My day had started out with Bud Shelton calling the sheriff station at the crack of dawn ranting and raving about some meth head hijacking all the deer corn from his feed store, and from there on it only got worse. After the deer corn emergency, I responded to a domestic dispute out at the trailer park during my lunch and helped direct traffic at an accident outside town on FM 167. Next up was the afternoon soda run because I lost to my partner, Elroy Sampson, at paper-rock-scissors. Finally, I broke up the pregame beer party the high schoolers like to throw in a mesquite grove just behind the football field. I’d done nothing all day but chase down one problem after another. Some days, being the only female deputy sheriff in a small town just sucked ass—and it was about to get worse. All I wanted to do that October Friday night was sit at Rusty’s bar trying to knock the edge off my inconvenient libido. Instead, as I was getting ready to order a beer, my phone vibrated against my butt cheek, letting me know I had a text message.
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