by Jeff Carson
Burton paused and then drowned the rest of his sentence with a pull of beer.
Wolf turned and looked out the window. He watched the streaks of water running down the glass, and he thought again about Sarah’s streaming eyes. His breath caught when he remembered her defiant glare, and the way she’d told him there was a reason for her cheating on him when he’d been off risking his life halfway around the world. Like it had been a premeditated thing.
Burton slapped his palm softly on the table, bringing Wolf back to the moment, trying to hammer his point home in Wolf’s head.
“I know.” Wolf nodded. He scooted out of the booth before he had to look at a second set of crying eyes in one day. “I’ve gotta go. Tell Cheryl hi for me.” He picked up and waved the manila folder. “And thank you.”
Burton smiled and sat up tall, raising his beer. “I was happy to be able to jump into that fight and throw a couple uppercuts, just like when I was in the older days.”
Wolf stared at him. “You’re hammered.”
Burton nodded and smiled. “I am.”
Wolf walked away, dropping fifteen dollars on the bar in front of Jerry Blackman on the way by. Wolf had given up arguing with Burton about splitting checks and had learned to resort to other means to cover his share.
Outside was dead quiet, which seemed counterintuitive with the snow falling so intensely, dropping so hard he couldn’t see the SUV in the lot. He walked over the wet grit, stepping through puddles, making his way in the general direction of his parking spot, and finally found the Explorer after a minute of wandering aimlessly in the whiteout.
Luckily, Cheryl was coming to pick up Burton because the man wouldn’t have stood a chance navigating this weather without her help. Not after four beers, or had it been five? Who was he kidding? It would probably be seven by the time the old man’s wife came to pick him up.
That was a woman who stood by her man, Wolf thought. Her imperfect, jackass of a man … a jackass with unbreakable loyalty and a good heart.
Wolf sat in the SUV and shut the door. He ruffled the snow off his hair, and then wiped the beads of moisture from his face and stared in the rearview mirror. He sniffed and caught the faint aroma of Sarah’s perfume again. He wondered how long it would linger. He suspected for quite some time.
As he stared at his reflection, he got that feeling again. Like he’d been missing something. Something that had been staring him in the face, but he was too preoccupied to see it for what it was.
Was it that he needed to stop beating himself up for his failed marriage? That he needed to forgive himself for putting his partners in danger?
You’re the type of guy that makes sure you’re there for your partner—your partners—in the end.
Wolf narrowed his eyes, glaring at his own reflection.
Or was it that he knew Sarah had been acting out of desperation, because in the end, he hadn’t been there for her? For his partner?
Of course it was. It was all those things.
Wolf looked out into the veil of snow, shrouding everything he would have rather liked to see—the road, the potholes, the bridge, other cars … where the hell he was going. The uncertainty could have been enough to drive him back into Beer Goggles for five or six beers.
But instead, he fired up the engine and backed out through the ruts and potholes.
Because he had to get back to work.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Thank you so much for reading the first four books in the David Wolf series. I hope you enjoyed the stories, and if you did, thank you for taking a few moments to leave a review of this box set. As an independently published author, exposure is everything, and positive reviews help so much to get that exposure. If you’d be so kind to take a moment to leave an honest review, I’d be so grateful.
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I love interacting with readers so please feel free to email me at [email protected] so I can thank you personally. Otherwise, thank you very much for your support by other means, such as sharing the books with your friends/family/book clubs/the weird guy who wears tight women’s yoga pants who works at the deli, or anyone else you think might be interested in reading the David Wolf series. Thanks again and I hope to see you again inside the next Wolf story. On that note: Continue reading for a preview of Cold Lake (David Wolf Book 5).
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Preview of Cold Lake (David Wolf Book 5)
Sheriff David Wolf looked up and saw the line of trucks and SUVs thundering down the dirt road at five-alarm-fire speed. Letting up his bodyweight on the wriggling animal underneath him, he hissed in pain as a hoof glanced off his knee. The dust from the slowing vehicles washed over the volunteers inside the cattle pen, and then moved on to envelop the rest of the crowd gathered on the surrounding lawn.
“Who the hell is that?” Deputy Tom Rachette squinted and waved his hand.
“MacLean,” Wolf said.
The calf bleated, protesting the ropes expertly lassoed around its head and hind legs. The two men controlled their horses, pulling the ropes with practiced precision.
Rick Welch, third-generation owner of Triple T Ranch, quickly shaved the calf’s right rear haunch and a volunteer weekend cowhand approached with two smoking branding irons.
“God damn it,” Rick mumbled through clenched lips, waiting for the cloud to pass.
Luckily, a light morning breeze dispersed the dust, and the air became breathable again.
The unplanned break over, Wolf sagged his weight onto the animal and held tight. At six foot three and two hundred pounds, he’d always carried a muscular physique with little effort, or, in the case of his years as an army Ranger, with tremendous effort, but now that he was almost forty-one years old, his muscularity hid the fatigue within that came after rigorous activity. The morning’s work had his shoulders and abdominal muscles screaming for mercy. As sheriff of Sluice County for the past three years, he was lucky if he managed to break away three times a week for weight lifting, and the cardio … well, he figured his cardio was living in the mountains of Colorado.
