Page 221 of Property of Whiskey

“Just come over.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Is Twila there?”

I lift my hand for some reason.

Whiskey looks at me. “Yeah.”

“Then ask the deputy to arrest the deer.”

I laugh harder.

“You’re her Uncle.”

“I’m getting dressed.”

“Bring your shotgun.”

Another pause.

“Now we’re talking.”

He hangs up.

Whiskey lowers the phone and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Wren smiles sleepily. “Holler likes shooting.”

“Holler likes everything involving noise.”

Ten minutes later, headlights sweep across the front windows. Whiskey doesn’t relax until his brother walks through the door wearing a robe beneath an old hunting coat, rubber boots on his feet, and carrying a twelve gauge like this is a perfectly normal family gathering.

He takes one look at me wearing Whiskey’s shirt, then at Whiskey wearing jeans and nothing else. His eyes sharpen.

“Oh.”

Whiskey groans. “Just stop.”

“What?”

“Not one word.”

“I ain’t said anything.”

“You’re thinking loud.”

Holler looks at me. “You warm enough, Deputy?”

“I’m fine.”

Whiskey says, “She’s putting clothes on.”

I look at him. “I am?”

“You are if you’re going outside.”