for me.”
“We’re on the side of the law,” Hunter said.
“That’s right,” Bobby added. “We took an oath, and don’t be thinking just because your last name is Sawyer that you’re above the law. We’re on to you and—”
“Let him be,” Hunter said, glancing at the receipt the clerk had handed him when he’d first walked in. So Gerald had forked over a little too much just to get rid of a few birds? The man could still be telling the truth. And even if he wasn’t, Haywood was in custody so he was safe should Gerald have an ulterior motive. “Make sure you watch where you’re shooting,” he told the man. “It’s too early for hunting season when it comes to dove and quail. You wouldn’t want yourself facing a stiff fine for an illegal kill. Maybe even some jail time.”
“Not to worry, Sheriff. I been shooting since I was knee-high. This is all just to make some noise.”
“I’d watch that, too, if I were you. Otherwise I’ll have to haul you in for disturbing the peace.”
“Why you’d just let him go?” Bobby asked when Gerald muttered a curse, grabbed his ammo, and walked out. “You know good and well he’s out to scare more than just a few birds.”
“Maybe, but at this point, it’s just speculation. We can’t arrest a man for something he might do and it certainly isn’t against the law to buy ammunition in the state of Texas.” He stared through the window, through the creeping dusk as the man hobbled around his pickup parked at the curb. A few seconds later, the engine grumbled to life and the lights flicked on. Tires squealed, a tailpipe sputtered, and Gerald disappeared down the street.
“He wanted two cases,” Petey James Walker offered. The clerk shook his head. “But Arlo Gentry came in earlier today and wiped me out of everything save those nine boxes. He’s got himself a coon problem.”
“Coons?” Bobby arched an eyebrow. “I hate those little buggers.”
“Nasty sons-a-bitches,” Petey agreed. “Why, I had one kept getting into my rabbit pen—”
“If Gerald comes back for more,” Hunter cut in, eager to kill the coon talk and get back to business, “give me a call, would you?”
“Sure thing, Sheriff. You really think he’s going after Haywood?”
Hunter shrugged, but deep in his gut he already knew the answer. If this had been a minor disagreement between anyone else, he would have said hell no. Folks were smarter than that. Forgiving. But this was the Tuckers and the Sawyers. The last squabble between the warring factions had ended with a glass eye for Monty Tucker because Brewster Sawyer had inadvertently shot it out while aiming for a hog, or so he claimed, and a prosthetic testicle for Brewster because Monty had fired back at his enemy’s most cherished body part while aiming for that same hog—or so he’d said. Luckily, all the blood had made Monty’s aim a fraction off and he’d merely taken off one of the twins instead of the man’s penis, and all because of an argument that had started out innocently enough when Brewster’s girlfriend had called Monty’s wife a know-it-all at Wednesday night bingo.
When it came to the two warring families, things had a way of escalating. Fast.
The thought struck and Hunter found himself thinking about Jenna. And the kiss. And the way his libido had gone from zero to sixty in two seconds flat.
He hadn’t meant to kiss her. In fact, he’d been damned intent on not kissing her. Or touching her. Or doing anything because, well, Hunter kept things strictly business whether he was on the clock or not.
But then she’d been close and he’d been horny and, well, the two had made for a deadly combination.
“You’d better head home,” Hunter told Bobby.
“What about you?”
“I’ve got a few things to wrap up at the station.”
“You want to come by the house for dinner?”
He arched an eyebrow at his deputy. “Lori’s cousin wouldn’t happen to be at this dinner, now, would she?” Bobby’s wife had been trying to fix Hunter up with her cousin for the past six months. He’d effectively dodged each and every fix, but it was getting harder and harder because he was the sheriff and he didn’t want to be rude.
“There’s always a chance Kaitlyn might stop by. She and Lori are attached at the hip.”
Which was the main reason Bobby was all for finding Kaitlyn her own man. He wanted his new bride of only nine short months all to himself and while her best friend was still single, that was next to impossible. He still had to deal with girls’ night out. And pedicure Saturdays. And Game of Thrones watch parties.
“Kaitlyn’s a great girl,” Bobby added. “You really ought to give her a chance. She’s a great cook. And she teaches Sunday school.”
“I don’t really have time tonight. Maybe next time.”
Kaitlyn was perfect, and maybe it was high time he started dating. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so all-fired anxious to kiss a woman he hardly knew.
“Definitely next time,” he added.
Bobby nodded and headed out to his cruiser while Hunter climbed into the beige SUV parked nearby.
He needed to spend some of the sexual energy boiling inside of him and if that meant settling down with someone in town in order to do it, then so be it. He’d have dinner with Kaitlyn.
Later.
Right now, he still had work to do.