The Best Friend Zone

“Coyotes, huh? Heard a few other folks had trouble with them lately over at the Bobcat.” No lie, they’re wily enough to come this close to people when wolves usually won’t.

“I wish. This animal had two legs and drove a Dodge.”

“Shit.” My spine stiffens. “What happened?”

“Well, I was in the middle of a big Bonanza marathon, having a few smokes when I heard a vehicle pull up. I figured it was just someone driving by, wanting to turn around, but then I heard a door close. Somebody was sneaking around on my turf.” He stands up, thankfully holding his robe shut. “Here, I’ll show ya.”

He walks down the steps, and I follow him to the barn where I recognize several goats in their corral, including Hellboy with his typical wicked flash of teeth that looks too much like a grin.

“What’d your intruder look like?” I ask, wishing like hell I didn’t have to.

“Don’t know. It was too dark, but I got a footprint. Over here, in the mud by the water spigot. It leaks a lot, and the bastard stepped right in it the second I fired a warning shot in the air. He took off, running for his truck.”

I nod, trying not to let the tension turning me into a statue show.

Most places I’ve lived, a gunshot in the middle of the night would get reported to the sheriff, but here in Dallas, the neighbors deal with coyotes and the rare cougar after their livestock regularly.

“You said he was driving a Dodge?”

“Yep, I’m sure of it.” Dean sniffs loudly and spits into the corner. “Probably some desperate puke looking for something to steal for drug money. Those sorta bandits come and go like the wind, didn’t bother reporting it to the sheriff.”

“What did the Dodge look like?” I ask, pressing him harder.

He turns his head slowly, stroking his chin. “Hm, dunno. It was parked on the other side of the barn and took off in that direction. Think it was missing some paint.”

“And you’re sure it was a Dodge?”

“Didn’t need to see it, man. I heard it. Cummins engines have a rattle like no other when they’re wearing down. I’d say it was a mid-nineties model, maybe. Rusted and banged up. Typical goddamn meth mobile.”

Dammit.

Exactly what I feared.

He just described Marvin’s truck. That asshole didn’t heed my warning and scram like I told him.

Instead, he’s following up, tracing the Rent-A-Goat name on the trailer back to Tory and her uncle.

“You got my number?” I ask, catching Dean’s eye.

He flashes me a bewildered look. “Huh? Yeah, I think…is there a reason I ought to keep you on speed dial? Still got your eye on my niece?”

He chuckles and I pinch my jaw.

This town. Seems like I’m never gonna stop catching shit from the many, many people wanting Tory and me to be a thing.

“Listen, don’t tell anybody, but Grady says he’s seen some oddball characters creeping around Dallas lately,” I tell him, not dropping the hint it involves me.

“What? Like that funny business a year back before Ridge and Grace tied the knot? When he told us to keep an eye out for reporters and it turned out to be some mobster jackasses and his goons?” Dean scratches his cheek, stubby fingers raking stubble loudly in the silence.

“Not quite like that but…yeah, keep your eyes peeled. And if you won’t call Sheriff Wallace, call me if this snooping ever happens again.”

For a second, he’s frozen. Then he looks from side to side quickly as a big, goofy, entirely Dean grin eats up his face.

“Ah, wait. Is this some PI thing? Or even bigger, Faulk?” He leans in, still grinning like he’s holding onto this wild secret. “I heard you used to be a Fed, dude. Is that what this is?”

Oh, hell.

Here we go.

I hold up a finger to my lips, shushing him, deciding if he’s already made up his mind off the town gossip machine, it could work to my advantage.

As long as he cooperates, can’t say I care if he thinks I’m a flyin’ purple people eater.

“Dean. Just call me, okay? I can’t say more,” I mutter low, leaning toward his ear. “It’s classified.”

“Oh, man. Shit. I…will do, Faulk! You can count on me.” He looks at me again, so giddy he’s almost bouncing.

If only the rest of this were just as easy as getting Dean Coffey baited and worked up.

I have to follow up on that Marvin asshole today, before he comes prowling around this place or anybody else with Coffey in their name.

7

Goat It Together (Tory)

Why the hell did I answer my phone again?

Just why?

I hadn’t said a word to Mother about working for Uncle Dean. I know neither he nor Granny would’ve mentioned it, so I’m wondering how Dad knows all about it.

But somehow, he’s heard, and he’s pissed. That’s for sure.