"Because you kowtow to people like Maisy Aucoin instead of listening to the folks who matter," the mayor said with a sneer. "We expected more of you considering your family name, which is why we appointed you to finish out Ned Finnigan's term after his heart attack."
"Mrs. Aucoin is the town librarian, she's not the criminal underbelly."
"She's a rebel rouser." Beauford's voice went up to a full shout on the last two words.
"Because she wouldn't get rid of the romance section of the library?"
"That trash doesn't need to be within sight of our young people," he huffed.
The man was delusional. "You mean the young people with full access to the Internet?"
The mayor jabbed a finger in Drew's direction. "Don't you backtalk me, boy."
In a normal place, being thirty-one would eliminate being called boy. Not in Catfish Creek, the town that sanity forgot. Not for the first time in the past two years, he wanted to kick himself for agreeing to come home in return for his mom agreeing to go to rehab. The kick wouldn't have changed anything, he'd have still come home, but it would at least have been an acknowledgement of the hell he was entering. Drew gave Beauford a tight smile and forced his right hand to unclench before he gave into the urge to punch a seventy-six-year-old man in the face.
"Maisy has agreed to keep her cat indoors during the day and to erect a barrier to the top of the fence between your yards. However, cats being cats, Mr. Darcy is bound to figure a way around the barrier. My request is that if that happens, you not blast the tabby into next week."
The red flush went all the way up to the roots of his white hair. "I have a right to protect my property."
"Beauford calm down before you have to take one of your pills." Betty Sue appeared next to her husband in the doorway, a yellow Tupperware that was probably older than Drew but still looked new in her hand. "I cut you a slice of my pecan pie and wrapped up some biscuits for you. Think of it as a parting thank you gift for your time as sheriff, although I hear you're only sheriff in name only, what with this being your last week."
Ignoring the half-insult because his mouth was watering in a sort of Pavlov's dog response, he reached out and accepted the container. "Thank you, ma'am."
Betty Sue gave him a big smile that said you’re welcome and I'm done with you two idiots at the same time. "Now, my program is about to start so I'm gonna help you two end this conversation. Beauford, you're not shooting at that cat anymore." She turned to Drew. "And you tell Maisy Aucoin that if her cat bothers my Catfish Creek County Fair-winning prized yellow roses again, I will light up the durned feline like the Alamo on the Fourth of July."
Knowing this was about as good as it was going to get in the war of neighbors, he tipped his hat. "Yes, ma'am."
Making his way back to his truck—his patrol car had already gone to Sheriff-elect Paul Airman—he popped the Tupperware lid and inhaled the heaven that was Betty Sue Lynch's homemade butter biscuits and secret recipe pecan pie. He had a biscuit halfway to his mouth when the screech of someone taking the corner at a high rate of speed tore through the quiet street, followed by a soft pop. Then, a black sports car that looked like something James Bond would drive flew past, sparks flying from the driver's side back wheel which had popped its tire somewhere along the line. Stuffing the biscuit in his mouth, Drew rushed to his truck, yanked open the door, tossed the Tupperware onto the passenger seat, grabbed the cherry top that suction cupped to the roof, and started the engine for pursuit. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, he pulled out and slammed his foot down on the gas. It was almost like being back on the force in Fort Worth.
But just his luck, the car jerked to a stop half a block down.
Spinning the wheel as he hit the brakes, he came to a stop behind the sports car at an angle that blocked it from reversing. Mrs. Yancy's huge Cottonwood tree cut off any forward motion. Drew got out of his truck, keeping the open door between him and the other car and flicked open the leather strap on his hip holster that kept his sheriff's office-issued 9mm locked in place.
"Get out of the vehicle," he hollered.
The car's driver's side door opened wide. The first part of the driver to appear was one shapely leg wearing skin-tight denim punctuated with scuffed up black Doc Martens. Some sort of danger alarm sounded in Drew's head, but not the kind that warned of bullets or other bodily danger. A woman got out, facing away from him, her hands up and her dark hair a long silky curtain that led his attention straight down her back to the high curve of her ass poured into those jeans. Parts of him that had no place in police business sat up and noticed. Her ass was a testament to the reason why society required women to wear full dresses for so long—because men were weak, lust-addled idiots when it came to asses like the one that looked more than a little familiar to Drew. His gaze snapped back up as his internal alarm went from quiet buzz to all-out blare. He knew that ass, that hair, and those damn boots.
"Turn around," he ordered.
She did. Her lush mouth—one he knew far too well—was compressed into a tight line, her attention focused on something behind him. Leah Camacho was back and with her always came trouble—for him, for his sanity, and for the part of him that still thought of her at opportune moments in the shower when his soapy hand was wrapped around his hard cock.
"Drew," she said, making his name sound like a curse and a promise. "Get on the other side of the door."
Listening to Leah Camacho was the last thing he should be doing, but he did it anyway for reasons he didn't understand. Just as he rounded the door, an extended cab pickup truck turned the corner. The tires were big, the windows dark, and the speed was slow. As it puttered by, Drew looked it over and mentally confirmed it didn't belong to any of the usual suspects in Catfish Creek. Of course, the high school reunion was bringing in lots of folks who hadn't been here in a while. At the corner, the truck sped up, peeling away from the stop sign and taking a hard right back toward the highway.
"Who was that?" he asked, the smell of burnt rubber drifting back toward them.
"No fucking clue but they've been on my ass for the past hour," she said, reaching up and winding her long hair into a knot on the top of her head—the move emphasizing her amazing tits and making Drew's mouth go dry. "When they pulled off the highway and followed me to Catfish Creek I listened to that little voice that said they were up to no good. I didn't realize I'd be stopping on your turf."
He bet not. After what happened last time they were together, she'd made avoiding him into an art form. The fact that even now half his brain was playing back dirty movies—the kind where she was spread out and naked before him or her red lips were wrapped around his dick or a close-up view of her slick, swollen pussy so hungry for his cock, his tongue or his fingers—showed just how much better it would be for him if she kept avoiding him. However, the fact that he was the law in town, however temporarily, meant avoiding her was an impossibility because wherever Leah Camacho went, trouble was sure to follow. He glanced down at exhibit A.
"What happened to your tire?" he asked.
"No clue," she said, her voice tight with a lie. "I must have run over something."
Drew squatted down and took a closer look at the tire. It didn't have a tear, it was just gone as if it had been a blow out. If Leah had run over something big enough to do that, she would have realized it.
"What in the hell is going on, Leah?"