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Carly Zane had locked up the house after the feds carted off her husband and crawled back in bed, too scared to function. She couldn’t believe what had just happened. Dewey as much as admitted he’d shot a man in cold blood, but why?
When her mother called her later to ask if she wanted to go with her to Bowling Green, Carly turned her down. She’d never lied to her mother, but she was too ashamed to admit her man had turned into a killer.
Finally she got up and dressed, then began putting everything up that the feds had pulled out—putting her house back to rights and thinking about what she’d make for supper tonight. Then it hit her.
Dewey wouldn’t be there for supper.
He wouldn’t be going in to Fuzzy Fridays to work evenings.
He wouldn’t be going off to Barton’s campground. He wouldn’t be coming home. Ever.
Still holding one of his dirty shirts, she dropped into one of the kitchen chairs and started bawling anew. She was still crying when a car rolled up in front of the house.
Frightened that it might be the feds come back to take her, too, she ran to the window, then breathed a sigh of relief. It was just Rance. And then it hit her! Rance was the sheriff! He’d know what to do! He knew all about crimes and jails.
***
Rance Woodley was all the way up the steps, carrying a six-pack of beer, when Carly opened the door. He looked up and smiled.
“Hey, Carly. How’s my best girl, and where’s your lazy-ass husband? He was supposed to meet me for coffee this morning.”
“Oh, Rance! Dewey’s gone! The FBI come to the house before we was even out of the bed and arrested him for a murder. Said he stole a phone and a laptop and they caught it all on a trail cam.”
Rance felt faint.
“Say what?”
“It’s true. And before it was all over, they tricked him by talking too fast and he gave himself away. They kept asking him who paid him to do it, but he clammed up and asked for a lawyer, which just made him look guilty all over again! Why would Dewey go kill somebody for a laptop? We don’t even use computers. Not even to play games. I don’t understand!”
“I don’t know,” Rance said, then handed her the beer. “Here, you take it. I gotta go,” he added and then ran back to his patrol car, made a U-turn in the front yard, and spun out as he drove away.
Carly went back inside and started to put the beer in the refrigerator, then put the six-pack on the table and popped the top on one longneck and carried it to the living room. She needed something to calm her nerves, and this was as good as anything.
But Rance Woodley could have drowned himself in a barrel of beer and it wouldn’t have changed one facet of his shock. His thoughts were in free fall as he headed back to the sheriff’s office, and then halfway there made a split-second decision and took the road to Jubilee.
***
Cameron was outside caulking the last of the windowpanes and Rusty had been with him for the better part of an hour, nailing down the loose boards on the front porch in the places he’d marked with chalk.
She was on her hands and knees about to start a new nail, but as the hammer was coming down, the nail slipped out of her grip and she hammered her thumb instead.
“Oh, crap!” she cried, and grabbed her hand and squeezed it more, as if that would actually stop the pain. “Oh my God, that hurts.”
Cameron heard her cry out, saw what she’d done, and came running. Seconds later she was on her feet and in his arms.
“Oh, honey…sweetheart! I’m so sorry,” he said. “Let me see.”
The thumb was already swelling and turning purple around the nail bed. It was hard to tell who hurt more that it had happened, her or him, but seeing her little thumb already beginning to bruise broke his heart.
“That’s enough for you,” he said and took her inside, made an ice pack, and sat her down by the fire to ice her thumb.
Ghost was in the middle of both of them, trying to lick Rusty’s hand and whining a little in sympathy.
“Thank you, sweet boy,” Rusty said. “If love could cure, I’d already be fine.” She winced when Cameron put the cold pack in her lap. “Yikes. The cold hurts, too.”
“It will help with the swelling,” he said. “Can you wiggle the joint? If you think it’s broken, I can take you—”
“It’s not broken. Just flatter than it’s supposed to be,” she grumbled.
