Chapter 12 Tell Me About Levi’s Erection
HART
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I’VE BEEN IN jail exactly six hours and sixteen minutes, and the highlight so far was when Sheriff Nash dropped his sandwich on the floor, picked it up with a grunt, and ate it anyway.
That was at the four-hour mark. He hasn’t spoken much more than three-word sentences since. And he hasn’t moved from his desk either.
He sits there now, across from my cell, thumbing through a Bass Pro Shops catalog.
I clear my throat.
Nothing.
I rattle the bars a little.
He raises one eyebrow like he might tase me just for sport.
“How long am I in here?”
“Depends.” His boots rest on the edge of the desk.
“On what?”
“My mood.”
Fuck me. I swear the guy just likes to hold people overnight for company.
“That’s great, Nash. You want me to braid your hair next, or are we skipping straight to ghost stories?”
“You braid, and I’ll tell you about that time I found Levi in The Underwood House with his pants down.” There’s no urgency in his tone; it remains flat and unchanging.
I curse.
“And rushing him to the Doc.” His voice drags on, even and dull. “When he landed on his erect—”
“Fuck no. Stop.” I spin around, digging my hands through my hair. “You tell the worst horror stories.”
I swear he chuckles. And Nash ain’t a chuckler, but I’m pretty sure he just did.
A low creak rolls from the front door all the way to my cell.
Mrs. Molly Nash strolls into the hallway. She hasn’t changed much over the years. Clear blue-gray eyes, a graceful mix of silver and ash blonde hair framing her face, and fine lines touching the corners of her eyes. She’s aged with elegance and still has that sunshine wrapped in floral prints vibe.
And she’s the sheriff’s mother, the station’s secretary, dispatch, and the reigning champion of baby hat knitting while she works.
“Mornin’, sugar.” She clutches a sack like she’s brought the whole bakery.
Then her kind eyes land on me.
There’s no surprise.
No shock.
It’s not my first time behind bars. Won’t likely be my last either.
“Hart? What brings you here?” She pulls out a stack of warm biscuits, still wrapped in a faded kitchen towel, and sets them on Nash’s desk.
“Got between a woman and a guy who didn’t understand ‘no.’ Didn’t realize doing the right thing came with handcuffs.” I don’t even give Nash the acknowledgment of my glare.
She unfolds a paper bag to reveal a batch of golden muffins, and the air fills with the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg.
“Public intoxication. Disorderly conduct. Assault.” Nash’s boots drop with a hollow clunk, shaking the wooden floorboards.
“Protectin’ a woman.” I nod at Molly.
She faces her son, the scold about to spill from her lips. “Nash, unlock that door.”
“Got paperwork to do.”
“Then get on it, son.”
“We’ve talked about addressing me professionally in the workplace.” He walks around his desk.
Molly blocks him to adjust his collar and then brushes specks of dust off his shoulders.
“I brought breakfast, and don’t you even think about skipping. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
He sure tore into that sandwich earlier like he hadn’t eaten in days. It’s obvious that with his mama around, he never goes hungry.
“Later.” He catches her wrists. “Work first. Can you take the food to the lunchroom and stick to the front desk while I finish up the paperwork?”
“Of course. The calls won’t answer themselves.”
Nash gives me a quick once-over, a silent warning not to try any tricks.
What the hell am I going to do, locked up?
But we all know his ma has released people from the cell before they were processed.
He slips down the hallway like he’s escaping a hostage situation. Ironic, since I’m the one behind bars.
Molly turns to me. “Hungry?”
My stomach growls the answer, and she smiles.
“Don’t feed him!” Nash shouts, his booming voice tearing down the hall, bouncing off the walls like gunshots.
“I’ll get some plates. Back in a jiffy.” She leaves the food on the counter and disappears into an office down that same hallway.
She’s not even two minutes out when I hear her coming back. And by the sound of it, she’s picked up company.
Wilma and Faye Quylt.
Why am I not surprised? And why are they looking at me like I’m their next meal?
“Would you look at him. Like a stray dog behind bars. Just breaks my heart.” Faye fans a folded piece of paper in the shape of a fan that I swear has my mug shot on it.
