The Old Man's Back in Town Read Online Free PDF Page B

receiver off the wall. “What?”
    I heard heavy breathing.
    “What the hell do you want, damn it?”
    “Mon-taaan-na,” a voice whispered.
    I felt my eyes widen in surprise. I looked at Buffalo, who watched me, his focus unwavering.
    “What?” I whispered back, my voice hiding down in my throat.
    “I see you when you’re sleeping.”
    I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. There was something about the voice I recognized, something in the way he’d said my name, all sing-songy like.
    “I know when you’re awake,” he paused between each line, letting them sink in.
    My hand started to tremble.
    “Who is it?” Joel asked.
    “I know when you’ve been bad, Mon-taaan-na.” There it was again. “And you’ve been a very bad girl.”
    “Who is this?” I voiced, my words sounding far away.
    “Give me the phone,” Joel said, coming around the bar.
    “It’s time for you to be punished,” the creep whispered. “And when I’m done, you’ll wish you were—”
    Joel ripped the receiver from my hand. “Who is this?” he spoke into the phone.
    I took several steps back, the creep’s words replaying in my head, sparking that déjà vu again.
    Joel hung up the phone and turned to me. “What did he say?”
    Then it hit me, an echo from the past. I knew that voice!
    The fear gripping my lungs tightened in rage. “No!” I shoved past Joel, yanking the phone off the wall and throwing it on the floor where I stomped on it with my boot heel.
    “Montana!” Joel grabbed me by the shoulders. “Stop it.”
    I broke his hold, snatching up my 12-gauge. “Damn you, Joel.”
    “What did I do?”
    I back-stepped toward the swinging doors, glaring at him. “You came here to stop me.”
    “From what?” Buffalo asked, half off his bar stool.
    “Montana, give me the shotgun,” Joel took a step toward me, holding out his hand palm up.
    “From what?” Buffalo asked again.
    I spared him a frown. “From killing that son of a bitch I married.”
    Joel took another step toward me. “Hand over your weapon before you hurt someone.”
    “Negative, Detective Andersen,” I said in his cop lingo. “You need to get out of my bar before I fill you full of holes, too.” I glanced at Buffalo. “Lock the door on your way out, would ya?”
    Without another word, I grabbed the bottle of whiskey, leaned my shotgun over my shoulder, and shoved through the swinging half-doors that led back to my office.
    New Christmas Eve plan—prepare for a showdown with that rotten bastard I’d divorced and put behind bars for killing his business partner. I was done cowering at his threats.
    “Montana,” Joel called from behind me. “Come back to me.”
    “Go to hell!” I stepped through my office doorway.
    He didn’t listen, following on my boot heels, shutting the door behind him and locking it.
    I slammed the bottle of whiskey down on my desk, spilling some on the get-well cards stacked on it. “Andersen, your inability to follow my directions has always pissed me off.”
    “Put the shotgun down.” He grabbed the 12-gauge from me, using it to tug me toward him.
    “I’m done running scared.”
    “Good. Give me your gun.”
    “You have your own. Why do you need mine?”
    “Two reasons—first, because you make me sweaty when you are swinging this thing around.” I let him take it from me. He placed it gently on the desk, the muzzle facing away from us, and then laid his Colt .45 next to it. “Second, because I can’t concentrate on talking to you when you have that in your hands.”
    “We said all there was to say months ago.”
    “You’re right.” He grabbed me by the front of my T-shirt, yanked me into him, and planted a hard kiss on my mouth. “Take off your pants.”
    I glared up at him. “You think you can come slamming into town and land right back between my legs?”
    “A man can hope.”
    “You have a big set of balls, Joel Andersen.”
    He grinned and buried his fingers in my hair, backing me into the