Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Whipping out his phone, he dialed the number the mayor had given him. “This is Jordan Blake,” the voice stated, sounding distracted. Logan could hear small children in the background squealing.
“Mayor, this is Logan Storm.”
“Hold a moment, Chief Storm, I need to step inside the garage to hear. My grandchildren are baking cookies with my wife.”
Logan gritted his teeth at the Chief Storm remark. They could look elsewhere once he’d solved Duke’s disappearance. He preferred busting heads in the bar to sitting behind a desk and dealing with bureaucracy.
“Now I can hear. Tell me what happened to Rip Jackson.”
“Won’t know until an autopsy is completed.”
“Autopsy! Why?”
“The man died without any witnesses. He has a laceration across his forehead that may or may not have been caused by a fall. Until I know for sure how it got there, I can’t close the investigation.”
“Chief Storm, Duke and Frank normally made the formal call without involving the sheriff or the county cor—”
“Mayor, all due respect, but I’m not Duke. I’m ex-military. During my enlistment we policed villages and kept order when needed. Any deaths had to be investigated by the book, no matter how cut-and-dried they appeared. Rip Jackson died either by falling and hitting his head, or at the hand of someone else. The county coroner will let me know which and then I’ll proceed from there.”
Blake seemed to hesitate before replying with a half-hearted chuckle. “Why would anyone kill an old man?”
“That’s what you hired me to find out.”
“. . . You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Nothing funny about death, Mr. Mayor.”
“No, no. Of course not,” he cleared his throat. “Is that all you have to report?”
“Yeah. But I need the number for the fire marshal before I go.”
“Max Greeley? What’s it about?”
Logan looked back inside the cremator and the fire intensified down his spine. “Murder.”
_______________
The bar was hopping and the noise level through the roof. Ty’s band was playing and everyone who was old enough to drink, or young enough in spirit to get around in the snow, was currently kicking back at Big Sky. Saturday was our busiest night during a normal week, and tonight was no different. We were full to the brim with ranchers and ranch hands blowing off steam after a long week readying the ranches for winter. No table was empty, and the small dance floor was full with western hats and Wrangler jeans. Poker games had popped up in various locations, along with a Scrabble match between the local librarian and teachers. It was pushing ten o’clock and not a single soul looked to be winding down. Especially the ranch hands trying to double their weekly wages in a hand of poker.
A loud crash drew my attention across the bar to some of those ranch hands playing poker in the corner. They were a mixed crowd of cowboys who worked several of the ranches in the area. One of the bigger ones had stood suddenly, knocking his chair over. I groaned when he reached across the table and wrapped his meaty fist in the shirt of another player. Before I could move, or Ty could jump from the stage to stop him, he drew back his arm and drove his fist into the other man’s face.
Cowboys came and went around our parts. Working on ranches was hard on your body and not conducive to having a family, so most of the ranch hands turned over each year. This meant we didn’t get to know them well. But even so, it took a certain type of person to work a ranch to begin with. Mainly rowdy men without a care for life or limb. They spent their days herding cattle and busting broncs, which left them ill-tempered and stiff, yet ready for anything. Bar brawls were their favorite pastime, which meant we were accustomed to breaking up the weekly event.
Normally, Jared handled the rough stuff, but he was in the back room getting stock, so I was Ty’s backup, such as it was. Not that he needed it most of the time. Like the rest of us, Ty was always ready to step in and tonight was no different. He had the big man wrapped up by the time I made it halfway across the bar. The man he’d attacked was another matter, though. He’d recovered quickly and began to lunge for Ty’s quarry, so I grabbed a pitcher of beer off the closest table and threw it in his face before he could attack. Instead of blinding him and cooling his temper like it normally did, it only served to agitate him more.
Drenched and pissed off to a newer height, he turned his attention toward me with a sneer and took a step in my direction. I took a step back, ready to duck and cover under the nearest table if he made another aggressive move, but he didn’t attack. Instead, his eyes widened as his face paled a degree and he raised his hands in defeat. I knew why when I felt, rather than saw, Logan walk up next to me. The air around him fairly crackled with energy when he stepped in front of me with his gun drawn and aimed; his head cocked at an angle as he sighted his target with a deathly glare. With a flick of his wrist and a rumbling, “You even look at her sideways, I’ll haul your ass to jail,” Logan directed the man to back up and sit down. He didn’t argue, just righted his chair with shaking hands and sat in it without taking his eyes off of Logan’s gun.