However, Destry knew her age and size had little to do with the doubt on Whitmore's face. She could have lived another decade and stood six foot three with bulging muscles. What she lacked in the sheriff's estimation wasn't years or bulk. Her problem had to do with her sex, not her appearance.
"You expect me to believe a woman took down Harvey Clyde all by herself?"
"Rankles, doesn't it?" To combat her rising ire, Destry sauntered to the half-full coffee pot and poured herself a cup she didn't want. Drink in hand, she leaned her hip against the table and sent Whitmore a look dripping with cool contempt. "A woman did your job for you."
"Now, see here—"
"Want to know where I found your fugitive, Sheriff? In a cabin, not five miles out of town. Looked mighty cozy, too. Fully stocked fridge. Satellite TV. When I entered the building, old Harvey had his feet up. A plate filled with a juicy steak and French fries sat on his belly, and he was glued to pay-per-view porn. Girl-on-girl action, if you're interested. Pants unzipped, you can use your imagination what his free hand was up to."
Sheriff Whitmore grimaced at the vivid picture Destry painted, but he had his pride and wasn't about to let a stranger—a slip of a girl, no less—come into his town and make him feel like he'd fallen short at his job.
"The town of Manfred is surrounded by hundreds of miles of rural wilderness." Whitmore looked angry, his tone defensive. "The Clyde clan occupies a hell of a lot of the land, Ms.—?"
"Benedict." Destry kept her smile to herself. She'd entered the office forty minutes ago, and Whitmore finally thought to ask her name.
"I don't have the manpower to check every square inch of the countryside, Ms. Benedict. And every time a lead came in, before we got there, one of Harvey's relatives had skirted him off to another location."
"Sounds like you have a leak in your department."
"Like I said, the Clyde family's reach is wide." Whitmore's frustration was palpable. "By blood or intimidation, if I fired every person associated with the clan, I wouldn't have much of a force left."
"Fair enough." Destry wasn't there to bust the sheriff's balls. "What are the chances Harvey will do significant time?"
"With his record? No way will he get off this time."
Destry hoped he was right, though she wouldn't hold her breath. The United States legal system was founded with good intentions, and, despite flashy stories to the contrary, justice prevailed more often than not.
However, who you knew and how much cash you had to flash around could turn the tide for even the guiltiest of criminals. Destry had watched her father skate the edges of the law with the help of his friends. Now and then, those same friends turned on him faster than they could say state's evidence. Honor among thieves, in her experience, was nothing but a myth.
"Who are you, Ms. Benedict? A bounty hunter? The reward is nothing to sneeze at. Seventy-five thousand, if my memory serves."
Amused at the thought, Destry let out a snort of laughter. The money was ear tagged for a straight, anonymous delivery to Harvey Clyde's latest victims. She kept the information from Whitmore because what she chose to do with the money wasn't his business.
The last thing she wanted was a round of questions about her background and why she didn't need the cash. While not ashamed to come from a wealthy family—grateful was a better word—she didn't flaunt her connections. The way people treated her tended to change, sometimes for the good, sometimes bad, when they realized she was one of those Benedicts.
"No badge, so you aren't the law." Whitmore moved to a black, metal filing cabinet, opening the second drawer down. "Other than the bruise on your cheek and the trickle of dried blood down the back of your neck, you don't look any the worse for wear."
Frowning, Destry lifted her hand. Sure enough, her fingers came back red, the crust of dried blood on the tips. Damn, seemed Harvey hit his mark better than she realized. Besides her hair, he managed to nick her neck. Another inch, and chances were good she'd be face down in the secluded cabin. Or in a hole in the ground.
"You don't look too concerned," Whitmore observed as he set a stack of papers on the desk.
"What's the point? Harvey's behind bars, and I'm breathing. Win/win, right, Sheriff?"
"Either you have ice in your veins, or you're too dumb to know how close you came to ending your time on earth as pig food."
"A little of both," Destry admitted with a shrug. "Pig food, huh?"
