Not that he was worried about her defending herself—Sheriff Blackwell had taken control of the situation before the natives could get restless. But the way she’d snapped so quickly into combat mode, he’d seen too many guys do that both on and off the battlefield, addicts chasing an adrenaline fix, unable to stop once they’d started. The Sweetbriar’s parking lot was filled with vehicles, their colors morphed by the buzzing neon light above them. A few locals looked on from the shadows as Blackwell stood between the three men and David and TK. “You three, sit your asses down there on the curb,” he ordered the drunk men. The kid, the drunkest of the three, was wavering as if debating whether to throw up or fall down. Finally, he settled for plopping down to the ground, resting his head in his hands. The oldest edged a belligerent glance at TK. “She started it. Don’t see why—” “Button it,” Blackwell ordered, one hand on the butt of his gun. “Think I didn’t see you push Junior?”
