My guts lash with anger as I pound nails in the boards.
Almost a week of sleeting October rain delayed the repair, leaving me to make do with a temporary patch till the deluge stopped and mud like quicksand dried enough to stand on.
Hitting something solid hard enough to tear my hand off sounds like the therapy I need right now, and fixing Herc’s pen delivers it.
Why the hell would anyone break into my house?
There’s nothing valuable enough to steal. I do well for myself and I appreciate old stuff, but I’m not living in a museum overflowing with antiques.
I can’t help but think that Carson Hudson has something to do with it, despite Drake saying he ran his name and nothing criminal came up.
All logical signs point to Muddy Boots, the mysterious fuck who Marty tells me keeps clocking in and working overtime like he’s just another run-of-the-mill roughneck in the oil fields.
Shelly also told me about Hudson’s business ventures, and how he showed them some valuables he’d picked up from locals.
She thinks he’s legit. Just another jackass with excess money and time to burn, scouring western North Dakota for forgotten junk he can flip for a profit.
I don’t blame her for feeling that way.
I don’t blame anybody for going with what’s logical.
Me? I don’t buy shit.
It’s too convenient. I’m also not sure I buy his reasons for hanging around town so long. There have to be happier hunting grounds than chasing after a few off-the-map farms and garage sales here.
Not unless there’s something specific he wants that he’ll only find in Dallas.
Still, I can’t discount the ghost of a man we’re calling Muddy Boots, either.
And if I’m right, if it’s one of these two strangers...why?
Why target my family? What’s the culprit really after?
“Are you sure I can’t help?” Shelly asks, her voice pleading.
I clamp my lips tight.
That was the only scary part about the whole shitting thing.
She was here last week. Alone.
Shel could’ve smacked right into whoever the fuck wanted to force their way in and toss my living room. God only knows what might’ve happened then, especially if this Muddy Boots dude has so little chill he roared at my elderly aunt.
If it weren’t for causing Marty trouble, I’d drive over to North Earhart and wait for the snake to get off work. Then I’d break his nose for scaring my aunt within an inch of her life.
The thought of Shelly facing his temper makes me sick, and mighty grateful she didn’t see anything that would get her noticed.
There’s been entirely too much of this criminal mastermind crap in Dallas the last few years.
First Ridge and Grace with those guys from Milwaukee after them, then Faulk with a nasty rogue from his FBI past.
I didn’t wind up locked in a cage with a full-grown tiger over nothing—Uncle Grady and Willow had their tango with those animal smuggling freaks. I’m damn glad I had a hand in bringing them down, even if it left me a fresh scar to the head.
Maybe that’s what’s got me on edge more than anything.
This town has been a frigging magnet for trouble, and usually it’s a whole lot bigger than weirdos with a hard-on for petty home intrusions and fancy lockpicks.
Dallas used to be a place where people weren’t afraid to go to bed with their doors unlocked. It pisses me off that someone wants to savage our goodwill, our collective gentleness, and I’m smack-dab in the middle of it.