"Mm." Sheriff Whitmore nodded. "As well as generations of criminals, the Clyde clan are farmers from way back. Handy when you need to dispose of a body."
If the sheriff expected Destry to collapse in vapors, he would be sadly disappointed. Pragmatic by nature and necessity, little, outside of a threat to her sisters' well-being, jarred her nerves.
"I'd be dead before the pigs had their way with me and wouldn't know the difference. But in theory, I'd rather feed some innocent animal than molder in a dark, dank grave."
"Can't argue—in theory." Whitmore chuckled, shaking his head. "Personally, I plan to take my last breath at a very old age and have my family scatter my ashes over my favorite fishing hole."
"Good luck."
Destry hoped the sheriff got his wish. Plans were great—and the fastest way to disappointment. She preferred to live in the here and now. The future would take care of itself.
"While you fill out a ream of paperwork, why don't you tell me how you managed to track down Harvey Clyde and bring him in."
Taking a seat at the desk, Destry picked up a pen and did as the sheriff requested. She told her story in a clean, concise manner without embellishment.
"I followed a lead, took Harvey by surprise, and here we are."
"A lead?"
"You want me to name names?"
"Yes."
Shaking her head, Destry signed the last paper with a flourish.
"Can't help you, Sheriff. There's a reason they're called anonymous sources." She stood, stretching her arms over her head. Lord, she was tired. But, her gaze was sharp and steady. "You told me how much influence the Clyde family has around here. If I told you who helped me, how long until he or she paid the price? An hour? Two at the most?"
"Probably," Whitmore conceded.
"One of the reasons I get people to open up to me is because they believe I won't rat them out. And I won't. Ever." Destry would rather die than be the cause of someone else's pain and suffering. "Do you want to make a trip to the hospital to take a witness statement? Or worse, head to the morgue?"
"I can think of better ways to spend my day."
"Then you understand."
"Don't have much choice." The speculation in Whitmore's expression deepened. "Not a bounty hunter, not a cop. What?"
"Labels aren't my thing. But if you insist, I help people in need."
Whitmore glanced at the completed paperwork, brows raised.
"Says you live in New York. How does a lady from the big city get involved with a dirt-poor family like the Pines?"
"Word of mouth is a powerful advertising tool, Sheriff."
"Something tells me if we had more time—and you were inclined—your story is a fascinating one. Could keep a man entertained better than any of the crap on TV. Am I right?"
"I'm just your average woman," Destry said, holding out her hand.
"Right." Whitmore had a firm, solid handshake. "And I'm George Clooney."
"Your wife's a lucky woman, George."
Chuckling, he sat on the edge of the desk. A moment later, he sobered.
"A piece of advice, Ms. Benedict? Word's bound to have spread about Harvey. Best you get in whatever vehicle brought you to Manfred and hustle yourself out of town."
"I rode the bus."
"All the way from New York?"
"I don't drive."
"Huh." The idea seemed to stymie Whitmore.
"A friend brought me as far as Spokane." Destry had a lot of friends, and one always seemed
to be headed her way.
"If you don't drive, how'd you get Harvey into town?"
"He was behind the wheel. And this"—Destry flipped back her jacket to show Whitmore her gun—"gave him the incentive to stay on course."
Whitmore didn't blink as she took the set of keys to Harvey's truck from her pocket and set them beside the knife. The sheriff didn't ask if she knew how to use the firearm. However, he did want to see her permit. Smart man, he made a copy—in case the subject came up at a future date.
"Bus doesn't come through here again for three days." His words were as much a warning as a fact. "The Clyde clan doesn't care about bus schedules."
Destry almost felt sorry for the man. A small town had its share of drama. However, she imagined the worst Whitmore had to deal with on a regular basis were the weekend drunks who wanted to blow off steam at their favorite watering hole. She represented the kind of trouble he wasn't used to, or anxious to experience.
"Your concern is duly noted, Sheriff." With a reassuring smile, she returned the permit to her pocket. "But you don't have to worry. By morning, I'll be long gone."
"Morning is still hours away, Ms. Benedict. A lot can happen—especially in the wee hours of the day."
