Down for the count.
The other guy was already moving. Not fast, but not slow, either. His fists looked as big as cantaloupes. He held them high, protecting his face, his right hand slightly behind the left, his left foot forward. A right-handed boxer’s stance. He wouldn’t go for the face and risk hitting bone and breaking his hand. He’d go for the gut. Dalton would have to go lower.
He watched the Aggie come closer and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, timing it in his head. As soon as the guy started his swing, Dalton would feint left and kick out his right foot, hook him behind the knee and pull him down.
But just as the guy’s shoulders signaled his move, Dalton saw Raney running behind him toward her truck. He thought gun, and yelled, “Raney, no!” just as a sledgehammer fist slammed into his stomach.
He staggered back, head spinning, gasping for air.
Somehow, he stayed on his feet.
The redhead kept coming.
Dalton kept moving backward to give himself time to catch his breath.
The Aggie came closer. Fists lower. Eyes darting down. Moving in for a kick.
Right-handed usually meant right-footed. Dalton watched the guy’s feet. When the Aggie planted his left foot and jerked his right foot back, Dalton took a hop-step forward and drove the heel of his boot into the redhead’s left knee.
A howl of pain, and the Aggie went down.
The crowd jeered and clapped.
Dalton bent over, hands on knees, and struggled to fill his lungs, hardly aware of the movement around him.
Until a voice shouted, “Freeze, Cardwell!”
Shit. Langers. Dalton slowly straightened.
Deputy Langers stood in firing position, both hands on the pistol pointed at Dalton’s chest.
“You’re wrong, Toby,” Dalton said, still breathing hard. “I didn’t start this.”
“Put your hands up!”
Dalton slowly raised his hands above his shoulders. Another lesson learned in prison: never argue with a man who has a badge and a gun.
“On your knees!”
Dalton dropped to his knees beside the two Aggies. One wasn’t moving, but Dalton was relieved to see he was still breathing. The other was cussing and holding his knee.
“Hands on your head,” Toby ordered.
Dalton put his hands on his head.
Still holding the gun on him, the deputy came around behind him. A moment later, Dalton heard the click of the cuffs closing around his wrists. It was a sickening sound. One he remembered well. And for the first time since he’d walked out of the Huntsville state prison, he felt afraid.
The onlookers murmured, phones still up, not sure what was happening. Maybe videos would help. Maybe not. If Langers had his way, Dalton would be headed back to prison tomorrow.
The crackhead rolled over and vomited into the dirt. The redhead moaned.
“Stand up,” Langers ordered.
Dalton stood. He looked out past the sea of faces and saw Raney staring back at him, eyes stricken, a hand clamped over her mouth. I’m sorry, sweetheart.
“Why are you arresting Cardwell?” a familiar voice shouted. “The other guys started it.”
Dalton looked over, saw Buddy Anderson standing in front of the crowd, a belligerent scowl on his face. Suze stood beside him, phone up and recording.
“He’s right,” another man said. “I’ve got everything on video.”
Other voices shouted they did, too.
Toby ignored them. “Step aside!” Gripping Dalton by the elbow, he shoved him through the crowd toward his cruiser parked next to the building.
Then suddenly Raney stepped forward and blocked their way. She no longer looked stricken. Now her blue eyes were snapping with fury. “Why didn’t you do anything, Deputy?” she demanded. “Instead of just standing there and watching?”
“If you interfere, Miss Whitcomb, I’ll have to arrest you, too.”
“Then do it.” Raney held out her arms, wrists up. “Cuff me and within half an hour a dozen videos will post on the Internet. They’ll show that those other two guys started the fight while you watched and did nothing then arrested the wrong man because of some twenty-year-old grudge.”
“Seventeen,” Dalton reminded her.
Joss stepped up behind her sister, arms out. “Arrest me, too, Deputy Langers. You’ll be an Internet star. I’ve already sent a video to your boss, Sheriff Ford.”
Other people stepped forward, arms out, asking to be put in cuffs. Laughter, catcalls and whistles, voices chanting, “Arrest me, too!”
And in the distance, the wail of sirens. Several sirens.
But Dalton could only stare at the woman in front of him. Fierce, brave, beautiful Raney. God, how he loved her. He reminded himself to tell her that when this was over.
Waving people aside, Langers continued to push Dalton toward his patrol car.
Dalton looked over, saw the nervous sweat sliding down Toby’s temples, the look of panic in his eyes, and decided this had gone on long enough. “Don’t do this, Toby,” he said in a calm voice. “You know I didn’t start it.”
“Shut up.” They reached the car and Langers yanked open the door. “Get in.”
Dalton tried one last time. “Don’t ruin your career over something that happened when we were kids. Stop now before it’s too late.”
“Shut the fuck up and get in the damn car!” Toby shoved him into the backseat, then leaned down and glared through the open door, breathing hard, his breath foul and smelling of beer. “If neither one of those guys presses charges, I will. Count on it!” Then he slammed the door so hard it rocked the car, just as an ambulance drove up, lights flashing. Two Texas Highway Patrol SUVs came in behind it in a swirl of dust, followed by another ambulance.
Someone had called out the troops, and Dalton could guess who. God love her.
It took two hours to sort it all out. Deputy Langers received a call from Sheriff Ford and left soon after. The ambulances carted off the Aggies, one with a concussion, the other with a damaged knee. After talking to witnesses and viewing more videos than he wanted to, the trooper in charge issued disorderly conduct citations to all the combatants, told Dalton when and where to show up if he chose
