Big Daddy Sheriff (Big Cedar Daddies #1)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Quinn Hardin hunkered low, getting out of the line of fire just in the nick of time.

The bullet sizzled overhead before plunking harmlessly into a tree a few yards behind him.

“I’m going to get you!” the big man with the rifle yelled. “You hear me? I’m coming for you!”

Quinn sighed. “Don Haley,” he said under his breath.

He’d figured as much.

Quinn had gotten the call about a man waving a gun around, taking random shots as he walked along a stretch of road just outside of town. It stood to reason that it would be Don, even though Quinn hadn’t gotten a good look at him upon arriving. There hadn’t been time for that.

He’d stepped out of his patrol unit, called out in a friendly voice, only to have the man swing around and level the rifle in his direction. Quinn barely had time to dive into the ditch, but he made it—with not a second to spare.

Now, just by hearing the gunman’s voice, his hunch was proven correct. Sure enough, that was Don Haley.

“Why are you shooting at me, Don?”

“Who are you?” Don’s slurred voice boomed back. The question was followed by a loud belch.

Quinn swore he could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath even from a distance.

“Don,” Quinn yelled. “It’s me. Marshal Quinn Hardin!”

“Quinn?” The man hiccupped. “Ah, hell. I shot at Quinn?”

“Yes.”

Don raked his fingers through the silver stubble on his double chin and said, “No. I was trying to hit a deer! I had me a big buck lined up. Been chasin’ him all up and down this here road and you ain’t gonna trick me. I know you’re him!”

In the ditch, still crouched as low as possible, Quinn stifled a groan. “Don, think about it. Can deer talk?”

“Well, I dunno. Maybe they do when you’s as drunk as I am.” He burst into uproarious laughter before falling straight down, landing on his butt in the middle of the street. He kept laughing, not even caring that he’d dropped his rifle.

Thankfully, the thing didn’t go off from the impact of smashing into the asphalt.

“Hell, Quinn. You know this ain’t anything personal.”

Quinn slowly raised his head, just enough for his eyes to clear the top of the ditch. Once he confirmed that the gun was on the ground, he rose a little more, keeping his movements calm and deliberate.

“I’m going to come out now. And I’m taking that gun. You’re not going to fight me, are you?”

“Quinn, you know how I feel about you. Heck, I only tried to shoot you because I thought you were that damn buck I’ve been eyeing.”

“Don, do deer drive SUVs?” Quinn said, patting the hood of his police cruiser as he strolled by.

“You drove up in that thing?” Don said, rearing his head back with a look of bewilderment in his bloodshot eyes. He’d clearly just now noticed the vehicle for the first time.

“How else would I get here?” Quinn said.

Don pondered it for a moment. “Huh. Quinn, honest—my lips to God’s ears—I didn’t even think about that.”

Quinn believed him. Don wouldn’t intentionally shoot at him. He wasn’t a violent offender. But he was just as dangerous as one when inebriated.

Quinn scooped up the rifle and secured it in his patrol unit. He then stood over Don and surveyed him.

His clothes were tattered and smelled unwashed.

Don himself smelled unwashed. His shaggy hair was showing a lot more salt than pepper these days. He hadn’t shaved in a while. It had probably been just as long since he’d bathed.

“You know I got to take you in, right?”

“But I was shooting at the deer!”

Quinn shook his head. “Even if that was the case—and it’s not—there’s still a lot wrong with that.”

“Like what?” Don said.

“Well, for starters, you’re on a public road. There’s no hunting allowed here. But beyond that, it isn’t deer season.”

“Like hell it ain’t!” Don said, trying to puff out his chest as much as possible. He looked silly like that—trying to appear tough while sitting in the center of the road. “It’s October!”

“It’s August,” Quinn said.

“August, you say?”

Quinn nodded.

“Well, I’ll be…” Don muttered some more, incoherently, before saying, “Well, they both start with O.”

Quinn didn’t bother correcting him.

“Come on.” Quinn reached down and took the drunk man by the elbow, helping him to his feet. He took a blast of hot, liquor-soaked breath straight to the face and staggered back a moment. “Good Lord, Don! It smells like you’ve been drinking pure gasoline.”

“That’s pure corn mash you’re smellin’, Marshal. Made it myself just yesterday.”

“You’ve been on a bender for a lot longer than one day, from the looks of you,” Quinn said.

Don laughed as he got willingly into the back of the police cruiser. “Yeah. You’re right. That’s why my jugs done went dry and I had to whip up another batch yesterday!”

They were only a minute into the drive when Don began snoring loudly. Apparently, the road had already lulled him into a deep slumber.

Quinn was glad he hadn’t needed to use force against the old drunk. Don wasn’t a bad guy. He needed treatment far more than he needed jail. Sure, it was illegal to make ‘shine, but Quinn wouldn’t raise a ruckus about that. Now, as far as the shooting went… Well, Don would probably have to pay a fine over it. It was up to the judge. In the meantime, he could sleep off his bender in the jail. If past times were indicators, he’d be out for two or three days solid before he woke up with little to no memory of the events that landed him there.

The stench from the backseat was nearly overwhelming. Quinn needed an escape, even if it was only a mental one. So, he admired the scenery.

He’d lived in the region his whole life, but the beauty never ceased to amaze him.

Surrounding him, the Ouachita Mountains stood in all their wonder. They weren’t giant and jagged like the Rockies. But they were gorgeous in their own right with rolling, tree-covered slopes. The entire area was green in fact, thick with forest. He crossed a bridge that took him over the Kiamichi River, the water chuckling and gurgling over the rocks on its way to meet up with the Red River along the border of Oklahoma and Texas.

But that was a ways off.

They were far closer to Arkansas than they were the Lone Star State. In fact, Arkansas was only about fifteen miles east. That suited Quinn just fine. The way he figured it, those mountains were God’s country. Texas was nice, but he was in heaven right here.

He kept focusing on the scenic beauty in hopes he could tune out that pungent odor coming from the backseat.

And tune out thoughts of having a sweet Little all his own. Or not having one, was more like it.

That was even harder to escape than that wretched stench was.

She occupied his thoughts most of the time, it seemed.

She . He chuckled just thinking that. She didn’t even have a name. Nor a face. But he hadn’t lost hope that somewhere out there was the sweet Little just waiting to find her Daddy.

His Little.

Those thoughts were cut off as the forested countryside gave way to town and he turned onto Big Cedar’s Main Street.

A series of loud pops jarred him back to reality. He saw smoke rising ahead. More pops rang out.

He slammed on the brakes, leapt from the car, and went into a crouch as he brought his sidearm up.

It sure looked and sounded like someone was shooting again.

Hell had broken loose in the usually peaceful mountains of Southeastern Oklahoma.