WIDOW
By the time I reached home, my patience was dead, buried, and probably halfway through decomposing.
The ride back from the quarry had given me plenty of time to think about Rafe Callahan, which was unfortunate because most of those thoughts involved finding creative ways to shut his arrogant mouth. The man could turn a simple conversation into a territorial dispute, and apparently, admitting he might be wrong would cause his entire body to collapse.
I parked my motorcycle in the garage, pulled off my gloves, and lit a cigarette before heading inside. My boots thudded across the cedar floor as I dropped my keys into the bowl beside the door.
I needed a shower, a beer, and at least twelve hours without another man telling me what to do.
My phone rang before I reached the kitchen.
