Keeping What's His: Tate (Porter Brothers Trilogy 1)

“Thank God he wasn’t hurt.” Then another thought occurred to her. “When did it happen?”

“A couple of hours ago. Knox, his deputies, and the state police are swarming all over town, trying to find Tate.”

“He couldn’t have done it. He’s been here with me the whole time.”

“Whoever is doing the shootings doesn’t know I’m here with you, or they would have waited for you to go into town,” Tate stated.

“Is that good or bad?” Sutton asked, going to the oven to take out the cornbread. Lifting the heavy, cast-iron skillet, she placed it on the stove.

“Bad. It means either the fucker is getting ready to leave town, or …”

“Or?”

“He’s about to escalate the attacks.”

Sutton gave Tate a worried glance. “Knox said he would come back and arrest you if one more person was hurt.”

“Knox knows Tate didn’t do it. A witness gave a description of someone smaller than Tate running away down an alley.”

“Then Tate’s in the clear?”

“Not just yet. Knox sent the message to keep low. The state police aren’t exactly willing to remove Tate from their suspect list, and they said the two killings might not be connected to Rider. They sent the bullet off to the state lab. It’s going to be a few days before they can say if it’s from the same gun that killed Helen Stevens.”

Greer reached out to pinch off a large chunk of cornbread and popped it into his mouth. “Damn, I haven’t had cornbread that good since Ma died.”

“Have a seat at the table, and I’ll fix you a plate.” Sutton ignored Tate’s amused gaze as she turned to the cabinet to take out plates and bowls.

She fixed both men heaping plates of food before placing them down on the table in front of them.

“What do you want to drink?”

“What do you think?”

Sutton went to the refrigerator, taking out the milk jug and placing it on the table with glasses. She had eaten at their home a few times before their parents had passed away and remembered how they liked to eat their cornbread.

She sat down after fixing herself a much smaller plate, enjoying watching the men eat the food she had cooked.

“I could fucking cry,” Greer complimented. “They taste just like Ma’s.”

Sutton blushed with pleasure at Greer’s compliment. “They should. She’s the one who taught me how to cook them.”

When the men were done eating, she watched as they each tore the cornbread up into their milk and ate it with their spoons.

“Never thought I’d say I would enjoy someone’s cooking as much as Ma’s.” Greer’s praise had her smiling.

She hadn’t noticed how good-looking he had become before now. His features were more handsome than Tate’s and more sculpted than Dustin’s. His nose would benefit from a plastic surgeon. Sutton thought it looked like it had been broken more often than hers. His body was leaner than Tate’s, but he was taller. Sutton could understand why the women in town would have trouble picking between the Porter brothers.

Tate’s frown showed he wasn’t happy with the way she was looking at Greer.

A fly suddenly flew by, and Sutton forgot about Tate’s frown and became angry at herself for not lowering the screen after Greer had climbed through. The aggravating thing would drive her crazy until she managed to kill it. She was about to get a fly swatter when Greer’s hand smacked down with the speed of lightning on the table, killing it. He used his fingers to flick it off the table then casually went back to eating his milk and cornbread.

Her eyes went back to Tate at his chuckle. “How am I looking now?”

“Better.” Sutton laughed with him.

Greer looked at them suspiciously. “What?”

“There’s soap and water over at the sink.”

“Why, because I killed that little fly? I have an immunity to germs,” he bragged.

Sutton thought for a second he was joking then realized he was serious.

“It’s the truth. I’m never sick.”

“I bet the others around you can’t say the same.”

“Nah, they’re sick all the time.”

“I wonder why,” Sutton said sarcastically. She had a feeling Greer was a reincarnation of Typhoid Mary.

“Because I have my own elixir I drink every day. It keeps me strong and healthy as a horse.”

“What’s in it?”

“A cup of moonshine, a shake of red pepper flakes, half a lemon, and a clove of garlic. I haven’t been sick in ten years.”

“You eat a clove of garlic every day?” Sutton made a mental note not to stand too close to him.

“Yep. The moonshine kills the smell of the garlic.”

“That’s not all it kills. How long has it been since you had a date?”

Greer leaned back contentedly in his chair, patting his stomach. “Been too busy trying to find Lyle’s murderer to go out lately.”

“When you find him, give him that concoction of yours, and he’ll beg to go to prison.”