“Any trouble?”
“No. Well . . . just a little crazy and not enough locals to keep it sane . . . ya know?”
“I hear ya. We’ll hang out until Jo gets here.”
“Thanks, Wyatt. Melanie’s a lucky girl.”
It took Wyatt a full second to move his feet. Where had that come from?
Small town, he reminded himself.
“Ready?” Luke asked when he returned to his side.
“Not yet.” Wyatt went on to explain Josie’s worry, which resulted in a bobblehead nod from Luke.
Luke attempted to hold in a burp and failed, then waved his thumb toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna . . .”
“You do that.”
Luke swiveled off the high stool, steadied himself, and then found his path to the john.
Wyatt turned back to his lone beer and played with the bottle.
Over the music he heard a shout, turned in time to see Luke stumble, then saw the first fist thrown.
Wyatt was out of his seat and across the room in two breaths, but not before Luke’s ass took out one of the tables.
Somewhere a woman screamed and several men started shouting. Wyatt pushed in between Luke and the stranger in an attempt to stop the fight.
Before he could, a hand gripped his shoulder, spun him around, and a fist connected with his jaw.
There weren’t too many things that shot his adrenaline through the roof, but a punch to the face did it every time. He saw red and came up swinging.
He punched and blocked and took a hit from the opposite side. A warm trickle of blood ran down his cheek, the feeling hardly registered.
Luke had managed to gain his feet and everything was a blur of fists, screams, and pain.
He couldn’t even calculate time until he spun toward another hand on his shoulder and damn near dislocated his shoulder to stop his punch from connecting with Jo’s face.
“What the fuck, Wyatt?”
Someone had the good sense to unplug the jukebox, abruptly ending the majority of noise. A couple of men were still tossing punches and stopped only when Deputy Emery broke them up.
Wyatt wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, grimaced at the blood he found. That’s when he saw the destruction.
“What the hell is going on?” Jo twisted in a circle.
Wyatt couldn’t tell if it was the uniform or the woman under it that caused several grown men to study their shoes.
“Well?”
Josie tossed a towel on a broken stool.
Noise from outside told him a few of the bikers who managed to slip out were driving away. There were still three shaking out bruised fists and glaring at Wyatt and Luke.
“I said stick around and help, not bust the place up.” Josie placed both hands on her waist and glared.
“I can explain,” Wyatt said.
“I’m listening.” Jo waited.
Wyatt glanced at Luke. “I tried to break up a fight.”
Jo swiveled toward Luke. “Who started it?”
Luke pointed to the stranger. “He punched me.”
“You knocked me over,” his nemesis yelled. “No one knocks D-Man over.”
Luke started yelling, followed by D-Man pushing closer.
Jo stood between the two of them.
“Enough!” Josie did the yelling that time.
“Damn it.” Jo reached for her handcuffs. “Turn around,” she ordered the stranger.
“What the fuck!”
“Turn around!” Jo’s don’t screw with me voice had the grown man turning around.
D-Man spread his hands on a table as if he’d been in the position before. After a quick frisk and the removal of a pocket knife, Jo cuffed him and turned to another biker and did the same thing.
When she was done, there were three strangers with their hands tied behind their backs. Luke, Wyatt, and a local by the name of Matt stood in a broken bar that had been vacated by everyone other than those involved in the fight and the employees.
“I don’t even have room for all you shits in my squad car.”
One of the bikers laughed.
She turned on him, pointed. “Emery, get them back to the station.”
D-Man lifted his chin toward Wyatt. “What the fuck about them? Playing favorites, Sheriff?”
One of the other bikers muttered, “Probably fucking them.”
Luke started toward the cuffed man.
Wyatt stopped Luke from moving.
Jo took one look at them and narrowed her gaze. “You drive him to the station and wait for me,” she ordered Wyatt. “Matt, you’ve been drinking?”
“Uhm . . . yeah.”
She nodded toward Wyatt. “You ride with them.” She took Luke by the shoulders with a shake. “When you get there, you pour yourself a big cup of black coffee, sit the hell down, and don’t plan on getting up until I say . . . got it?”
“Jesus, Jo—”
“It’s Sheriff Ward right now, Mr. Miller.”
“C’mon, Luke. Do as Jo says,” Wyatt said, taking Luke by the elbow.
“Sheriff Ward, Mr. Gibson. And I expect the same of you. No one goes anywhere until I figure this mess out.”
“Got it.”
Before Wyatt could take a step, Jo asked, “You been drinking, Wyatt?”
“Half a beer,” he told her.
Jo glanced at Josie, who nodded.
“Get out of here,” she said before turning back toward the others.
Wyatt didn’t make her say it twice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“A bar fight.” Melanie stood with her hands perched on her hips, her gaze shifting from one bruised face to another. Luke looked like he’d had a one-on-one with a prizefighter. The red, angry welts would prove to be every color of the rainbow by morning. He nursed a split lip with a bag of ice that he alternated between his face and the top of his head. The man was still drunk a good hour after Jo had forced them back to the station. Wyatt had a cut above his right eye and bruising on the left side of his jaw. At least he looked sober.