Free PacksBrokenHeart by Gwen Campbell

with enough force that the hostility in the cop’s eyes flickered for a moment. “My paperwork’s in order and I wasn’t speeding. If we’re done, I’ve got to get to the Amoses’ place. I promised to drive Piper to some fabric shop so she can barter for scraps for school projects. So my day’s promising to be god-awful already without police harassment thrown into the mix.”
    For a stretch of about five seconds the cop stared down at Owen. Then, quite suddenly, he grinned. His grin lit up what had been a forbidding expression.
    “Sounds true enough.” He was laughing as he handed Owen’s paperwork back then he waved the other cruiser off. “I remember my mother dragging me with her to one of those places a while back. The air was so full of dust I sneezed loud enough that every female in the place turned and looked at me like I’d let off a bomb.” He shivered lightly inside his state-issued bomber jacket. “Just the memory of the looks on all those female faces gives me the willies.”
    Owen chuckled obligingly and made a mental note to wait outside the shop.
    “My name’s Tom by the way,” the male said as he extended his hand. His skin was rough, his grip strong. “Tom Ray.”
    “Owen Wells. But I guess you know that already,” Owen added with a grin as he held up the paper in his free hand.
    “Good to meet you, Owen. Sorry about the frosty reception but just so you know, our Beta was killed a week ago.” Tom’s expression tightened. “We’re still looking for the killer so we’re suspicious of every new face these days.” He slapped the roof of Owen’s truck. “Drive safe and keep an eye out for who’s around you, buddy.”
    “I will. And thanks for the heads-up.”
    “My pleasure. See you around.” Tom walked back to his cruiser while talking into a hand-held mic. He waved as he turned his car around and headed back to the clump of trees.
     
    Owen took another pull off his longneck Heineken. The bar was what he’d expected of a western honky-tonk. Except there was no honky in the tonk tonight. The jukebox was broken and a middle-aged guy with a toolbox was squatting down beside it, his backside on the verge of flashing a plumber’s smile.
    Owen looked away before he scarred himself mentally.
    Still, the place was clean and smelled of malted barley, bacon and fried eggs from the grill in back and lemon polish somebody had rubbed the tables and bar-front with. There was the requisite sprinkling of sawdust on the pine-plank floors and the place was decorated in early chuck wagon—spoked wheels on the walls, rodeo photos and horse tack.
    What was it with people and horses around here? Even the bar was named Hair of the Horse.
    Although, he had to admit as he watched two females walk by, he was fast becoming a devotee of short denim skirts and flashy cowboy boots.
    He’d chosen a table not too far from the bar so he could, if the opportunity presented itself, make conversation with people going back and forth. He also sat with his back to the wall, where he could take in the place in its entirety. Serving in a frontline unit had made him a cautious man.
    Mostly though, he was getting a feel for the weres who were starting to fill up the bar and letting them get a look at him. Around him were the sounds of conversation, some laughter and pool balls clacking off one another.
    “Now, Jackson,” the affable bartender said as he walked up to the repairman. When Jackson looked up the bartender handed him a cup of coffee. “I know we’ve got a service contract but that doesn’t mean I like seeing your ugly puss out here every other week.” The grin on his face softened his words.
    Jackson sat up, leaned back on his heels and took a sip of coffee. The patch over the breast pocket of his shirt read Fender Amusements and Repair. “I wouldn’t have to come out here every other week if you’d trade this relic in. I’ve got a digital jukebox back at the shop. Brand spankin’ new. It’ll