by Liliana Hart
The Farmer’s Slaughter (Book 1)
A Harley and Davidson Mystery
Liliana Hart
Louis Scott
Jai Clark -
Thank you dearly for the friendship we’ve grown. We appreciate your investment of time and creativity in our lives, and thanks to you, the small town of Rusty Gun, Texas officially becomes somewhere that someone calls home.
Your friends,
Scott & Liliana
Contents
The Farmer’s Slaughter
Get Full Cozy With Box Set 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Bonus Book - A Tisket A Casket
Get Full Cozy With Box Set 1
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
A Look Ahead
You make a big difference
About Liliana Hart
About Louis Scott
Get Full Cozy With Box Set 1
Copyright © 2018 by Liliana Hart & Scott Silverii
All rights reserved.
Published by 7th Press
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
To our kids -
Stop calling us. Yes, we are home, but we’re trying to get a little adult time in between driving y’all to all of your activities. And by adult time, we mean napping. We love you anyway.
The Farmer’s Slaughter
Get Full Cozy With Box Set 1
A Harley and Davidson Mystery Box Set 1
FREE for KU Readers
Contains:
A Farmer’s Slaughter
A Tisket A Casket
I Saw Mommy Killing Santa Claus
Get Your Murder Running
Chapter One
“They call him Hammerin’ Hank,” Heather said, waggling her eyebrows. “I wonder what it is he hammers?”
Agatha buried her face in the plastic menu, not particularly interested in the man Heather had targeted to be her next ex-husband. Especially since the man in question was new in Agatha’s neighborhood. Not that she’d spent a lot of time peeping through her blinds and down the corner at him. It was just neighborly curiosity. But the man definitely had a story.
The cracked vinyl seat of the booth scratched her legs, and she regretted the skirt she’d put on that morning, but it had been one of the only clean things left in her closet. So it was either the skirt or the cocktail dress she’d worn at a New Year’s party several years before. The skirt wasn’t so bad. It was made out of soft cotton, plus it had pockets, which were the best invention in the history of the runway, in her opinion.
The problem with wearing a skirt was you had to do it justice. Skirts required a certain cute factor that took a little bit of effort. So she’d put on a black-and-white striped stretchy top and pulled her dark hair into a loose ponytail with a few free-flying wisps like Heather had showed her. And then she’d added dangly black earrings because she figured she might as well go all out. The only thing she was missing was her black Toms, which were buried in the mud along with her pride, so she’d opted for a pair of black ballet flats instead.
The problem with effort was that Agatha had no time for it. In fact, she had no time for lunch with Heather either, but guilt had her meeting her friend even though deadline was calling. She’d been running a scene through her head for the last two days, and it still wasn’t right.
“Maybe he’s a contractor,” she said, feeling guilty for ignoring her friend. “Or maybe he works on the railroad. Or maybe he’s a vampire hunter and hammers stakes into their hearts.”
Heather swatted away Agatha’s menu, so she had no choice but to engage face-to-face. “You’re no fun, Agatha. Come on, tell me what you think about him. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed him. You’re about the nosiest person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m doing character research,” Agatha said dryly.
“Sure you are. Please,” she begged. “You can always size people up way better than I can.”
“A frozen slab of beef can size people up better than you can. I’ve never seen anyone who has such bad taste in men.”
Which was another reason Agatha wasn’t particularly interested in her new neighbor. If Heather picked him, he was bad news.
“Hush up, Agatha,” Heather said. “There was nothing wrong with Troy. He was a nice man.”
“And then you made him crazy and he drove his car through that liquor store. Maybe you need to join a nunnery and leave the male population in peace. They have enough trouble as it is without throwing you in the mix.”
Heather laughed, a long scarlet nail tapping on the side of her Diet Coke. “Sugar, what fun would that be? God put women on earth to drive men crazy. I’m just doing my duty.”
Agatha was pretty sure God hadn’t expected Heather to go through husbands like Dixie cups, but there was no use telling her friend that. She was bound and determined to find husband number five before the year was out.
In her opinion, Heather Cartwright should come with a big warning label strapped around her neck. A place like Rusty Gun, Texas, wasn’t a big enough hunting ground for a woman like Heather, which was why she’d extended her web clear into Austin.
Since Heather had received a rather nice settlement from husband number one, she hadn’t had to worry about things like a normal nine-to-five job. Mostly, she spent her days going to the spa and the gym. According to Heather, maintenance was key for husband hunting. And it took effort to maintain a body you could bounce quarters off, a year-round tan, white-blond hair, and breasts that acted as their own flotation devices.
