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A car door slammed with a metallic thud, and an engine turned over with a rumbling growl of power. Headlights flashed on, cutting through the darkness. Briefly their twin beams swept over Cat as the patrol car made a reversing turn away from the house before it took off, its fast-spinning tires spraying gravel.
As always, Culley focused on Cat. She stood with one slender hand resting on a pillar and the other pressed to her stomach, her head turned in the direction of the departing vehicle. After it disappeared, she appeared to take a moment to gather herself, then turned and went inside.
Culley rocked back on his haunches and considered all that he had seen, both tonight and over the last few days. The ululating call of a coyote drifted across the plains, a plaintive and primitive sound. Lifting his head, Culley listened to it, glanced again at the house, then stole off, making his way back to the place where he had left his horse tethered.
An hour after leaving the Triple C headquarters, Logan pulled into Blue Moon. Light pooled beneath the canopy at Fedderson’s, illuminating the gas pumps. More light poured through the store’s plate-glass windows. Logan noted that, but his brooding gaze centered on the lighted neon sign at Sally’s Place and the half dozen pickup and utility vehicles parked in front of it.
Faced with easily an hour’s worth of paperwork before he could call it a day, Logan swung the patrol car into an empty parking slot, radioed his twenty, and stepped out. As much as his empty stomach wanted food, he wanted the distraction of people around him to get his mind off Cat. She was becoming like a drug that he knew was no good for him, yet each encounter with her left him wanting more. It was an addiction he was determined to conquer.
The jukebox blared a honky-tonk song amid the crack of billiard balls and laughing, raucous voices. Logan paused inside the door and scanned the inhabitants of the café-bar, conscious of the second looks the uniform brought him and the instant muting of loud talk. Most times such things amused him, but today wasn’t one of those times.
As he finished his sweep of the bar area where the bulk of the customers were gathered, his glance was stopped by a pair of brashly arrogant eyes staring back at him. Lath Anderson grinned with insolence and lifted his long-necked bottle of beer in a mocking salute. His younger brother, Rollie, gave him a sharp nudge, his own glance skipping off Logan. Still grinning, Lath swung away.
Logan felt again that fiddling along his nerves that warned of impending trouble. He started toward the men’s room to wash up, then, pushed by a testiness, Logan altered his course to pass by the two brothers.
Observing his approach in the back bar’s mirror, Lath swiveled around on his stool when he drew close. “Workin’ kinda late, aren’t you, Echohawk? Or are you pullin’ the evening shift this week?”
Logan halted. “Does it matter?”
“Guess not.” Lath shrugged one shoulder, still wearing his cocky grin.
“Have you found yourself a job yet?”
“Tell you the truth, that’s been a bit of a problem for me. No one seems to be doin’ any hirin’ right now.”
“I heard Dy-Corp had some openings,” Logan remarked, then turned his glance on the younger one. “Isn’t that true, Rollie?”
“I couldn’t say.” His attention remained on the bottle in front of him.
“You’re still working there, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Rollie picked up the bottle by its neck and took a quick swig fr
om it.
“He’s always been the hardworking one of this family. Ain’t ya, little brother?” Lath tossed the question to him, without taking his hard and glinting eyes off Logan. “Me, I’m just the no-account one.”
“With no desire to change,” Logan observed, and threw another glance at Rollie, now eyeing them both uneasily. “You’re running in some poor company, Rollie.”
“He’s my brother.”
“I guess a man can’t choose his family,” he said.
He sent a glance at Lath, then continued to the men’s room, washed away the worst of the day’s grime and returned, this time skirting the bar area and heading for a table on the café side of the room. Taking off his hat, he dropped it on an empty chair and sat down next to it, reaching for the plastic-covered menu, propped between the sugar jar and napkin holder.
Sally Brogan came to the table, carrying a pot of coffee and a glass of water. She set the glass before him, righted the cup on the table and filled it with steaming coffee. “You look like you could use this,” she said, her quick eyes picking up the hints of fatigue etched into his face.
“About a gallon of it,” Logan admitted, reaching for the cup, drawn by the steam’s rich coffee aroma.
“I heard there was some trouble out at the Triple C today. Nothing serious, I hope,” Sally remarked, fishing for specifics.
Logan shook his head. “Just some cattle killed.”
“How?”
“They were shot.”
She clucked her tongue in a small sound of dismay and sighed. “I don’t understand people nowadays, shooting at something just because they feel like it—with no respect at all for someone’s property.”
