Eli stood, then leaned down to kiss his sister on the forehead. “Oh, I’ll show up, all right. You can count on that.”
He carried his cup to the sink, set it down.
Sara rose from her chair, too. She crossed the room, pushed aside a picture on the wall and began punching in numbers on the door of the little safe behind it.
“I can spend the night, if you want me to,” he offered.
Sara opened the safe’s door and took out a Glock with what appeared to be a gold-plated handle.
“We’ll be fine,” she replied, expertly checking the magazine for ammunition. “For tonight, anyhow, Old Bessie and I will manage just fine.”
“Good God,” Eli growled, startled. “Put that thing away.”
Sara laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in the sound. “Not a chance. I’m legal, Sheriff—permit to carry, concealed or otherwise.”
“When did you—?”
“I’ve been going out to the gun range for months now, little brother. If you paid attention to anything besides your job, you’d know that.”
“You could have mentioned that you’d taken up a hobby,” Eli challenged wryly. “Is the safety on?”
“Of course it is,” Sara retorted briskly. “I’m not stupid.”
“What if Eric or Hayley find that thing and mess with it?” Eli, like many cops, was of the belief that most women—and men, for that matter—were better off without a handgun, simply because so many things could go wrong.
For instance, the assailant might take it away and use it against its owner.
When it came to firearms, Murphy’s Law was the rule rather than the exception.
Eli was rattled. “Suppose you think there’s an intruder in the house and you fire that thing and then find out you’ve maimed or killed one of your kids?”
“That isn’t going to happen.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Stop being such an old lady, Eli. You’re willing to have Dan Summers living under this roof—a human lethal weapon—but you’re afraid of a little peashooter like this?”
“Sara.”
She set the gun carefully on a sideboard. Leaned back against it like an old-time gunfighter against the bar in a saloon.
“I’d recommend you don’t sneak in here and steal any more spaghetti casseroles from the freezer,” she said. “Especially not when you’re just coming off a late shift.”
Eli was not amused. “You’re taking this whole Luke Bible thing too seriously,” he accused. “You are not a fast gun on the side of truth, justice and the American Way.”
“Oh, but I am,” Sara said. “And I’ve got the multi-book contract to prove it. A couple of training certificates from the gun range, too. I’m downright deadly.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Eli snapped.
“I’m within my rights here, Dudley Do-Right. Not a goll-derned thing you can do about it.”
Eli rolled his eyes. “Call Dan first thing tomorrow. And try not to shoot the meter reader or the UPS man, okay?”
“Tomorrow—which is actually today—is a holiday. New Year’s, remember? No hapless service people will come within range.”
“Shit,” Eli said. “Another damn holiday.”
“You still coming by for roast beef dinner?” Sara inquired, as though they hadn’t been discussing carnage. “Seven o’clock sharp. Bring a bottle of red wine. In fact, bring several.”
“Right,” Eli replied. He was beaten, and he knew it, but he wasn’t going to let this gun-thing slide. Cops and soldiers needed semiautomatic weapons like Sara’s, but women in wooly red robes and fluffy slippers?
Not so much.
Seeing that his master was on the move, Festus roused himself from his light slumber and got to his feet, though he’d probably been alert since the mention of roast beef.
“Lock up behind me,” Eli said.
“Well, duh,” Sara replied. Shades of their younger years. They’d been as close as any brother and sister, but they’d had their differences, too, naturally.
They were there for each other, in good times and bad.
He ignored the jibe. “Good night, Sara,” he said, with more gravity than the sentiment probably required.
“Good night, Dudley,” Sara said.
Eli laughed then, in spite of himself, and made for the door, Festus at his heels. The moment they were outside, he heard the dead bolt engage.
On the drive home, Eli thought about Freddie Lansing, and Sara’s gun, and what it would be like around her place if she hired Dan Summers or some of his crew.
He knew precisely what Melba had told Sara about her ex-husband that made her hesitant to hire him, the cost notwithstanding.
Dan billed himself as a security agent, and he was that.
He was also a mercenary, and a damn good one.
More Jesse James than Matt Dillon.
Eli approached his SUV cautiously, not only because it was late, but because that was his policy. If some asshole—like Freddie Lansing—got the jump on him, that would be his fault as much as anybody’s.
The area was clear, and he and Festus got into the rig.
Eli backed out of Sara’s driveway, onto the road.
After circling the block a few times, just in case, he headed for home.
By the time he got there, he was thinking about Brynne Bailey, not Freddie.
He was careful, just the same.
Parked in the yard instead of the garage, under the glare of one of the security lights, and whistled for Festus to jump out of the SUV on the driver’s side.
The dog’s hackles rose instantly, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.
“Easy,” Eli said, unsnapping his holster cover in case he needed his service revolver.
Festus, usually obedient, ignored Eli’s command to be quiet and sprang toward the yard, baying as he ran.
“Hold on,” Eli half shouted, but the dog didn’t listen.
He scrambled after Festus and found him straddling a prone figure on the ground.
“It’s me,” Eric cried, laughing and turning his head back and forth in a fruitless effort to keep the dog from licking his face. “It’s me, Uncle Eli—don’t shoot.”
Eli swore furiously, edged Festus off the kid with a motion of one leg, and yanked his nephew to his feet by his lapels.