Crack the Whip (13 page)

Kyle’s head throbbed with every thud of his boots on the concrete floor. He wondered if he closed his eyes and then opened them again real slow, he’d find himself in his room at the hotel, with the gorgeous buckle bunny who’d been hanging on him the night before, and all this would be just a nightmare.

The sheriff turned a sharp corner, her ass wiggling provocatively—more tempting because he was sure the wiggle was not deliberate—and he found himself in a small room with a table and three chairs. A man who looked to be somewhere in his sixties sat on one side of the table. The sheriff closed the door and leaned against it, folding her arms across her tempting breasts.

“Sit down, Mr. Mitchell,” she said. “This won’t take five minutes. Judge Harley will take care of things, you can pay your fine and be out of my sight.”

His stomach clenched, a combination of the aftereffects of the night before and the prospect of what dire things a judge might decide. “Did you say judge?” He looked from one to the other. “What do I need a judge for?”

“I think we’ll get through this if you just do what the sheriff says,” Judge Harley pointed out.

Kyle wondered if he’d fallen into an alternate universe. He lowered his aching body into one of the chairs.

“Your name Kyle Mitchell?” the man asked.

“Uh, I’d say you already know that,” Kyle said.

“Just getting it down for the record. All right, then. Kyle Mitchell, you have been found guilty of being drunk and disorderly and causing damage to property. Fifty dollars for the fine and two hundred for repairs.” He smacked a gavel on the table. “Dismissed. He’s all yours, Jessie.”

She unfolded her arms and opened the door. “Not mine, Sam. I’ll be happy to see the last of him.”

“Wait a minute.” Kyle was trying to make sense of what was happening. “Wait just a damn minute. Drunk?

Disorderly? Damage? What the hell is going on here? I don’t even know what happened.”

“Your friend’s waiting outside for you,” the feisty blonde told him. “He can explain everything. Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

Friend? What friend? Who had come to fetch him? And where the hell was he, anyway?

He followed the sheriff through a door into what looked like the main room of the sheriff’s office. A dispatcher sat at a communications center against one wall, four desks were arrange in the open space, and tucked into a far corner was a miniscule office that Kyle assumed belonged to the sheriff.

A uniformed deputy waited for him at one of the desks, and lounging in a chair beside it was Gary Handler, grinning like a fool.

“Enjoy your night out, Kyle?” he asked and winked at the sheriff.

Those full lips never cracked a smile. “Let’s hope he doesn’t enjoy any more like them any time soon.”

“Gary, exactly where the fuck are we? And how did I get here?”

“Better watch your language in front of a lady,” Gary told him, still grinning like an idiot. “You’re in Watson’s Creek.”

Where?

“How did I get here?
Why
did I get here?”

Now Gary laughed, a loud sound that grated on Kyle’s nerves.

“You told the little buckle bunny you’d follow her anywhere. This was where she took you.”

“Huh?” He would have scratched his head, but it still hurt too badly. “Then how did I end up in jail?”

“You got in a fight with some…Neanderthal who apparently wanted to take charge of your…buckle bunny,” the sheriff snapped. “It took four of my deputies to break up the fight and poor Charley Haggerty had to close the bar down.” She looked at her deputy. “Judd, give Mr. Mitchell back his belongings so he can pay his fine and get out of my jurisdiction.”

The deputy handed him a large plastic bag with his watch, his signet ring, his wallet and other odds and ends he’d had in his pockets. From a desk drawer, he removed Kyle’s prized black Stetson and held it out carefully. Kyle clapped it on his head, wincing at even that slight pressure, opened his wallet and fished out the required money.

“I want a receipt,” he told the deputy.

“Got one right here.”

As pulled together as he could be, he turned to the woman in charge. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me your name, would you? Since I spent the night in your fine establishment.”

She glared at him. “Jessica Wade.
Sheriff
Jessica Wade.

But you won’t be using it again.”

Kyle grinned at her. Man, she sure was cute when she got her temper up. “Well, Sheriff Jessie—Can I call you Jessie? It suits your style a little more—it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You may call me Sheriff, and I wish I could say the same,” she snapped. “Get out of here and don’t come back to Watson’s Creek, Mr. Mitchell. We can’t afford your visits.”

Gary tugged on his arm. “Come on, hot shot. Let’s get out of here before they decide to stick you back in that cell.”

“But—”

“No buts. Let’s go.” He literally pulled Kyle from the office, through the door and outside. “Get in,” he ordered, opening the passenger door to his truck before jogging around to the other side of the vehicle. He cranked the engine over and pulled out of the parking lot, turning onto the street and heading toward the Interstate.

“Whew!” Kyle leaned back against the seat’s headrest.

“She’s a pistol, isn’t she? Mmm-mmm. A fine woman.”

“Aren’t you in enough trouble?” Gary asked. “Spending the night in a cell? I’d wipe her from my mind if I were you.

Chasing tail’s what got you into this predicament in the first place.”

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