Callen got out, walked over, scanned the lineup. “I appreciate the support, but it looks like I need an army to tend to my business here.”
“I don’t care how it looks.” Chase pushed off the truck. “Clintok did what he did on our land. We won’t get in his way or yours unless he tries something dirty.”
“He’s in there.” Rory wagged his thumb behind him. “His truck’s down there.”
Callen tried one last time. “It’s not the best place or circumstances to bring dates.”
Now Rory grinned. “You brought one. Plus … tell him, Chelsea.”
“I’ve got a black belt in tae kwon do.” When she lowered into a fighting stance, Callen could only wonder. “I took it all through college.”
“And I have a mighty and fatally accurate bitch slap,” Jessica added.
Couldn’t change it, Callen decided, so he’d trust the brothers would keep the women out of harm’s way should harm rise up.
“All I need to do is punch him in the face. That’ll square it for me.”
Chase nodded. “Then you get that done, and we’ll all be on our way.”
Callen went in with what he thought of now as his damn entourage, and saw the interior hadn’t changed much, either.
The decor ran heavy to taxidermy with bear and buck heads mounted, the Montana State flag framed beside the Gadsden. One new element? A sign reading:
GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE, I DO.
A couple of biker types smacked pool balls around, and a couple more drank bottled beer and watched.
The place held two booths. In one, a couple of old guys who looked permanently pissed off sat across from each other, working on their beers and playing cards.
He judged the second booth commandeered by the bikers, as empty bottles littered the table and leather jackets formed heaps on the seats.
Seven stools lined the bar, all full. At first glance he didn’t recognize a soul but Clintok at the end, then felt a little tug of recognition for the big guy center bar, chomping down on beer nuts.
As the others filed in behind him, the balls stopped clattering, asses shifted on stools. Callen hoped to hell the fact the female population of the bar now numbered three didn’t stir up trouble.
But he knew by the way Clintok straightened on his stool that at least one patron knew trouble had walked in.
“Skinner? That you?” The big guy gestured. “Kiss my ass, that’s you, Cal Skinner. Heard you were back.”
“Sandy Rhimes,” Bodine muttered, and a lightbulb switched on.
“How you doing, Sandy?”
“Could complain, won’t bother. Hey there, Chase, Rory, Bodine, ma’am, ma’am.” He had a big, homely face and a sweet, almost angelic smile. “You bunch make a wrong turn somewhere?”
“Nope. I’m where I aimed for.”
“Well, if you’re having a beer, stick with the bottles. Slats here would tell you the same,” he added, wagging his own bottle toward the hefty, bored-eyed bartender.
“We’re not drinking right now. I’ve got some other business.”
Sandy took a peer down the bar. “Clintok? If you got a beef with him, I’d … Wait.” His mile-wide shoulders straightened, stiffened, and the sweet smile vanished. “He’s the one who shot your horse? I heard about that.” Sandy slapped down his beer, started to push his mighty girth out of the stool.
“It’s okay.” Christ, he didn’t need to add another. “I’ve got this.”
“Hope you do.”
“Just stay back here,” Callen told the rest, and walked down the bar to Clintok. “We’ve got business to finish.”
“Fuck you, Skinner.”
“I figure you’re carrying, so I’m going to say if I see your hand go where I think your gun is, I’ll break that hand at the wrist.”
The red started creeping up into Clintok’s face. “You’re threatening a police officer?”
“I’m threatening an asshole, an unemployed one, I hear. I’m threatening a coward who hides up in the trees and shoots a horse. So you’re going to want to keep those hands where I can see them.”
Callen felt rather than saw the man on the stool behind him slide off, ease away.
“Coward?” Clintok pushed off the stool. “You’re a murdering coward. You killed two women.”
Now Callen sensed the bikers tuning in. “You want to believe that. You know different, but you want it to be true. What is true is: You shot my horse.”
Clintok rammed a finger into Callen’s chest; Callen let him. “I was shooting at a snake.”
“Even your aim’s not that bad.”
“Same as you ever were.” Eyes hot, teeth bared, Clintok jabbed the finger again. “No-good, no-good whelp from a loser who gambled away everything and hanged himself from the shame of it. And here you come? You come in here with the Longbow men, and women to hide behind.”
“They’re just here as audience for the ass-kicking. You want the ass-kicking in here or outside? That’s your choice.”
“You take it outside.” The bartender brought out a bat, slapped it against his palm.
“Outside then,” Callen said.
He saw the punch coming, made another decision to let it come. It landed hard enough to set his ears ringing, but he just wiped the blood from his lip.
“Keep coming.” Callen backed up toward the door.
Clintok took two charging steps, and as Callen braced, Sandy flung out a beefy arm.
“Now, what’re ya reaching for back there, Garrett?” He yanked the .32 out of its holster. “Man’s a bushwhacker,” he announced to the bar. “Shot this man’s horse out from under him. We don’t stand for that. Nosiree, we don’t. We don’t stand for trying to draw down on an unarmed man, neither.”
He slapped the gun on the bar. “Best put that behind the bar, Slats. Now, are you walking outside to settle this on your own, Garrett, or do you want me to help you?”
“Keep your hands off me. Useless retard of a drunk.”
“Get back there and keep the door open,” Callen murmured to Chase. “I’ll get him through it. Let’s go, Clintok. If you try to run out the back, I bet I’m faster.”
“Run from you?” Clintok charged forward. He grabbed a beer from the bar, smashed the bottle, continued to charge, slicing with the jagged glass.
Callen danced aside, let the momentum carry Clintok forward, and booted him hard enough in the ass to propel him through the door.
Chase grabbed Clintok’s wrist, twisted. The broken bottle fell on the gravel.
“Thanks.” Callen came roaring through. “Stay out of it.”
He knocked the off-balance Clintok to the ground, had the pleasure of seeing him skid over the gravel and leave blood smeared on the stones.
Then stepped back, waited.
Bodine kicked the broken glass aside and like Callen watched as Clintok slowly gained his feet. His hands bled from their rude run over the gravel. Under the big moon and the snap and sizzle of the vacancy sign, she saw the darkening stain on the knees of his jeans from the spill.
And the hot blaze of rage in his eyes.