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Chapter 1
The first sound that filtered into Jack Butler’s ears was the whimper of Tim Whitman’s little boy as he cried out for his father. Something inside Jack shifted, and only then did he relax his grip on the man’s neck. A thought began to form but froze immediately as his heart raced ahead.
“Get off him! Now!” Jack heard Sheriff Calhoun’s words as though they came out of a wind tunnel.
Get it together, Jack. Snap out of it. Now.
He knew what he had to do, but men like Tim Whitman didn’t help.
Tim’s face was contorted in a snarl, and he stared at Jack like a pit bull about to pounce. Jack wanted to warn him that the last man to look at him that way had ended on his stomach in handcuffs, but that was more than a year ago. And he wasn’t a U.S. Marshal any longer.
Red faced, Tim rubbed his neck. “Did you see that? He tried to kill me!”
“You’re fine,” Jack said as he took a slow deep breath the way the doctor in Virginia had recommended.
Deep breaths. As many as it takes. I’ll be fine.
“I’ll have your badge, you lunatic!” Tim stumbled, bracing himself against the front door.
The scent of gun powder competed with the strong scent of whiskey. Jack shook his head. The whiskey scent was happening now, and the gun powder was only a memory. He wasn’t in Virginia; he was in California, and Tim didn’t have a gun in his hands even though he was a bully. Jack hated a bully.
“Let’s all calm down. From where I stood, Tim, you shoved my deputy. That was an assault on my officer.”
Sheriff Calhoun stood between them and spoke in even, measured tones, one arm extended toward Jack and the other toward Tim.
“Yeah? We’ll see if a court of law sees it the same way.” Tim threw open the ornate front door of his sprawling mansion and slammed it behind him.
Next time I’ll throw the guy on the ground and give him a taste of his own medicine. I’m in trouble anyway.
Jack and Sheriff Calhoun were responding to a disturbance call made by Mrs. Mock, who lived next door to the Whitman family. When they arrived, Tim had shoved Jack. Mistake number one.
Calhoun gave him the thousand-yard stare. “You know, the biggest problem we’ve had today was you, Jack. Get it together.”
“I don’t care if he’s a big time attorney. He’s a mean drunk. I’m not surprised a man who defends rapists and murderers would knock his wife around.”
When he’d stepped between Tim and his wife, the last thing Jack clearly recalled was being shoved. After that, everything else faded into the pounding of blood in his eardrums as he grabbed Tim by the collar and pushed him up against his front door.
Calhoun glared at Jack. “You let me do the talking now.”
Jack took several paces back to stand by the cruiser as Calhoun knocked on the door and spoke with Mrs. Whitman again. She was a petite, dark-haired woman with frightened eyes. He’d seen those eyes before. Like those of a wounded animal, seeking cover. Behind her, in the shadows, for the first time Jack noticed a teenaged boy standing to her right.
And even though the air appeared to be calm for the moment, Jack stayed alert, resting his hand on his Glock. He’d seen these situations turn in an instant. But try telling that to a Sheriff who had ruled a small town where the worst of the criminals were two faced men like Tim Wright. Calhoun believed in the best of everyone, and from the way he smiled as he spoke with Mrs. Whitman they could have been talking about the weather.
It might also take Jack thirty years on the job to have that kind of peace while walking through the messes that people made of their lives, but he hoped not. He didn’t have that kind of time, not if he wanted to get back home to Virginia where he belonged.
Calhoun handed her a card, and she glanced behind her before she took it. Another tell-tale sign. The woman was terrified of her husband. She closed the front door, and Calhoun ambled back to the cruiser.
“She said it was her fault, and it won’t happen again,” Calhoun said.
Jack shook his head. “What a load of—”
“Enough, son. We’ll talk about this when we get back to the station.”
“Sorry, but I can’t apologize. How many times have we been out here? The man is a menace. Not only does he make a mockery out of the justice system, he terrorizes his wife and kids. When he makes it home from his media appearances.”
Tim Whitman was a high profile criminal defense attorney probably only interested in making money, along with a sprinkleor two of fame. Jack had personally witnessed attorneys like Tim defend the indefensible and unravel months of tedious police work.
They drove outside the entryway of the gated community, where the most economically privileged in Harte’s Peak resided, and toward downtown and the tiny sheriff’s office nestled between the store fronts on Main Street. Not for the first time, he gazed in awe of the tall pine trees surrounding them. Sometimes, if he timed it right, the view could calm him. He breathed in now, as his heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm.
