Page 5 of Homicide in Water Creek

King scribbled a note for Maverick in case he came in before King returned. They needed to talk about this, but he couldn’t put off dinner any longer. For the most part, the town of Water Creek was quiet, aside from the usual culprits of drugs and sex, and that’s just the way they liked it. Leave it to his mother to screw that up. She hadn’t been in town in thirty years, and the first time she showed up, she was dead. He should be more sympathetic toward her, given her demise, but the truth was that the only feelings he had for her were distaste, distrust, and disinterest.

He grabbed his hat and swung through the office door. The Sheriff’s Department was housed upstairs in an old brick building on State Street. It held one jail cell, a small kitchen, his office, and desks for the deputies and the dispatcher.

King strode down the street, food the only thing on his mind. That was a lie. Food, Vonita, and Jacks were on his mind. Then again, Jacks was always on his mind. He took a deep breath of the night air and tried to let the negativity out. He took another deep breath, clearing his nose of the bad juju so he could enjoy his beer and wings.

In Water Creek, there were only two restaurants. One opened at six a.m. and closed at two p.m. The other opened at three p.m. and closed at two a.m. If you’re craving a full Cattleman’s breakfast, you’ll head to The Knife, The Fork, and The Spoon Diner. If you’re looking for a plate of wings and a cold beer, you’ll head to The Whistle Wetter. King was definitely looking to kick back with a longneck and a plate of wings after the day he’d had.

The bar was hopping, as expected. It might be Thursday night, but The Whistle Wetter was where everyone hung out in Water Creek. The rumor mongers, conspiracy theorists, cowboys, and old ladies alike. He steeled himself as he pushed through the door and slid his dirty, dusty pants over a stool. The owner herself was working the bar, and she jogged over, tossed him a coaster and opened a beer without even asking.

“Heya, Maddy,” he said, bringing the cold beer to his lips. “Thanks.” He tipped the bottle at her, and she winked, moving back to the other side of the bar to help someone else. He spun slowly on the stool and stared out over the crowd. Small towns could be a real pain, but they could also be the best thing that ever happened to you. He dealt with the former a lot, but the latter was what kept him in Water Creek. He could leave and find better pay and more recreational activities just about anywhere, but there was an atmosphere in Water Creek you didn’t find often. He’d tried leaving, and it didn’t work out.

The rumor mongers were laughing it up at a long table, all of them spinning beer bottles and shoving popcorn into their faces as they speculated about what was going on in town. King listened closely, but no one mentioned a dead body. The conspiracy theorists were in the corner, their chairs turned so no one could approach without being seen. The cowboys were at the pool table, talking trash with each crack of the cue. The old ladies just made him smile. They sat at the far back table, the clack of their knitting needles loud over the din of the crowd, their mouths going a mile a minute. None of them caught his attention, though. That award went to the woman sitting at a table in the darkest corner of the bar.

Jackson Miles was all California dreaming, with her shock of champagne curls. She was also trouble from head to toe. Tonight, her curls were tied back at the nape of her neck with an unassuming band. Her skin was the perfect shade of apricot, with a sprinkle of freckles over her nose, like a little girl who had been out in the sun too long. But her eyes. Oh, her eyes. They were all woman. The blue in them was ice all the way to their core, and once she hooked you with them, a man was done for life. King knew that was the truth. He’d tried to disengage from them for years, but he had yet to succeed.

She wore a different tank top than the one she’d had on earlier, but she filled it out just as well, if not better. This one was red, white, and blue, but it was also overflowing with her more-than-ample chest. In light of the cooler October temperature, she wore a flannel shirt over it, but that did nothing to detract from her beauty.

There wasn’t much to Jackson Miles, barely five feet of spitfire and sass, but she used what God gave her to rope a man in. He’d known her for years, but when he was a senior in high school, he’d taken to calling her ‘Abbreviated.’ She didn’t appreciate it, but it was the perfect word for her. He used it like a compliment, and she took it as an insult. Here was the most important thing to know about Jackson Miles. She was all brain. If someone ever so much as assumed she was just a pretty face, she’d take them apart piece by piece. King knew it, but he pushed his luck quite often just for the thrill of riling her up. There was something about her that made him hot under the collar and got his blood rushing.

He pushed himself off the barstool and strode across the room, ignoring the groups of people calling his name or grabbing his sleeve. He was off the clock, and that meant one thing. It was time to feel alive again. When he reached her table, he slid into the empty chair and rested his elbow on the table. “Jacks.”

“King.”

She tipped the bottle of cream soda to her lips, and they wrapped around it in a way that reminded him of the one time those pert, pink, sweet lips were on his in a lip lock he would never forget.

“You on watch duty again?”

“Yep.”

“They know you’re here?” he asked, his gaze tracking hers to the group of cowboys at the pool table.

“Yep.”

“Do they know why you’re here?”

“Nope.”

He couldn’t help himself. He laughed, and the sound cut through the din of the crowd. “Do you know more than two words?”

“I know a lot of words, but I don’t see much point in using more than necessary.”

A grin spread across his face, but his gaze remained fixed on the cowboys. “You never were one to babble. I like that about you, Jacks. Do you see any problems?”

“Chinos.”

“Agreed. What happened to his hands?”

“They were burned in a work accident,” she answered.

“And Jackson allowed him into the school?”

“We can’t discriminate because of disability, King. He’s missing his fingertips, but otherwise, the hands work just fine, as far as I’ve seen.”

“Understood. You got this under control?”

“I always do.”

There was that one time she didn’t, though, and that was what had him committing the guy to memory. The night she was hurt, he’d been in the big city. He wasn’t supposed to know, but Jacks’s granddaddy and King’s granddaddy had been best friends for fifty years. That meant his granddaddy had told him long ago. King was smart enough to keep his mouth shut about it, though.