1 Chapter 1

Paid for Services Rendered

August 18, 20—

West Stockton, Oklahoma

Lockmar Street

Boxford Agency

I knew two concrete things in life that had done me well. One, there was a right way and a wrong way to treat a man, and I was good at the right way. And two, never underestimate the power of money. Let me explain.

I didn’t have a boyfriend, although I was looking for me. My last boyfriend was treated like an Arabian prince and somehow I lost him to another cowboy. It didn’t mean I was giving up on men. It simply meant that I was going to try harder in seeking out my Mr. Right so I could spend the rest of my life with him in Stockton County, Oklahoma, which wasn’t too far from Tulsa. I was single for fourteen months, needed the aggressive touch of another man, and knew that I would find one.

As for money having power, I could buy a man and keep him forever, but I didn’t have enough dough for that. Other cowboys could because their bank accounts were fourteen hands high. That wasn’t my case. I made a living off private investigative work in West Stockton and the surrounding towns in Stockton County. My agency was on Lockmar Street in downtown West Stockton, which kept me busy with a career, food in my stomach, and Wolf Ridge Ranch to live on.

My agency consisted of three rooms. My office, which was filled with file cabinets of finished cases, a miniature bathroom that would have made dwarves happy, and Lilith’s office, which was near the front door. Lilith Carr was my part-time secretary, housekeeper, and the woman who kept me in line. She was sixty-five and acted like a fun aunt to me. Only Lilith could set me straight when I needed a talking to, and scolded me when necessary. Without her next to my side, I was doomed at running the agency and considered her my right arm.

My current case was finding out who had murdered Evan Sting, a ranch hand for Dunny Sting, Evan’s uncle, at Rough Ranch. Benny Sting was paying me a nice chunk of money to find out who slaughtered his son. Benny made his money in oil and had lots of it to share with me so I could pay my monthly bills.

I had one problem in my life at that time, and it wasn’t finding a boyfriend to spend some quality time with. Instead, it was more serious and detrimental to my living. I didn’t have the slightest clue who killed Evan. Nor did I have any real facts to go on that related to the crime scene on Shotner Hill.

What limited facts of the crime included Evan Sting’s body, which was sliced open at his tight stomach. Evan was also branded on the right side of his neck with the symbol U)(U. The kid was left naked in a clump of brush for three days before he was found. There was no foreign DNA on him, no foreign fingerprints, no hair follicles, and no sign of struggle. It was deduced that he was murdered on March 17, which was St. Patrick’s Day, and then was discovered on March 20 by Sheriff Lord after Benny Sting reported his son missing. Other facts were stashed in the kid’s file. Evan William Sting was eighteen-years-old, a first semester sophomore at Stockton College, a loner student, and queer. He was five-eleven, weighed one hundred and seventy pounds, and had black hair with matching eyes. He liked to read, sculpt, and was an excelled student.

No matter how many details I had on the victim, and reviewed such facts on a daily basis, I couldn’t figure out on my own who had murdered Evan Sting. Therefore, I needed help with the case and knew exactly who to turn to for assistance.

Tal Linear. Because he owed me. 2: The Linear Bar

Tal was just a few years younger than me at twenty-nine, seemed physically fit concerning his five-ten frame, and had the most beautiful amber-hazel eyes that could drop me to my knees in just a few seconds. The owner of the Linear Bar had thick red hair, freckles on his cheeks and nose, and seemed a bit shy.

He bought the bar approximately three years ago after moving to Stockton County from Dallas, opened the place, followed all the laws of the land with accuracy, and made a fair living at serving drinks and bar food to fellow cowboys, both gay and straight. The Linear Bar was just like its name. Some men went into the place to dance with another man. Others simply wanted to sit at the bar, eat peanuts, drink a few beers, and watch a rodeo on the seventy-two inch flat-screens that hung from the rafters. No fights ever broke out there. Drugs were rarely taken or sold in the two bathrooms. And Thomas P. Lord, the sheriff of West Stockton, never had to visit the bar for some unnamed and questionable business.