“No, actually I don’t. And you’re a broken record, Mr. Garcia. Like one of those dolls. Pull the cord, and it gives you another prerecorded line. I do not have balls. I am not making a mistake. I do want to stop you.” I lift the gun. “And I really want to use this and solve our problem for good. So go ahead. Move me aside. Try that house over there. Walk farther into town. See what happens.”
Someone claps. I don’t take my eyes off Garcia, but I know who it is, and I say, “Looks like the cavalry is here, Mr. Garcia.”
“Looks like you don’t actually need it,” Anders says as he walks over, two of the militia following. “Whoever you are, sir? I’m going to suggest you move along.”
Garcia glowers. As he strides off the porch, he bumps Anders with a look that says he really hopes Anders will bump back, give him a reason to brawl. Our deputy just stands there, his arms crossed, lips curved in a smirk that sets Garcia seething as he heads from town.
“If you want to talk,” I call after him, “you know where to find us.”
Garcia keeps going. When he nears the edge of town, I turn to Anders and lower my voice. “I’m going after him. We need to see where he sets up his new camp so we can keep an eye on him.” I raise the radio. “Tell Eric I have this, and he can join me as soon—”
The thump of boots on wood cuts me off. It’s the sound of someone climbing onto a porch, coming from Garcia’s direction.
There’s only one house past this one, and it’s empty. It’s been empty since I moved in with Dalton—
“April,” Anders whispers.
Oh, shit. That house is not empty.
We both take off at a run. Garcia is on my old porch, raising his fist.
“Hey!” I shout. “Get away from that house.”
Garcia pounds on the wooden door. The sound echoes in the quiet morning.
“She won’t answer,” Anders murmurs beside me. “I was very clear on that. She’s not supposed to answer unless one of us announces ourselves.”
Garcia bangs again. We’re almost there when a figure emerges from the forest, running full tilt toward my old house. It’s Dalton, and I swear he’s breathing fire.
“Eric—!” I begin, to tell him it’s okay, we have this under control.
Anders’s hand lands on my shoulder, cutting me off. “At this point, it’s probably best we just let him do his thing.”
Garcia is lifting his fist to knock again when Dalton hits him. Garcia staggers. Dalton grabs him by the shirtfront and throws him clear through the railing, the wood cracking and splintering.
Garcia thuds onto the ground below. Before the marshal can even start to rise, Dalton is off the porch and on him. Behind me, footsteps pound, and I turn to see that the onlookers from earlier have caught up with us, ignoring the militia’s orders to get back. This spectacle is too entertaining to miss, even if it earns them a few days of chopping duty.
Dalton lets Garcia stagger to his feet, and our sheriff stands there, fists clenched, waiting for it. If Garcia had an ounce of brains, he’d see that look in Dalton’s eyes and surrender. You win, Sheriff. Now let’s talk.
Garcia swings. Dalton blocks and hits him with a right hook to the jaw. Garcia slams into a tree. The marshal recovers, massaging his jaw, looking like he’s ready to give up. Dalton straightens, as if he’s falling for it, but when Garcia swings, he grabs him by the arm and throws him into the side of my house.
Dalton’s bearing down on Garcia when my front door opens. April rushes onto the porch. She sees the two men and her mouth forms an “Oh!” Then she’s quick-stepping backward when she spots the others: Anders and the militia and the half dozen local onlookers.
April wears my oversize sweatshirt and a pair of my track pants, but even if I weren’t standing ten feet away, there’s no chance anyone would mistake her for me. Her eyes round, and she darts back inside.
I jog toward the house. I glance at Anders, who motions for me to go on, they can handle this. The fight hasn’t stopped for April’s intermission. Neither man seemed to realize the door had opened. Blows have been traded. Garcia’s nose streams blood, and his shirt is torn. There’s a smear of dirt on Dalton’s face, where one of Garcia’s swings made contact. I’m about to go inside when Dalton shakes his left arm.
His left arm. Shit. His injured dominant arm.
I glance at Anders, but he’s already seen it, and he’s jogging toward the men.
“Hey, boss,” Anders says. “You want this guy in lockup? Or you trying to put him in the infirmary?”
Dalton snorts and moves back. “Yeah, lock him up.”
I open the front door. As I’m stepping through, Anders goes after Garcia while Dalton bears down on the assembled gawkers, now dispersing quickly.
I close the door behind me. April’s on my sofa.