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He’d been wise to hold back what he knew, Beau reflected. Tori had told him about the rape, too. And the very thought of Slade ripping down Natalie’s jeans, thrusting into her helpless body, and leaving her to lie there was enough to incite a murderous rage. Beau had killed more men than he cared to remember, and he’d done it with the cold efficiency that was part of his job. But he’d never wanted to kill a man as much as he wanted to kill Slade Haskell.
He didn’t plan to do it, of course. That would be murder. But he could make certain the man knew what would happen if he didn’t leave Natalie alone. At the very least, it might help keep her safe.
When Slade had baited him before, Beau had held in his anger out of respect for Natalie’s marriage. But respect was out the window now.
He eased off on the gas pedal as the truck rolled into town. The Blue Coyote would be a good place to start looking. Stella, the owner, seemed a friendly sort. If Slade wasn’t there, she might at least know where to find him.
When he pulled into the parking lot, Beau didn’t see Slade’s red pickup, but Tori had told him it was in impound and that Slade wasn’t allowed to drive. If he was here, it made sense that he wouldn’t be here alone.
Walking inside, he glanced around the bar. Slade was nowhere to be seen. But Stella spotted him. Dressed in a low-cut black satin cowgirl shirt embroidered with roses, she gave him a wave and a sexy smile. Minutes later she joined him at the bar.
“What can I do for you, cowboy?” She nudged him with one shoulder, causing her ample breasts to jiggle. Beau glanced toward the tattooed bartender, who was wiping a glass and taking no notice. No jealousy there, Beau surmised. But it would be interesting to know more about the relationship between those two. He had yet to snap a photo of the man for his friends at the DEA to run, but he’d have to worry about that later.
Beau ordered a beer on tap, taking his time. “I was hoping Slade Haskell would be here,” he said.
“Have you got business with Slade?” One painted eyebrow arched a little higher.
“You might say that.” Beau gave her a lopsided grin. He knew how to charm when it suited him. “If you’re expecting him anytime soon, I’ll hang around. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”
“Not if it means we get to know each other better.” She flashed him a wink. “Slade usually comes in about this time, so feel free to wait. Right now I’ve got my customers to keep happy, but don’t you go anywhere, hear?”
She sashayed away, her plump ass doing a little shimmy for his benefit. Hoping he hadn’t charmed himself into a sticky situation, Beau sipped his beer and watched the door. Did Stella know what was going on? But why wonder? Beneath that cowgirl-floozy façade, Beau sensed a keen acuity that missed nothing. Underestimating the woman could be a dangerous mistake.
He’d finished his beer and started on another when the door opened and Slade walked in. Beau’s
instincts sprang to full alert. Slade was flanked by two quiet-looking older men wearing Haskell Trucking shirts. Slade’s employees, Beau surmised. They didn’t strike him as the sort who’d wade into trouble to save their boss. But there were other men in the bar, tough-looking types who could be Slade’s friends. He’d be smart to watch his back.
He could get away with threatening Slade, but if it got physical—and it would—the man would have to come at him first. Beau took his time, sipped his beer, and waited. His training had taught him to fight cold, with emotions detached. He would have to maintain that detachment—otherwise, his anger could push him to kill the man.
Slade had spotted him. His pale eyes narrowed to slits of rage. “Tyler, you wife-stealing bastard!” he bellowed. “Come fight me like a man!”
Beau set down his beer, turned slowly on the bar stool, and stood. “These people deserve to drink in peace, Slade,” he said. “Let’s take this outside.”
“And have you run again?” Slade muttered an obscenity. “I’m gonna beat you till you puke blood! And when I’m done with that pretty-boy face of yours, no woman will ever want you again!”
Customers scattered out of his path, forming a ring of watchers as Slade lowered his head and charged. Beau waited until the last split second, then shifted his position. Slade crashed into the bar stools. Staggering to regain his balance, he was unprepared for the lightning uppercut that Beau knifed into his solar plexus. The breath whooshed out of him. He doubled over. His knees buckled, giving Beau a perfect opening for a sharp-toed boot kick to the groin.
In less than five seconds it was over. Slade lay curled on his side, whimpering in agony. No one else moved or made a sound.
Beau could feel the adrenaline roaring through his body. He pictured Natalie’s battered face, her ravaged body. Bloodred fury flashed behind his eyes and he knew he was on the edge of losing control. One more strategic blow could kill the man at his feet or cripple him for life. He couldn’t let it happen.
Forcing himself to exhale slowly, he backed away a step. Slade’s watery eyes looked up at him.
“Only a coward would beat a woman,” Beau rasped. “How much does your wife weigh, Slade? Maybe half as much as you? How did you feel when you punched her in the face? Did you feel like a man?”
Slade muttered something vile, but he was in too much pain to get up.
Crouching, Beau seized his collar and yanked him up to the level of his gaze. There was genuine terror in Slade’s eyes. Spit trailed from the corner of his mouth to the stubble on his chin. Sick with rage and disgust, Beau glared at him. He’d reduced this human monster to a quivering hulk, but nothing could touch what the man had done to Natalie.
“Get one thing through your thick head, Slade Haskell,” he said. “Don’t you ever threaten Natalie again. If you so much as go near her, so help me, the next time I see you I’ll kill you.”
Shoving Slade back to the floor, he rose, laid a bill on the bar, and walked out.
A pair of unseen eyes had witnessed Slade’s humiliation. Lute had come into the Blue Coyote behind Slade and the two truckers. When he’d spotted Beau Tyler and sensed trouble, he’d skirted the crowd, made his way down the hall toward the restroom, and watched from the recessed doorway. Slade had gotten what he deserved. Too bad it had to be at the hands of an arrogant bastard like Beau Tyler.
Now, two mornings later, Lute entered the closed establishment through the back. His weekly cash was due, and Stella had always paid on time. Not finding her at first, he wandered into the bar. The place was silent, the floor swept, the tables cleared and wiped, the glassware polished. Weeks had passed since Jess’s murder, but Lute still couldn’t walk into the place without picturing her, flitting among the tables in her little pink boots. By now he understood that she’d been a whore. But that didn’t mean there hadn’t been something special between them—something that, with time, might have become real. He’d fantasized about taking her away from this place, getting a little apartment where he could have her all to himself. But those dreams had ended with the unspeakable discovery in the bog.
Had the cops learned anything about who killed her, he wondered, or had they decided a dead whore wasn’t worth their time?
