Wyoming Cowboy Justice. Nicole Helm
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overhang, hand-painted signs with the mileage, and arrows to the nearest cities, all hundreds of miles away.
Laurel refused to call it a saloon. It was a bar. Seedy. It would be mostly empty on a Tuesday afternoon, but come evening it would be full of people she’d probably arrested. And Carsons everywhere.
Grady wasn’t going to hand over Clint’s whereabouts, Laurel knew that, but she had to try to convince him she only wanted to help. Grady was a lot of things—a tattooed, snarling, no-respect-for-authority hooligan—but much like the Delaneys, the Carsons were all about family.
Mentally steeling herself for what would likely amount to a verbal sparring match, Laurel took her first step toward the stupid swinging doors Grady claimed were original to the saloon. Laurel maintained that he bought it off the internet from some lame Hollywood set. Mainly because he got furious when she did.
She blew out a breath and tried to blow out her frustration with it. Yes, Grady had always rubbed her completely the wrong way, and yes, that meant sometimes she couldn’t keep her cool and sniped right back at him. But she could handle this. She had a case to investigate.
Laurel nudged the swinging saloon doors and slid through the opening, making as little disturbance as possible. The less time Grady had to prepare for her arrival, the more chance she had of getting some sensible words in before he started doing that...thing.
“I see you finally found the balls to step inside, princess.”
Laurel gritted her teeth and turned to the sound of Grady’s low, easy voice. Doing that...thing already. The thing where he said obnoxious stuff, called her princess, or worse—deputy princess—and some tiny foreign part of her did that other thing she refused to name or acknowledge.
Her eyes had to adjust from sunlight to the dim bar interior, but when they did, she almost wished they hadn’t.
He was standing on a chair, hammering a nail into the rough-hewn wood planks that made up the walls of the main area. Lining the doorway were pictures of the place over the years—a dingy black-and-white photograph of the bar in the 1800s, a bright pop of boisterous color from the time a famous singer had visited in the sixties, and photos documenting all Grady had done inside to somehow make it look less like a dive bar in a small town and more like a mix between old and new.
Much like the man himself. Laurel always had the sneaking suspicion Grady and the Carson cousins he routinely hung around with could straddle the lines of centuries quite easily. Sure, he was dressed in modern-day jeans and a simple black T-shirt that she had no doubt was sized with the express purpose of showing off the muscles of his arms and shoulders along with the lick of tattoos that spiraled out from the cuff and toward his elbow.
But he, and all the Carsons she had pulled over or served a warrant on more times than she could count on two hands and two feet, wore old battered cowboy hats like they were just dreaming of a day they could rob a stagecoach and escape to a brothel.
She wouldn’t put it past Grady to have a brothel, but for the time being the worst thing he did in Rightful Claim was sell moonshine without a license.
Something she’d reported him on. Twice.
“Gonna stand there and watch me work all day? Want to slap my wrist over some made-up infraction?”
“It’s funny you call this work, Carson. You don’t have a single patron in here.” She glared at the picture he rested on the nail he’d just pounded into the wall. It was a cross-stitched, nearly naked woman. Cross-stitched. Oh, she hated this place.
“There are no patrons because I don’t officially open until three. But there’s nothing like a Delaney coming into my place of business and criticizing my work ethic when your family has—”
“Please spare me the trip down family feud lane. I have business to discuss with you. It’s important.”
“You have business to discuss with me?” He got off the chair, just an easy step down with those long, powerful legs of his. Not that she noticed long or powerful, even when he was roaring his way down Main Street on that stupid, stupid motorcycle of his.
“I’m going to need a drink to go with this interesting turn of events,” he drawled.
“You’re going to drink before three in the afternoon on a day you’re working?”
He walked past her, way closer than he needed to, and that wolfish smile was way too bright, way too feral. How could anyone call him attractive? He was downright...downright...wild, uncivilized, lawless.
All terrible things. Or so she told herself as often as she could manage to make her brain function when he was smirking at her.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do, princess.”
“Deputy. This is official.” She followed him toward the long, worn bar. Again, Grady claimed it was original, and it looked it. Scarred and nicked, though waxed enough that it shone. She couldn’t imagine how anyone balanced a glass of anything on the uneven wood, or why they’d want to.
“All right, deputy princess—”
She was trying very hard not to let her irritation show, but the little growl that escaped her mouth whether she wanted it to or not gave her away.
The bastard laughed.
Low, rumbly. She could feel that rumble vibrate through her limbs even though there was this ancient big slab of a bar between them. Hate, hate, hate.
“Gonna report me again?”
She schooled her features in what she hoped was a semblance of professionalism. “Not this afternoon, though if I see you serve the moonshine when I know you don’t have a license for it, I will contact the proper authorities.”
“If that’s your idea of pillow talk—”
“I know, all those multisyllable words, too hard for you to comprehend,” she snapped, irritated with herself, as always, for letting him get to her. “But this is about your brother. And murder.” His eyes went as hard as his expression, which gave her a little burst of satisfaction. Not so tough now, are you? “Care to shut up and listen?”
* * *
GRADY HAD ALWAYS had a little too much fun riling up the Delaneys, Laurel in particular. She got so pinched-looking, and when he really got her going, the hints of gold in her dark eyes switched to flame. And unlike the rest of the Delaneys, Laurel gave as good as she got.
But her words erased any good humor riling her up had created. Murder and Clint. Damn. Clint might be his half brother without an ounce of Carson blood in him, but he was still family. Which meant he was under Grady’s protection.
Grady jerked his chin toward the back of the bar. Though the regulars knew not to swing through the old saloon doors until three on the dot or later, he didn’t want anyone accidentally overhearing this conversation.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak caveman. Is that little chin jerk supposed to mean something?”
He flicked a glance down her tall, slender frame. He could see her weapon outlined under the shapeless polo shirt she wore. The mannish khakis were slightly better than the polo because they at least gave the impression of her having an ass. A shame of an outfit, all in all.
“Let me ask you this,” he said, leaning his elbows on the freshly waxed surface of the bar. He’d spent most of a lifetime learning how to appear completely unaffected when affected was exactly what he was, and this was no different. “Is this visit personal or professional?” he asked, making sure to drawl the word personal and infuse it with plenty of added meaning.
“Professional,” she all but spat. “Like I said earlier. Trust me when I say I will never set foot through those pointless swinging doors for anything other than strictly professional business.”
“Aw, sweetheart, don’t lay down a challenge