Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) by Jennifer Skully

Muhammad
Ali’s “ float like a butterfly, sting like a bee ” finesse,
he’d called Carl a dart-playing, outhouse-excavating loser.
Lafoote’s lanky opponent was still trying to figure out if he’d
been insulted, too.
    Completely shut down by Lafoote, Carl could
only sputter. His face turned red, and it wasn’t with the same
stain of embarrassment that had tortured his features last night at
the Flood’s End. This was spontaneous combustion. This was Monday
night in the boxing ring. This had the potential for collateral
damage that rivaled Goldstone’s flood and fire combined.
    Brax had been a cop for coming up on sixteen
years. The best strategy an officer could apply was to head ’em off
at the pass. He put a hand on Carl’s shoulder. Don’t grab, don’t
pull. Gently bring ’em back to their senses. But Carl shrugged his
hand off and squared off against The Foot.
    “Listen, you little weasel, you’d better take
your dog-and-pony show out of Goldstone before something bad
happens to you.” Carl growled and clamped his mouth. His teeth
ground as if he were breaking down gravel into sand. His fist
clenched, unclenched, clenched again, so hard his knuckles turned
white and the beer mug in his other hand trembled. His breath
headed toward a full-blown pant while his eyes bore the haze of a
bull gone mad.
    If he’d had a gun, Carl more than likely
would have shot the weasel.
    “Are you threatening me, Felman?” The weasel,
however, didn’t seem to know how close he was to dying. Or at least
to sustaining a broken nose and a few loose teeth.
    Brax shoved his own beer into the hand of a
convenient onlooker and insinuated himself between the two
combatants. Three inches taller than Carl, Brax blocked his view of
Lafoote.
    “We’re going to the Flood’s End, Carl.”
    Carl’s breath puffed like a steam engine.
“Butt out, Brax. This is between me and Lafoote.”
    “Sheriff Braxton, he’s threatening me.” The
glee in the weasel’s voice was about to earn him an elbow in his
belly if he didn’t shut the hell up, but Brax concentrated on
Carl.
    Wider and taller, Brax gave Carl the cop
look, the one that said I’m hauling your ass to jail, or telling
your wife on you . “Back off, Carl.”
    If Lafoote made a move or a sound, if anyone
did, Carl would go off like a powder keg. What caused the animosity
between the two men, Brax didn’t know, and right now, didn’t
care.
    He met Carl’s gaze. The blaze of anger in his
eyes was downright frightening. Brax’s concern for his sister rose
a notch.
    Brax met Carl stare for stare, muscles
bunched. “Let’s go outside, Carl.” He debated mentioning Maggie’s
name, then decided against it.
    Moments passed. Brax could almost feel the
trapped breaths of the onlookers. Finally, Carl’s gaze dropped. The
flare of his nostrils receded. Brax clapped him on the arm, then
wrapped his hand around Carl’s biceps and turned him, steering them
through a quickly parting crowd. “It’s too fricking loud in here,
and there’s too many people for my taste, Carl. I’m getting
claustrophobic.”
    Carl moved like a zombie. They reached the
end of the bar, and the door was in sight. Almost clear. Brax half
expected The Foot to throw some irritating parting shot at Carl and
start the whole damn thing over.
    He reached the door, slammed it open, and
practically shoved Carl through.
    He’d learned three things. First, something
overly odd was going on between the resort developer and the
outhouse excavator. Second, Carl was much closer to the edge than
even Maggie seemed to think. And third, Carl was not spending his
time at The Chicken Coop, but at The Dartboard. Which should please
Maggie.
    “Let’s get the hell out of here.” Brax
climbed in his SUV. Almost meekly, Carl followed suit on the
passenger side.
    Once they were on the highway headed back to
Goldstone, Brax released the tension in his neck and shoulders.
“What the hell was that all about?”
    “The