“All I’m saying is the man has barely moved to town,” Agatha said. “He’s still got boxes stacked sky high in his garage. Give him a chance to settle in before you seduce him.”
“I do like a mature man,” Heather said, leaning back in the booth so she was displayed to her best advantage. “They know things, if you get my drift.”
She was staring at the man like he was an all-day sucker, and Agatha had to hand it to the guy, he was doing a darned good job at ignoring them. Most men were sitting up ready to beg by the time Heather gave them that look.
“Are you ready to order?” Agatha asked. “I need to eat and run. I’ve got too much work to do to play today.”
“You do nothing but work. Taking a break every once in a while won’t kill you.”
“That’s not how my brain works. When I’m in the middle of a book all I can think about is that book. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to take a break. It doesn’t work.”
Heather stared at her like she’d grown two heads. Work was like a foreign language to Heather. And trying to explai
n the creative process was like trying to teach a chimpanzee rocket science.
“Penny,” Agatha called out to the waitress. “We’d like to order now.”
A girl not long out of high school seemed surprised to hear her name called. Agatha immediately felt empathy for the girl. She was one of those who was aged beyond her years, but whatever curveballs life had continued to throw at her, she was still standing.
The girl flushed red and made her way to the table, her pad in hand. “I didn’t realize you knew my name,” she said, wide eyed as she stared at Agatha. “I’ve read all your books. Even the newest one. I’m such a huge fan. Maybe you could sign my apron?”
“Oh,” Agatha said, shifting in her seat uncomfortably. “Thank you, that’s very sweet. I’ve got an extra copy of the book in my bag if you’d like me to sign that for you.”
“Oh, wow, Ms. Harley, that would be fantastic. Wait until I tell my boyfriend. He’s a big fan too.”
“I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad,” Heather said, rolling her eyes at Agatha. “I’ve got this dress I have to fit into tonight, and you know how carbs make me bloated.”
Agatha half listened to Heather as she dug around in her bag for the book and then signed it, passing it over to Penny.
“You’re the best,” Penny gushed. “Everyone in town always talks about how nice you are, even though you keep to yourself all the time. There’s been a time or two a reporter or fan has shown up here looking to find where you live, but we know how to protect our own in Rusty Gun.”
All Agatha could do was nod, and then she finally said, “I’ll have the same as Heather’s having.”
Agatha hated salads, but she couldn’t think beyond the panic that had taken hold of her at Penny’s words. The whole town knew who she was. Who she really was. Of course everyone knew she was Agatha Harley. She’d grown up in Rusty Gun. But there was a reason she wrote under the name A.C. Riddle and had a security system Fort Knox would be proud of. She’d gone above and beyond to make sure her identity was kept secret. She didn’t do book signings. There were no pictures on her website or the dust jackets of her books. She lived in anonymity, and she liked it that way.
Sure, there were a handful of people who knew her author name. She didn’t keep her profession a secret. But most people didn’t care enough to delve too deep. The only times she had to give her pen name was when she needed to prove her credibility to get into some places to further her research. This new information was definitely something to think about.
She and Heather sat in the corner booth by the front window, and Agatha traced a finger over the backward, hand-painted lettering on the glass, advertising the world’s best barbecue and fried green tomatoes. The café was on the corner of Main Street, so she had a great view of the chaos taking place out in the parking lot. Whoever had mapped out the city of Rusty Gun had done a terrible job, but 150 years later, it was still entertaining to watch.
Rusty Gun was just like Tombstone, Arizona, only there hadn’t been any famous lawmen or outlaws to make a name for the town after the infamous shootout of 1886. In fact, both the lawmen and the outlaws had been terrible shots, and everyone had walked away with no more than a scratch on them, but it was all about the media spin. Unfortunately, Rusty Gun hadn’t spun it right, and it had come close to not existing at all after the railroads were built and bypassed the town. Rusty Gun even had its own version of the O.K. Corral, but somehow the B.O. Corral—short for Boggs and Oliver—didn’t have the same ring to it.
The street was cobbled and the old hitching posts were still intact. It looked like a Wild West saloon town, which was one of the reasons she loved it so much. Every person and every place had a story, and telling stories was her business.
But for a one-horse town—or a one-stoplight town in the case of Rusty Gun—the traffic was ridiculous. The parking was haphazard at best, the lines crooked and different widths, and no one was ever really sure which direction to go on the traffic circle that surrounded the statue of John Wayne. Legend had it he’d passed through town once or twice on his way to Austin, and for a town of 1,800 people that didn’t have a claim to fame, a statue of the Duke was more than sufficient.
