Texas Tall (The Tylers of Texas 3)

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you still love him?”

The night of the storm flashed through her mind—Will’s crushing arms, his kisses, their bodies seeking each other in desperate need. But that hadn’t been love. It hadn’t even been close.

“I care for him, of course,” she said. “He’s Erin’s father, after all. But right now, that can’t be allowed to matter. Will is my client. That’s how I need to think of him.”

He let her go with a quick hug. “You’ll do us all proud, lady,” he said. “And when Will’s cleared, we’ll have a big celebration. For now, let’s both get back to the ranch. This’ll be a tough day for Erin. She’s going to need us.”

Leaving her, he headed out to his Jeep. Tori watched him drive away. Beau had given her a good pep talk. But she’d known him since kindergarten and she’d recognized the look in his eyes.

Beau was as scared as she was.

* * *

Abner strolled down the hall to the row of holding cells, where Will Tyler had been taken after the booking procedure. He’d phoned Stella right after the inquest. She’d been pleased as punch. Abner was pleased, too. Putting a Tyler behind bars was no small accomplishment.

Abner and Will Tyler went back a long way. In school Will had been everything Abner wasn’t—popular, smart, admired, and rich, at least by Blanco standards. He’d held class offices, gotten the best grades, and dated the prettiest girls, while Abner, a pudgy nobody, had been ignored. Will had never been unkind to the lonely boy. Like the other popular students, he’d simply treated Abner as if he didn’t exist.

Abner had always envied the Tyler men—their power, their self-confidence, their brazen masculinity. Over the years that envy had fermented to hatred. He’d watched from behind the one-way glass as Will was strip-searched, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, and photographed face-on and in profile. It was satisfying to see a proud man like Will brought down to the level of a common criminal. It would be even more satisfying to see him behind bars.

The cells were walled on three sides, with bars open to the hallway. Each cell was designed to hold two men, but today most of them were empty. Will would be alone.

As Abner neared the cell, a nervous prickle stole up his spine. Watching Will from behind mirrored glass was one thing. Facing him, even through iron bars, was another.

Stopping next to the wall, just short of the cell, he took a careful peek around the corner. Will was stretched out on the lower bunk, his long legs crossed, his arms supporting the back of his head. His eyes were closed.

Was he asleep? Not likely, Abner surmised, stepping in front of the bars. He was faking it, as if to show his captors how little this humiliating process had affected him.

Even in the ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, which was inches too short in the legs, Will made an impressive figure—like a sleeping lion, relaxed but alert, and still dangerous.

Maybe this was a bad idea, coming here without a deputy along. Abner inched back toward the wall, intent on leaving. But just then, Will opened his eyes. His left eyebrow slid upward. For the space of a long breath, nothing else moved. Then he spoke.

“Do you need something, Sheriff, or did you just come by to gloat?”

Abner drew himself up. “You’ve no call to say that, Will. It was the judge who put you in here, not me. I’m just doing my job.”

“Well, do it somewhere else. I may have to be here, but I don’t have to listen to you whine and make excuses. If you’ve got anything to say that’s worth hearing, call my lawyer.” Will rolled over in the bunk, giving Abner a view of his orange-clad back.

Seething, Abner stalked back up the hall, toward the booking area. With a few well-chosen words, Will had cut him down yet again, making him feel like a small, powerless nobody. And the arrogant bastard had done it lying down in a jail cell.

Abner’s prostate was acting up again today—or maybe it was just stress. He stopped by the men’s room to relieve himself. A glance in the mirror confirmed what he knew: He was fat and homely, with a dowdy wife, a house full of kids, and a sixteen-year-old daughter who was about to make him a grandfather at forty. He was undereducated, underpaid, and would likely never advance beyond his present job. The confrontation with Will had brought it all home.

But this fight wasn’t over. Will wouldn’t be so high-and-mighty once he’d been locked up in the state prison for a few years; and Abner was determined to put him there. Whatever it took, whatever he had to do, the sheriff vowed, he would break Will Tyler and bring him to his knees.

* * *

Clay got the call from Stella as he was leaving work. Her timing was so spot-on that he suspected the woman was somewhere in the parking lot, watching him from her car. “I take it you’ve heard the news,” he said.

“More or less. But I wouldn’t mind hearing your take on the story.”

“We lucked out with the judge. But getting a jury to convict him won’t be that easy. The evidence that Will Tyler shot your brother in self-defense was pretty persuasive, especially the taped interview with his daughter.”

“Well, now, that’s your problem, isn’t it, Mr. Prosecutor?” Her tone made Clay want to wrap his hands around her neck and shake her till it snapped. “Tell me about the evidence,” she said.

“No surprises. There was the knife, the two guns involved, Will’s flashlight, Nick’s helmet, and the packet of cocaine that the deputy found on the bike. The fact that Nick was probably dealing won’t help our side any.”

She sighed. “Oh, Lordy, I told him to stay away from that awful stuff. If only he’d listened to me.”

Her performance was an act, Clay knew. Stella had her fingers in plenty of dirty pies, including illegal drugs. But trying to prove it would be like slitting his own throat.