Page 118 of Cowboy Heat
There’s no time to dwell.
I’m ready to spin around and high tail it to a more strategic location, but Robin’s Tree is apparently all about three things: nicknames, surprises, and Everett Guidry.
He’s standing in the doorway holding his own gun.
It’s not aimed at me.
“Bailey, Bailey.” Hetsksat the sheriff. “An’ here I was thinking loyalty was the only good thing about you. Guessin’ I was wrong. Sure is a pity.”
Well, at least I was right about something.
Guidry definitely is the kind of man who shoots you while staring you in the face.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
Kissy
In the movies,getting knocked out by a punch seems easy. Clean. You’re just standing there and then,smack, you’re on the floor. No muss, no fuss. Bing, bang, bongo. Down.
Personally, I’ve never been hit until recently, and as far as going down for the count from noggin’ trauma, that’s been an experience I’ve been happy to miss.
But when Jon Dean came out of the cruiser instead of Deputy Myers, I should have known I was in for something.
Too bad I hadn’t seen the blood on him sooner. I think I might have run.
Instead, though, my confusion had walloped me several seconds before Jon did.
There was nothing clean about it either.
The first knocked me true and dizzy. The second made me cry out. The darkness gave me mercy around the fourth.
Now on the other end of my newest terrifying experience, and I feel like I just went into another ditch with my Jeep. This time, the tree has hit me directly.
I move my shaking hand to my head to try and find an off switch of some sort to stop the pain. No luck. There’s blood in my hair and the pain just keeps going. My eyes close like they’re trying to do me a solid and get me to think I’m still in bed next to Beau, but there’s no denying my situation has changed.
When I open my eyes again, I’m looking at a paneled ceiling and one fluorescent light that’s buzzing something fierce. There’s no mildew stains or disrepair. It looks fairly new. The same goes for the concrete flooring that I sit up and stare down at next. The walls are matching concrete blocks, also clean and neutral. A few plastic tubs and boxes dot the floor around me. For one brief moment, hope abounds.
I’m in Big House’s basement!
The stairs situated to the left of the open space instead of the right is a cold bucket of water to the face.
I’m inabasement but not Beau’s.
I look down at the couch I’m sitting against.
Am I even in Robin’s Tree anymore?
No one else in town has a basement, that I know of at least. When Ryan King had his put in, it was big talk with locals. Surely if someone else had it put one in, there would be something that went around town about it.
Ryan King.
My hurt noggin’ hits his name hard.
Had we focused on Guidry so much that we’d missed a potential cover-up? A potential murder?
But why?
I’d only seen Mr. King once in town in the years he’d lived in Robin’s Tree. Surely, he couldn’t stir anything up enough to get him killed.
