Charley stood in front of the sheriff’s desk, her hands on her hips. Damn the man to hell and back again. He just sat there with his booted feet on the desk. A cloud of smoke billowed around his face as he examined the tip of his cigar.
“Well, Sheriff?”
“Miss Mason, I done told ya already. There’s nuthin’ I can do about rustlers.”
“No, you said you couldn’t play Pinkerton to my dead cows. These are alive, and they’ve been stolen. That’s against the law. And you’re the sheriff.”
Cutler lowered his feet to the floor and dropped the cigar by his boot. “Good of you to notice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His brown eyes squinted at her. “You ride round here like you own this town.”
Charley’s spine stiffened. “Do tell, sheriff.”
He leaned over the desk, his eyes narrowed to small sli