Not the craziest detail of her full-blown jail-themed outfit. Her Kentucky Derby hat is the size of a satellite dish, ringed with lace and plastic handcuffs.
Her fingers dramatically curl around the bars. “Real brave thing you did last night.” The striped tea dress looks like an old jail uniform, swishing with flair every time she turns. “Defending Jade’s honor.”
Prison couture at its finest.
“You hush, Faye. We’re here on business.” Wilma stands straight-backed and unmoving like a rock. “Bail and blessings.”
“Tell me you didn’t really bring bail money.” My fingers dig into the back of my cramped neck.
“A man who defends a woman’s honor is worth investing in.” The corners of Wilma’s mouth twitch.
Not into a smile, but something closer to grim approval.
“You should be proud, Hart. Punching a no-good dirtbag like that? Heroic.” Faye plants her hands on her hips, where a sash made of caution tape is tied in a perfect bow.
“I wouldn’t call it heroic.” I know Jade wouldn’t call it that. “He was drunk and rude. That’s all.”
“A good woman is worth your time here.”
I get the feeling this visit is more to do with their matchmaking than my jail time.
“We heard Jade cooked you a casserole to say thank you for your bravery.” Faye touches my arm between the bars, wearing fingerless gloves that look like she’s ready for easy fingerprinting.
I inhale deeply. “Ladies, I’m not interested in a casserole from Jade.” I lift my eyebrows. “And let’s be honest, y’all baked it, didn’t you? She would never go out of her way for me.”
I’ve made damn certain of that.
“You keep telling yourself that, but we’ve seen the signs. Opposites attract, you know.” A toy key dangles from Faye’s hatband, swinging with every nod.
“Point is, you and she have that same fire. We’re not saying you’re soulmates...” Wilma begins.
“...But we’re definitely saying you’re soulmates,” Faye finishes. “And we’re gonna drive you straight to her once we bail you out.”
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Hell, she’s the last person I want to see right now. I look like garbage, smell like garbage, and my breath could scare a raccoon off a trash can.
“Alright, ladies,”—I’m already taking steps back—“thanks for the visit, but I’d rather stay in the cell.”
Wilma gives me a look that says, Too bad. Then she steps aside.
“Molly, Hart here is hungry.”
Nash’s mom fishes out keys, and before I can protest, she throws open the cell door, and the matchmakers are inside.
Now, I could make a run for it. Getting past three lil’ old ladies would not be a challenge. But Nash’s wrath would be far worse. I’d no doubt end up back here for another night of soothing his broken soul.
Not that I blame the guy. If I lost my family the way he did, I doubt I’d ever want to be with anyone else and with everyone at the same time.
I get it.
“We gotta get you cleaned up.” Faye digs into her oversized purse, which is shaped like a prison ball and chain.
The handle clinks like a chain as she pulls out a new toothbrush and travel-size toothpaste and hands them to me.
I’m grateful. I am. But these gifts come with expectations.
And sure enough, the moment they shove the items into my hands, they’re already unclasping the silver mini scissors from the delicate chain around their neck and sliding them out of the engraved sheath.
The antique handles curl with etched floral patterns, resembling jewelry.
“Subtle ladies.” I hold up my hands to prevent them from getting any closer to me. “You’re not getting any squares from me for a quilt y’all have no business making.”
Faye beelines.
Fast.
Too quick.
And before I know it, she’s snatched my favorite flannel shirt off the thin foam mattress. The mini-scissors chew through the fabric in little, hungry bites.
“That’s my favorite shirt.” And by favorite, I mean one I don’t want to go shopping to replace.
“Then you’ll appreciate where it’s going.” Faye tucks the square in her bag.
“Why’s there a hole on this corner?” Wilma examines the material closely through her glasses. “And is that blood or wine?”
“Jade hit me with a dart. That’s why I know there’s no casserole from her. And it’s blood.”
“Perfect.” Wilma’s eyes light up as her fingers tackle the perimeter of the hole.
Shit.
“Breakfast.” Molly hands me a plate to juggle while giving Faye a piece of paper. “His fingerprint card.”
