“What are you doing out here, Guidry?”
There was the little frown that hit his face every time she used his last name. If she hadn’t been certain she knew the man, she would have thought it was hurt on that handsome face of his. But she knew what it really was. Frustration. Zep was a man used to getting what he wanted. He’d decided he’d wanted a second night with her, and when she’d refused, he’d begun the chase.
He was a man who lived for the chase.
“Archie called me,” he replied. “Probably right after he called you.”
Archie shook his head. “Oh, no. Before. I knew I would need a hunter, and everyone knows you’re just like your daddy was. You have ways. You can see them, talk to them.”
Sometimes she wondered if she was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. “You think Guidry here can talk to the rag thing?”
“The rougarou,” Zep corrected her before turning back to Archie. “You said it was in your barn?”
Archie blinked and then nodded. “Yes. It’s in there. I heard something rustling around. The goats were going crazy. I heard it growl and it cursed. I definitely heard it curse in its language. There was a light, too. I saw it under the doors, and then it was all dark.”
Zep nodded like that made sense somehow. “I’ll go check it out.” He gave Caroline Johnson a charming grin. “And you better get your husband dressed, Mrs. Johnson. Women see all that masculinity and they won’t know what to do with themselves.”
Caroline’s eyes lit with righteous fire. “That’s what I said. You cover up, old man.”
Zep hopped off the porch and started across the big yard, his cell phone lighting the way.
“Hey, you need to hold up.” Roxie followed him. The last thing she needed was for him to walk into a dangerous situation and get himself hurt. Her ass would be on the line for letting a civilian take control.
It had nothing to do with the fact that she didn’t want to see him injured, that the thought made her stomach ache. Because she didn’t care.
“It’s nothing,” Zep insisted. “Or rather it’s not a police thing, I suspect. The Johnsons don’t have anything to steal. They certainly don’t have anything in that barn unless someone is trying to steal a goat. I wouldn’t recommend doing that. Those damn goats can be mean. They’ve got horns and don’t mind using them.”
She fell into step beside him. “I should still go first. I don’t understand why they called you. You’re not a neighbor.”
“We’re all neighbors out here,” Zep said. “And he didn’t call me because I live in town. He called me because I know how to deal with wildlife.”
The parish didn’t have an animal services department. The sheriff’s office had to handle most of the wildlife encounters. She’d had to take a couple of classes from park rangers to teach her how to not freak out. “You think something got in the barn? What about the light he saw?”
“I think Archie likes to get into the whiskey, and he’s still got an excellent imagination. Unless we want to have a serious discussion about whether or not a swamp creature is hiding in the Johnson barn.”
She sighed as they approached the barn in question. “Swamp creature?”
“The rougarou is our version of a werewolf,” Zep explained. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it yet. We haven’t had a sighting in years, but folks love to talk.”
Roxie hadn’t studied local lore. Of course, she didn’t do much of anything beyond work and have the occasional beer with the guys—who treated her like one of the guys. The small group of employees at the Papillon Parish station consisted of herself, Sheriff Armie LaVigne, and four deputies. She was the only female among them, and not one of them looked at her like she was a woman.
It was exactly what she wanted.
But one night, the man beside her had sent the strongest reminder that she wasn’t one of the guys. He’d proven to her she was a woman and she could want everything a woman wanted. Love, affection, passion.
She wouldn’t get any of those things from him. Not for longer than a night or two, and then she would be one in the long line of women who pined over the gorgeous . . . what had the town librarian called him? A rakehell. The woman read a whole lot of historical romances.
In this century, they would call Zep Guidry a player.
She wasn’t going to get played again.
“Maybe you should stay up on the porch with the Johnsons,” she said as they began to approach the barn door. The night around them was eerily quiet, and she was starting to get a little adrenaline pumping. Not because she believed there was a swampy werewolf behind those doors. Rather because she didn’t.