And Sheriff Quinn Riley hated loose ends. He dragged his boots off the scarred wooden desk, pushed to his feet, and pulled out a pocket watch. Officially three hours late. A glance through a nearby window showed him nature brewed to spit out a thunderous storm. For most of the day, clouds had hung dark and heavy over the mountain town of Bull City. He swiped a palm across sweat beading on his forehead. Damn. More often than not, troubling weather translated to trouble of a human kind. Humidity soured even the sweetest temperaments and sharpened bad tempers. Elements that didn’t bode well for a quiet night. Hands pressed to his back, he stretched stiff muscles and glanced at the sole occupant of the jail. Patrick O’Malley laid full length on his cot, an arm thrown over his eyes. A grifter and card sharp with a slippery Irish tongue, the man had waited almost two weeks for the circuit judge’s arrival. “O’Malley!” “Begging yer pardon?” a sleepy voice said. “I’m walking perimeter.