Un-fucking-believable.
“What the hell’s going on back here?” The walls practically flinch as the sheriff’s voice booms.
I’ve never been more excited to see the sheriff.
“Get them out.” I grab the bars and peer at him between the metal. “Make it stop,” I beg. “I’ll stay here till supper. Hell, I’ll spend another night. You like cards? I’ll play cards. You wanna tell me about Levi’s erection, bring it on. Just get them out.”
He stomps into the holding area, his usual stone-cold face cracks with a rare show of annoyance. For him, that’s a full-blown meltdown.
“Where’s my mother?” His eyes scan the space.
Molly pokes her head from behind me, holding a chipped teacup like this is a garden party.
“Right here, sugar.”
“How many times have I told you, no one back here? And civilians are not permitted in the cell. Why the hell is the door open?”
Molly waves a hand. “Oh, calm down, son.”
“Son?” His jaw ticks.
“We’re all just chatting.”
“Out. Now. All of you,” he shouts.
“Well, that’s a shame.” Faye shoves my whole shirt in her bag. “He was just ‘bout to admit his feelings for Jade.”
“I was not,” I say flatly.
Nash grumbles like he might start issuing citations. “Out, all of you. I mean it.”
They shuffle out.
Molly brings up the rear, tossing me a wink over her shoulder. “Enjoy your muffin.”
Sheriff Nash waits until they’re out of sight, and the place is quiet again, with only the buzz of the old ceiling fan.
He doesn’t say anything, just opens the door.
“You’re not pressing charges?” I tuck my T-shirt into my jeans.
He shakes his head. “The guys you hit took off before I could get ‘em to press charges.”
I glance at him. “You ever actually press charges?”
He doesn’t look up and shrugs. “Sometimes. Depends.”
“On what? Your mood?”
He smirks. Just barely.
I step out slowly, rubbing the back of my neck. “I need a ride to the ranch.”
He grunts. “Don’t look at me.”
“Did you see what I just had to endure on your watch? They’re gonna be waiting out there to hijack me. Then you’ll have a kidnapping.”
He stares at me hard before he finally agrees.
“Good. I have a treehouse callin’ my name.”
After the night I’ve had, taking an axe to some trunks sounds like good therapy.
The sheriff rolls onto the empty back road, sunlight breaking through the trees. I’m slumped in the seat, trying to navigate a headache.
Then the crackle of the radio breaks the silence. “Son, I mean, Sheriff?” Nash’s mom’s voice fills the cab.
Nash grunts, eyes flicking to the radio.
“Need you back in town,” his mother says. “Got Mrs. Graves on the phone. Apparently, she set up a pit trap for what she thought was a robber.”
I shake my head, leaning my elbow on the door and rubbing my eyes. Mrs. Graves is a handful.
“And now there’s a man stuck in it who claims to be the mailman, not a thief.”
Nash curses.
“And he’s shouting his ankle is broken.”
“Shit.” Nash grabs the corded radio unit and holds it to his lips, pressing the side button firmly. “On my way.”
He pulls the car off onto the gravel shoulder.
“Get out.”
“The ranch is three miles down the road.” I point.
“Walk the rest.” He flips on his sirens, and my headache screams at me.
For fucks sake.
I swing open the door and step onto the dirt road. I don’t even get the door closed, and he takes off. The tires screech as Nash whips the car around, sending stones flying in every direction—including mine. I turn my back until the spit-up ends.
Well, shit. I can see now that I should’ve called my ma to pick me up. I’d phone her now, but my cell is dead. The last thing I feel like doing is strolling by The Fox Lodge on foot, but what choice did the sheriff leave me?
I don’t make it a few paces and I halt, recognizing the steady rumble and sputter of an engine bouncing over the uneven ground behind me.
I don’t have to turn around to know exactly who it belongs to, but I do.
Wilma and Faye’s famous all-terrain club car barrels down the gravel road, painted brown like a bull. Complete with a mouth on the hood, eyes on the side, and a pair of bull balls hanging off the back.
And I see them. The matchmakers. Coming fast.
I can’t deal with them, so I dive straight into the ditch.