He’d lost count of how many calves they’d done so far, but he knew there were plenty more to go. Even with the second and third team of horsemen and volunteers working just as hard inside the pen, it was going to be an all-day job that might go into tomorrow.
Deputy Tom Rachette, a fit young man in his mid-twenties, seemed to sense Wolf’s slowdown and squatted next to him, gripping the calf’s hind legs and stilling the animal for good. Rachette was shorter than average, but in Wolf’s estimation, the deputy was built like a bull, and he had tenacity and strength rivaling that of most larger men.
“Thanks,” Wolf said through gritted teeth, a fresh twinge of pain shooting through his lower back.
Triple T Ranch had the largest herd of cattle in Sluice County, and it was a community operation to get the cattle branded every year. Wolf hadn’t missed the event for seven years running, and Margaret Hitchens, town real-estate agent and self-appointed chairperson of the Wolf-for-Sheriff election campaign, had turned the branding into a rally for votes, complete with food and games for the entire family outside the cattle pen.
Margaret had seen to it that the Sluice Sentinel had run announcements in the three weeks leading up to the event, and nearly every display window and cork board in Rocky Points featured one of Margaret’s come one, come all invitations. Over fifty men, women, and children had shown up.
And now there were a few more uninvited ones.
“Okay!” Rick shouted.
The ropes slack
ened. Wolf slipped the loop over the rear hooves and he and Rachette jumped up, clearing out of danger.
“Sheriff Wolf!” a deep, jovial voice called from the other side of the fence.
Wolf turned with little enthusiasm toward a rising commotion.
A videographer scrambled with a tripod and camera, and an army of still photographers darted this way and that, kneeling and climbing into photo-opportunity positions.
Wolf instinctively glanced at Margaret, who was already out of her lawn chair and charging towards MacLean, a suspicious crease on her brow beneath her cowboy hat.
“What’s this?” she demanded.
MacLean looked over at her like she was an attacking rabid dog, then smiled pleasantly.
“Margaret, I heard about the cattle-branding and thought I’d volunteer.” He raised his voice for everyone to hear over the mooing. “That is, if you’ll have me.”
Photographers snapped photos. The videographer panned from MacLean to Wolf.
Margaret scoffed and walked away.
Wolf walked to the fence with an outstretched hand caked with dried mud.
MacLean knotted his hand with Wolf’s and shook vigorously. His smile was confident, his steely eyes either ignoring or oblivious to the cool reception of every person surrounding him.
The cameras whirred and clicked.
Releasing Wolf’s grip, MacLean hopped over the fence with considerable grace for a fifty-five-year-old. His brand-new work boots stomped down on the dusty earth and he bent down, grabbed a handful of dirt, and rubbed it across his chest, leaving a skid mark on his expensive white button-up shirt.
“Mr. Welch!” MacLean boomed, marching toward the owner of the Triple T Ranch with his now dusty hand.
Rick fumbled with the branding irons, leaving MacLean holding out his hand without a partner to shake it. Finally, they shook and MacLean beamed a smile framed by his perfectly trimmed silver goatee.
The photographers pounced.
Wolf heard a ping on the fence and a collective gasp. He turned in time to see a photographer’s head whipping back as he landed on the ground. The camera-wielding man’s smooth-soled shoes were no match for manure.
The guy bounced up without hesitation and snapped some shots.
Wolf turned on his heel and plucked Sarah from the crowd.
Standing in front of her chair to get a better look, she met Wolf’s gaze and smiled.
They gravitated toward one another at the fence line. He watched her and took a cleansing breath, feeling a jolt of energy. The combination of the crisp air and watching her move was better than ibuprofen or any other pain reliever. As far back as high school, when he’d met his sweetheart turned wife, turned ex-wife turned—whatever it was they were now—she’d always liked to dress the part of a cowgirl, and with her worn jeans, frayed hat, button-up embroidered denim shirt, she wore the look just as well as she had back then.
They met at the fence and she handed him a water bottle.
“Real nice of him to show up,” she said. “What an asshole. No wonder this guy’s winning. Good God, there’s like ten photographers. Is he shooting another commercial?”
Wolf drank the cold water and let the sun warm his skin. It was clear blue skies with visibility as far as it got to the north and south, with pine-tree-covered mountains socking them in to the east and west. The dung-scented air was warm with a steady cool breeze, making it biting cold in the shade, typical of early June in the middle of the Rockies.
Sarah’s jeans stretched against her thinly muscled leg as she propped a boot on the fence and she smiled up at him.
“You look like a dust bunny. Here,”—she reached through the fence and ruffled his hair, sending a cascade of dirt onto Wolf’s shoulders—“let’s unveil that gorgeous dark hair of yours for the cameras, and let’s wipe your face. It looks like one of those cattle pooped on it.”
Wolf closed his eyes and let her delicate hands do their brusque work. “I think one of them did.”
“—Wolf?”
He turned around at the sound of his name.
