Bull Mountain(51)

“Mrs. Burroughs?”

“I know my name. I asked who you are.”

Holly smiled.

“I’m serious. My husband’s the sheriff.”

“I work with your husband. He’s here with me in the car.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Holly held his hands up slightly higher than his shoulders. “My name is Simon Holly. I’m a federal agent and, seriously, ma’am, Clayton is here in the car.”

Kate took a step forward to see the man in the car a little better in the dark. Holly lowered one hand and opened the passenger-side door. Light flooded the interior of the Crown Vic, and Kate saw her husband. She lowered the rifle a little and took two more steps toward the car before noticing the damage done to his face and steadied the gun back on Simon. She racked the lever. “What happened to him?”

Holly put his hands up a little higher. “Oh, no. You got it wrong. I didn’t do that. He was already like that. I’m just giving him a ride home.”

“He’s a friend, Katie. Put that thing away.” Clayton raised a wobbly hand in the air to motion for her to put down the gun, and then tried unsuccessfully to pull himself out of the car. Simon lurched forward and grabbed his elbow to keep him from falling. Kate leaned the rifle against the quarter panel of the car and took Clayton’s face in her hands. She smelled the whiskey immediately and pulled back.

“Clayton? Are you . . . ? Have you been . . . ?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re drunk and you’re beat-up. What the hell is going on here?” She examined his swollen eye, but with a lot less compassion than she would have done if he was sober. She looked to Holly to fill in the blanks. “What happened?”

“I suppose you should ask him, ma’am.”

“I’m asking you.”

“I’m thinking he might want to tell you himself.”

“That’s enough,” Clayton said, grabbing the rifle and making his way toward the porch. “Holly, bring the file on your dead bandito to my office in the morning. Thanks for the ride.” He carefully took the steps and opened the screen door.

“Clayton!” Kate said, surprised—confused—disgusted.

“Just come inside, woman. You ain’t got no pants on.” Clayton disappeared into the house. Kate’s cheeks flushed a bright rosy red, but Holly was sure it was caused by anger and not humility. He studied his shoes and puffed his cheeks out. He kept his hands buried deep in his pockets. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. Kate twisted her head so fast from the front door to Holly, he thought it might snap right off.

“Sorry? What are you sorry for?” She didn’t wait on an answer. “Are you sorry Halford didn’t kill him? I know that’s what happened. I know he went up there with some fool idea that you put in his head. I know that’s a year of sobriety down the toilet because of this bullshit.”

“Wait a minute, Kate. It’s bigger than that.”

“Don’t use my name familiar. You don’t know me. Just get back in your car and drive away. I’d tell you to stay away, but we both know that ain’t gonna happen, is it?”

“I can’t.”

“Get the hell off my property.”

“All right, Mrs. Burroughs.” Holly moved to the driver’s side of the car and put his hand on the door. “You know,” he said, “the girl down at Lucky’s wanted to call you to come get him. I didn’t think you’d want that to play out in public.”

“What do you want? A thank-you?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. He kind of did.

Kate’s hip swiveled out to the side on instinct. It showed off her curves even more, and Holly struggled to keep his attention on her eyes. She grabbed the rifle from where Clayton had propped it against the door and flung her hair back out of her face. “I want you to listen to me, Agent Holly. Can you do that? I mean really listen?”

“Sure.”

“Good, because I don’t plan on ever having to talk to you again. My husband is a good man—”

“Mrs. Burroughs.”

“You just said you could listen.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, he’s a good man and he’s a good sheriff—almost to a fault. He can handle himself and he’s capable of making his own decisions, but that doesn’t let you off the hook for planting the seed. Don’t think for a second that I won’t hold you just as accountable if anything like this happens again on your watch.”

“My intentions here are to do this peacefully.”

“Says the man whose face didn’t get pummeled today. I don’t care what your intentions are. I just want my husband to come home to me every night whole. Tonight is your one pass. But after tonight, if you get him hurt again, if anything happens to that man while he’s acting on your behalf, I don’t care who you are, or what your intentions were, you’re going to have to answer to more than just the Lord. Are we clear on that, Special Agent Holly?”

Holly studied her resolve; this woman was a piece of work. She’d just threatened a federal agent and meant every word of it. Holly nodded, more in admiration than agreement. He opened the car door.