“Darn, that man is stubborn,” Heather said pouting. “He hasn’t even looked at me once. I enjoy a little challenge from time to time, but there’s no excuse for bad manners. He must be a Yankee.”
“Umm…Heather?” Agatha said. “Did you park in front of the fire hydrant?”
“There was no place else to park,” she said, waving away the concern. “It’s not like we’re going to be here much longer anyway. That fire hydrant is taking up a perfectly good parking space. There’s absolutely no reason for them to put it right there.”
“Except for the fact that there could be a fire and the whole of Main Street might burn down without it.”
“If you ask me, this place is due for a little renovation anyway. It’s like how when the forest burns down, it clears the land for new and better growth.”
“How very progressive of you,” Agatha said.
“Duncan was a city manager. He taught me a lot before his untimely death.”
Duncan was Heather’s third husband. He’d embezzled a couple of million dollars over the ten years he’d worked for the city of Austin, and he’d driven his Porsche right over the edge of a cliff and into the Brazos river, though the final report had said he’d lost control of the car instead of intentionally taken his life, so Heather had made out good with the life insurance policy.
Heather turned her attention back to Hammerin’ Hank. “Come on, Agatha. Size him up for me. He looks a little rough around the edges, but I need something a little different. All those slick and polished men get old after a while. It’s nothing but champagne and tuxes. I want a blue-collar man. Someone who knows how to get his hands dirty.”
“Yeah, that sounds just like your type,” Agatha said, rolling her eyes.
“Please?” Heather asked, batting her baby-blues. Not that it worked on Agatha. She’d been doing the same thing since they were in kindergarten. But Agatha sighed and turned toward her new neighbor.
And instantly realized her mistake.
Lord, could she size him up all right. That was the problem. She didn’t say she hadn’t looked at the man. Only that she was uninterested. He definitely wasn’t hard on the eyes. But she recognized a battered soul and a whole lot of baggage when she saw it. Seeing through the façade of people was part of her job.
“Fine,” Agatha finally agreed. She scooted closer toward the window and angled her body so she had a better view of him, without making it seem like she was outright staring at him. “He’s got a nice profile. Good genes and even features. Athletic build. He’s definitely all man. I can appreciate a pair of shoulders like that.”
“Go on,” Heather urged. “Get to the good stuff.”
“I’d say he’s divorced,” she said. “Not many men around here wear cargo shorts and Hawaiian shirts who have to go out in public with their wives. He’s wearing the clothes, but he’s not comfortable in them. Like they’re a disguise. Or he’s doing it on a dare.”
“I can buy the man new clothes,” Heather said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe they call him Hammerin’ Hank because he’s a construction worker. The thought of that man in a tool belt really gets my motor running.”
“I don’t know,” Agatha said. “That doesn’t feel right now that I’m getting a good look at him. He’s definitely blue-collar. He’s older. Maybe late forties. If he didn’t have the silver at his temples I’d put him a decade younger.”
Agatha narrowed her eyes and stared, like she could somehow see deeper if she only looked harder. And then he turned his head and their eyes met. Coal-black eyes that looked like they’d stared down the devil and won. She was caught in the trap, and she gasped slightly, shaking her head to try to break the hold he had on her. And then he turned his attention back to his crossword puzzle and coffee and the spell was broken.
“What do you mean nope?” Heather asked.
“I mean don’t waste your time. He’s a cop.”
“Oh, I’ve dated lots of cops,” Heather said, waving away the concern.
“Not like this one you haven’t. He’d chew you up and spit you out in a heartbeat. And if you think batting your eyelashes at a man like that is going to work you’d better come up with a new strategy.”
Heather pouted, stirring her straw in her drink. “Well, maybe I can just sleep with him.”
“I don’t know, but it might not be a bad idea to up your life insurance policy. Am I still your beneficiary?”
“Ahem.” Someone coughed next to them, and Agatha jumped, realizing they weren’t alone.
Heat flushed her cheeks and she looked up into the amused eyes of Karl Johnson. She’d babysat him a couple of times before she graduated from high school. Rusty Gun was such a small town it was impossible not to know everyone. Kindergarten through twelfth grade was still all housed in the same building.
Karl wasn’t a big man, only a couple of inches shorter than Agatha’s five foot ten, but his posture made him seem much taller. He was stocky and muscular, a far cry from the skinny boy she once babysat, and his dark hair was shorn close to his skull. A thin mustache that seemed like a regrettable decision grew above his upper lip, and his tan uniform was pressed within an inch of its life, his duty belt snug around his hips. A tattoo in black ink showed just below his sleeve, but it was almost impossible to see unless you were staring since it was so close to the color of his skin.