MacLean stood with Trevor Lancaster, the undersheriff of Byron County. Lancaster was Wolf’s age—younger, taller, and more muscled than his boss. Wolf couldn’t help notice the way the man raked his eyes up and down behind Wolf, taking in Sarah’s figure with unreserved curiosity.
Besides Lancaster, all eyes were on Wolf.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I said,” MacLean yelled over the cows, “why don’t you and I mount up and rope one of these calves? Show ’em how it’s done?”
MacLean was oblivious to the glares he received.
“I don’t think you or I could show any of these men anything they haven’t done themselves over fifty times already today.”
MacLean’s smile wavered for an instant, but he shrugged and walked toward a horse and grabbed the reins from the dismounted cowboy. The sheriff of Byron County climbed on with expert speed and grabbed the lasso off the saddle horn.
Wolf turned back to Sarah and handed her the water bottle.
She smiled and winked. “Go get ’em, Sheriff.”
Wolf looked at Sarah’s beautiful Colorado-sky-blue eyes, her tanned face flecked with tiny circles of sunlight passing through the holes in her cowboy hat, and at that moment thought he could wrestle down a bull with his hands. Then when he tried to think of the last time he’d thrown a lasso and came up with no memories, his confidence came down a few notches. With a sigh he turned around.
“All right, Sheriff Wolf!” Margaret Hitchens thrust a fist into the air and tried to rally some cheers from the crowd.
Travis Chapman hopped off his Mustang and gave Wolf the reins. “You got this?”
“Nope,” Wolf said, climbing up without hesitation. The beast beneath him twisted and bucked, and Wolf managed to keep his seat, though barely.
Chapman finally calmed the Mustang down and handed up his coiled lasso.
Wolf took it, let out some slack, and twirled it in a slow circle, getting his bearings with riding a horse and twirling a lasso—two actions alone he hadn’t done in years.
“You be the heeler?” Sheriff MacLean winked at Wolf.
Wolf smiled. Roping the heels meant he’d have to lay the lasso loop as a trap in front of the moving calf’s rear legs and then snag the legs as it moved through the loop. Though looping either the head or heels was no easy task for the unpracticed, the former was the more difficult task. Successfully heeling a calf was something he’d seen the men today fail to do on numerous occasions. They were professionals. Wolf, most definitely, was not.
“Sure,” he said, getting the feeling that this politically masterful opponent of his had just roped him.
MacLean turned and pursued a calf without hesitation, tossed the lasso and snagged its head in a swift fluid motion. He yanked the line and stopped his horse. The calf twisted, turning its hind legs toward Wolf.
Wolf rode into place, feeling wobbly in the saddle as the huge Mustang accelerated.
He twirled the rope above his head, at an angle towards his left shoulder, like his father had taught him all those years ago. Then he rode up alongside the left hind leg, just like he remembered, letting the loop grow with each twirl. He watched the calf hop, the hind legs leaving the ground in a steady, predictable rhythm. And then he threw.
And he whiffed.
“Come on Wolf!” someone yelled from the crowd.
“You can do it sheriff! Waaahooo!” Margaret Hitchens’s voice was easily picked out of the silence.
Wolf tried again, missing the mark one more time, and then again. This time the toss was good, but he was late pulling the slack.
“You gotta flatten your toss!” MacLean said.
Wolf chuckled to himself as he reeled in the rope. I’ve gotta flatten your face.
Amid a deafening uncomfortable silence, Wolf missed again.
“All right,” MacLean declared. “I’ll take the heels. You got the head.”
Ah. Okay. Easy enough, Wolf thought. He felt like he was thirteen all over again, tossing a rope at a wooden dummy with his father barking at him.
“Okay, you got this!” Deputy Rachette started a renewed wave of banter. “Come on, Sheriff!”
“Yay, Sheriff Wolf!”
Wolf took a deep breath, twirled the rope above his head, this time keeping a nice bend in his elbow with each revolution. He picked an easy target: a calf that was standing still, unobstructed in the confusion of moving cattle.
The rope hit the rear half of the animal and dropped to the ground.
MacLean laughed. “Okay, let’s give back the pros their horses. We could be here all day!”
Wolf ignored him. He whipped back the rope and stretched the loop out, twirled it over his head twice and tossed it. Sailing through the air, the loop went over the head of a brown-and-white spotted calf and landed around its neck. He pulled back, tightening the slack, and then wrapped the rope around the saddle horn. He steered his horse the opposite way, whipping the calf around and presenting the hind legs to MacLean.
“Hey! Now we’re talkin’!” MacLean yelled.
A split second later, Wolf’s rope yanked back incredibly hard—too hard—almost sending him off the saddle as the Mustang twisted back. At that second, he saw the calf in the air, both hind legs securely roped and pulled back, the animal poised to land on its side.
“Whoa!” Wolf pulled up on the reins, but too late—the calf was stretched inhumanely thin, and just when Wolf thought he had ripped the animal in half, the Mustang stopped and backed up a few steps.
MacLean wasted no time turning and dragged the calf backwards towards the men with the branding iron.
Wolf followed, keeping total slack in his rope, more than a little relieved that the calf was struggling against the tow.