"My ride is due to swing by before dawn. Between then and now, all I want is a hot shower and a few hours' sleep." Emphasis on the shower, Destry thought, rolling her shoulder.
"Where are you staying?"
"Little motel just a few blocks south of here."
"The Boater." With a nod, Whitmore's lips quirked into a half smile. "Clean enough, but good luck on the hot shower. Lukewarm is about all you'll get."
Destry thought of the crap-ass places she'd stayed with her father where she was lucky for a trickle of water—usually of the brown variety. In those days, lukewarm and clean would have been the equivalent of a five-star hotel.
"I'll survive."
Before the sheriff could respond, his deputy entered the room.
"Everything settled?" Whitmore asked.
"Clyde is booked and locked in a cell." The uniformed man nodded.
Animosity filled the deputy's oddly pale eyes as he glanced at Destry. The moment was brief, but she'd seen the expression often enough to understand the meaning. He didn't like her—and the reason was located in another room, behind bars.
"You can clock out, Dave."
With a nod, Dave slapped Destry's handcuffs onto the desk, shooting her another heated look before he left.
"Something tells me your deputy isn't my biggest fan," she said with an unconcerned half-smile.
"Damn good deputy. However, he's also tight with the Clyde clan."
Whitmore didn't elaborate, but Destry was an old hand at reading between the lines. Deputy Dave did his job, but when push came to shove, his loyalty lay outside the department.
"You think Dave is the one who leaked information to the Clyde family about Everett?"
"If I had proof, he'd be out on his backside faster than a coyote can jump a chicken."
Destry would take the sheriff's word since she had little experience with live chickens and less with coyotes.
"Chances are good Dave already phoned Harvey's family. The Clydes are stupid for the most part and an impulsive bunch. They'll go after you if you give them a chance, Ms. Benedict. Please, stay in your room—and keep the door locked."
"Like I said, I'll be gone in a few hours." She shook Sheriff Whitmore's hand again, her smile genuine. "Good to meet you."
"Take care."
"Always, Sheriff. Always."
Concern flickered in his eyes, but Whitmore kept any more warnings to himself. As Destry headed for the door, his gaze fell onto the desk and the recently completed paperwork.
"Huh," he grunted. "Name's Destry?"
"Yes." She waited, sure what was coming. The sheriff didn't disappoint—unfortunately.
"Unusual name. Don't suppose you'd be any relation to Miller Destry?"
The joking tone of Whitmore's voice gave Destry the opening to laugh and deny. Instead, she looked over her shoulder, meeting his eyes without wavering. Outside of her immediate family, she rarely spoke of Miller. However, when asked, she always admitted the connection. Why not? After all, many, many faults aside, he was the only father she'd ever have.
"Miller Destry is my dad."
"No shit." Whitmore looked oddly impressed—and embarrassed. "Pardon my language."
"Nothing you can say I haven't heard before."
In fact, thanks to her father's cast of reprobate companions, Destry could undoubtedly school the sheriff on some colorful phrases to add to his repertoire. However, she had neither the time nor inclination.
"Hey, isn't your father in prison?"
"Not today, Sheriff. Not today." At least as far as she knew.
Without another glance, Destry walked from the office. On the deserted sidewalk, while the last glimmer of sunlight waned in the western sky, she took a deep breath, rubbed her face, and in spite of herself, chuckled.
Didn't matter how remote the location—Timbuktu or a small town in eastern Washington, she couldn't outrun her name—or her father.
Taking a right, Destry stayed in the shadows, relaxed, but alert. She hadn't always been comfortable with the inevitable push/pull of her heredity. Luckily for her sanity—with the help of her sisters' steadying influence and a lot of personal reflection—she'd long ago come to terms with who she was. A Benedict and a Destry. Odd to be certain, but she learned to make the combination work for her.
Now, older and wiser, if anyone had a problem with either side of her family tree, she could say with complete honesty the most freeing words in the English language and mean them.
I don't care.
