“Easiest fifty bucks I’ll ever make,” the other guy said with a drunken chuckle. He handed a fistful of uncounted bills to Adeline. “You girls can count the money and hold on to it, to keep everything fair and square.”
“Hey, and bring our beer over to this table,” the blond ordered Alice. “This won’t take long, sugar pie, and then we’ll be on our way to play a real game.”
Once again Jude seethed, but the scenario was going just the way they’d hoped. His daughters were playing along, taking the money from the four of them and then sitting down at the table, out of harm’s way.
Jeremiah took his time arranging the stripes and solids inside the wooden triangle, as though he wasn’t sure how to rack the balls properly. “You guys might be better players than we are,” he remarked apologetically, “so how about if we go first?”
“So we’ll at least get a turn,” Jude put in as he ambled to the opposite end of the pool table. As he chalked the end of his stick, he hoped his billiard skills would come back to him—just as he was counting on Sheriff Banks to come inside before the two English fellows realized they were being hustled.
Drew and Phil chortled as though Jeremiah’s suggestion struck them as hilarious. “Sure, why not?” the shorter one replied.
“Fine by me,” the burly blond said as he chose a different cue stick from the rack on the wall. “But you know, we play nearly every day, so if you guys’re out to make a little money, maybe you should—”
“Shut up and let him take his shot,” his friend snapped. “This game was their idea, after all. Easy come, easy go.”
Jude relaxed, leaning over the end of the table with his cue stick. As he’d hoped, these young men were full of themselves and skunk drunk. He focused on the tight triangle of colored balls and shot hard and clean, biting back a grin when the balls scattered all over the table.
“Guess we’ll take the stripes,” Jeremiah said as two striped balls fell into pockets. He easily sent a third ball into the center pocket as Jude studied the table and positioned himself to continue their turn.
Jeremiah turned to the tall blond fellow, who frowned at the direction the game was taking. “How many guys does it take to install the second lightbulb this swag lamp is supposed to have?” he teased, tapping the dust-encrusted beer advertisement with his cue stick.
Phil and Dexter appeared confused by this old joke. It was one of Jeremiah’s diversionary tactics from when he and Jude were in their rumspringa—because even back in those days, none of the fixtures had been fully lit. The blond went over to sip his beer while the shorter guy peered up into the light fixture with a baffled expression.
“We’ll probably never know,” Jude responded in a conspiratorial tone. “Something tells me they don’t keep any spare lightbulbs in this joint.”
“Huh,” the fellow grunted. He eagerly accepted the mug his blond buddy brought over and swilled about half of the beer in it.
Jude drove the white cue ball firmly against the table edge at an angle to knock another striped ball into a corner pocket. As his brother chose his next shot, Jude glanced at Alice and Adeline, who sat wide-eyed and silent. In their jeans, makeup, and dangly earrings, with their hair cascading over their shoulders and beer mugs in front of them, they appeared heartbreakingly English. At least the colorful jackets Lenore had made them covered their upper bodies, and they weren’t smoking or drinking or glaring at him for coming to the pool hall. Jude couldn’t be completely angry with his girls because they’d come here to right a wrong on Leah’s behalf, so when they glanced at him, he winked.
“That’s it for the stripes,” Jeremiah announced when he’d taken his shot. “Go for the solids, little brother.”
“Now just a freakin’ minute,” the blond protested over the blare of the jukebox. “I thought you two said—”
“In eight ball, our team gets to keep shooting until one of us misses a shot,” Jeremiah pointed out firmly. “We’re playing this fair and square, boys. You said we could go first.”
Jude took great satisfaction in driving a blue ball the full length of the table into a corner pocket without the cue ball following it. As he stepped back to allow Jeremiah room for his turn, he glanced through the smudged front window. He was relieved to see a barrel-shaped man in a brown uniform approaching the door.
“Why did the chicken cross the road?” Jude asked his opponents, barely able to control his temper. What did his daughters find so alluring about these two belligerent, rude young men?
“To get to the other side,” the shorter guy jeered.
“Nope,” Jude said. “To get away from a couple of irresponsible guys with a gun.”
Suspicion flared in the blond’s eyes. When the sheriff stepped inside, both the young men sobered up fast. Neither of them spoke.
Clyde Banks assessed the situation and took his time approaching the table where the four of them were playing. He planted himself in front of the blond. “Phil Hainey, you’re under arrest,” he announced beneath the blare of the jukebox. “You have the right to remain silent—”
“And what’s this about?” Phil demanded hotly. “I’ve been here all morning—and I’ve got all these witnesses—”
“Your truck was identified racing away from the Shetler place after you shot most of their cows and calves,” the sheriff began. “When I received that call, I was just down the road from the Shetlers’, checking out a call about a horse you shot—”
“You can’t prove any of that!” Phil’s buddy piped up.
Sheriff Banks shook his head in disgust. “The bullets that killed the cattle came from the rifle in the back of the pickup you fellows parked out front.”
“You had no right to search my truck!” Phil shouted.
The sheriff calmly pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “Here’s my search