CHAPTER TWO
~~~~
THE SHOWER WASN'T hot—lukewarm pushed the boundaries of accuracy. Still, as the dirt and sweat sluiced from Destry's body and down the drain, she decided water in a blissfully steady flow was all she needed to feel human again.
A towel wrapped under her arms, she cleared the small mirror of condensation, checking the wound on the back of her neck. Turning her head, eyes on her reflection she winced but decided the only first aid she needed was a dab of Neosporin and a medium-sized Band-Aid—both of which she carried in her backpack.
As for her hair, she estimated the loss to be around four inches. Never one to harbor an unhealthy obsession with such things, she briefly considered lopping off the rest to match. Two things stopped her. The image of her sister Andi's horrified expression, and the fact that all she carried with her were scissors better suited to snip loose threads—or in a pinch, skin—than Destry's thick, sable-brown locks. She'd manage—eventually. However, the task would take more time and effort than her patience allowed.
With a careless shrug, she grabbed a sturdy metal clip from the zippered bag she used to store her toothbrush, minimal makeup, and other essentials she was never without.
Twisting her damp hair into a loose bun designed to cover the bandage on her neck and disguise the jagged, uneven length, Destry didn't give her appearance another glance. In New York, she fussed, fluffed, and preened in front of the mirror like any normal woman—whatever the woman's definition of normal turned out to be.
At home, in the comfort of her private bathroom, she took time to perfectly apply eyeliner and contemplate which shade of lipstick best suited her outfit. On the road, in whatever dive she lay her head—moisturizer and a tube of cinnamon-flavored ChapStick completed her beauty regime.
The dichotomy of her personality didn't war with each other. Instead, she embraced both sides with equal pleasure and abandon. Look up the definition of carefree traveler and pampered Park Avenue princess. Under both, you'd find two very different, yet equally accurate, pictures of Destry Benedict.
Sliding on a pair of clean jeans and a t-shirt, Destry sniffed at the sleeve. The lingering scent of lavender made her smile. Dear Mrs. Finch. Ho
usekeeper and cook, the much-adored lady came to work for the Benedicts before Destry was born. More than a servant, the mansion was her home; the girls who lived there, her family. She became their surrogate mother, protector, champion, confidant, and friend.
Mrs. Finch long ago resigned herself to Destry's way of life. However, just because one of her girls was away from home, didn't mean her influence wasn't felt.
As with one of the lady's patented hugs, the t-shirt was a reminder that no matter where Destry roamed, she was loved.
Another good thing about Mrs. Finch, she never let anyone she cared about leave home without a week's supply of food. Even if the journey were a simple trip across town, sustenance was essential. In theory, the way Mrs. F. kept them fed, the Benedict sisters should have been the size of Madison Square Garden. In fact, they exercised their butts off—literally—so they could enjoy eating as much as their favorite cook enjoyed feeding them.
As she rummaged through her backpack, her stomach growling, Destry realized she finished off the last of Mrs. Finch's goodies the day before. All she had left was a store-bought granola bar—rock hard due to the long-past sell-by date—and a flattened beyond recognition candy bar.
Saliva pooled in Destry's mouth, a reminder she hadn't eaten since the gas station sub sandwich she finished off for breakfast almost twelve hours earlier. She tore the wrapper with her teeth and downed the melted chocolate in three greedy bites. She licked her fingers—then the wrapper. Not bad, she decided. Lord knew she'd subsisted on less.
Once out of town, a couple hundred miles down the road, Destry would convince her friend to stop for breakfast. Until then, the hunger pangs were at bay. No, her stomach was the least of her problems.
A familiar itch tingled under the surface of her skin, a signal she was still hyped from the thrill of the chase and capture. Adrenaline mixed with a natural wildness in her nature she managed to keep tamped down most of the time. Destry flopped onto the bed. The smart move would be to follow the sheriff's advice and stay put until her ride arrived. Smart, she had covered. Logic and clear thinking were her co-pilots. Until they weren't.
Four Simple Words: A Badass and the Billionaires Contemporary Romance (The Sisters Quartet Book 4) Page 3
