Page 4 of Westin
“You have no fucking idea who you’re screwing with here, buddy,” the stranger announced. “You’re going to get messed-up!”
Westin wasn’t sure if Remington broke out of Clint’s hold, or if Clint just let him go at that point. But Remington was free and he swung, getting the guy on his jaw with the same sort of right hook. The guy, however, went flying where Remington had barely moved. He slammed up against the side of the sedan where the woman was still cowering behind the wheel. She cried out when the suit guy bounced against the thin side panel, jumping out of the car like she’d been touched by a shock of electricity. Westin grabbed the woman as Remington stepped into the stranger, throwing two more punches in quick succession, one to the man’s stomach, the other to his chin.
As Westin moved the woman out of harm’s way, pulling her up to the front of the diner, Clint gestured to Bowie and Landry, the three of them rushing the fighting pair in unison. Clint snagged Remington’s shirt again, but the material just pulled out of his jeans, allowing Remington the distance he needed to continue the fight. Bowie and Landry grabbed an arm each, straining to pull him back as he still fought to reach the suited guy. If Bowie hadn’t been as massive as he was, they might still have not gotten control of him. But fate was what it was, and they were able to pull him a good distance from the stranger.
“You have no idea what you’re getting in the middle of!” the stranger yelled loud enough that his words carried to where Westin had pushed the girl into a nook of the building, a spot where she couldn’t easily be seen by her attacker. Westin saw her flinch at the sound of the man’s voice, saw the fear that skated across her face before she hid it behind her eyes. Whatever was going on here, this woman was genuinely frightened.
“I saw you dragging that woman out of this car!” they heard Remington yell back. “I don’t give a shit who you are! No one touches a woman that way!”
The woman turned away, making herself as small as possible against the cold brick wall of the diner. Westin stepped back into the parking lot, anxious to see what was happening with his friends. He only moved a few feet away, but it was far enough to see Remington straining against the hold Landry and Bowie had on him.
“What business is it of yours, cowboy?” The stranger pushed away from the car, pulled himself up to his full height, approaching Remington with a confidence that was misplaced. He tugged almost huffily at the sleeves of his dark suit, looking down his nose at Remington, Clint, Bowie, and Landry like he was better than them in some way. It infuriated Westin. If there was one thing he hated more than anything else, it was people like this guy who thought they were better than men who worked with their hands for a living rather than sitting behind some cushy desk all day long, making money that they didn’t deserve. A familiar hatred bubbled in his chest, clenching his fists and pouring steel into his bones.
The man continued his approach, looking down his nose at Remington. “The woman is my business, not yours.”
Remington pulled against Bowie and Landry hard. Westin could see the strain it caused the two men to keep their hold on him. When he couldn’t get free, Remington spat, hitting the stranger right on the tip of his nose.
“Bastard!” the stranger screamed, launching himself forward, but Clint stepped in the way, knocking him down with one punch to the side of his head.
“Stay down!” Clint cried as the guy rolled over and made like he was going to get up. He stopped with Clint’s words. Silence ruled over them for a moment, not even the twitter of a distant bird to distract. And then there was a familiar sound, the screech of a distant siren rushing in their direction. Westin glanced at the diner, saw the witnesses watching the whole production. Someone had called the sheriff.
“Fuck it!” the guy said, sliding backwards and pulling himself into the car. “You can have the bitch if you want her that badly!”
With that, he slammed the car door and took off, blowing out of the parking lot so quickly he nearly sideswiped two parked cars and took out a car pulling into the lot. He headed northeast, in the general direction of Denver.
Good riddance!
“What the hell was that?” Clint immediately turned and shoved a finger into Remington’s chest. “How many times do I have to tell you to watch yourself? You want to go to jail?”
“No, sir,” Remington said, dropping his head. “I’m sorry.”
“What was that all about?”
Remington pulled away from Bowie and Landry, who let him go after a nod from Clint. He rubbed his hand, his knuckles already beginning to bruise. “He was pulling a woman out of the car by her hair.” Though there was little passion in his words, Remington’s eyes snapped with unburned anger. “I can’t put up with that, Clint. You know that.”
“I know, Brother.” Clint rested his hand on Remington’s shoulder, looking the other man in the eye. “But I can’t have you getting into fights like that. Especially not in a place like this. The last thing Miss Dulcie needs is one of us getting arrested.”
Remington lowered his head, clearly upset that his behavior might have caused trouble for their employer. Westin got it. Miss Dulcie was the sweetest woman he’d ever known in his short life—next to his own mother. The last thing he wanted—any of them wanted—was to put her in a bad situation.
“We should go,” Bowie said, snagging Remington’s arm as he began to move toward their work truck. A second later, a sheriff’s deputy pulled up in his squad car, silencing the siren as he stopped the car right across from where Westin and Clint stood. A weary look moved over Clint’s expression. “Go inside,” he instructed Westin. “Pay the bill and get your things.”
Westin tossed the truck keys to Bowie as he stepped into the diner, pulling his wallet from his back pocket as he did, aware of the curious looks he was getting from the other customers. The only one he really cared about, Rena, smiled at him, her lips quivering a little as though she was nervous he wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. She had no idea how much he did appreciate it.
“I had to call them, Westin,” Annie said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Clint has it under control.” He dropped a handful of bills on the counter beside the register as he offered her a flirtatious wink. “There’s a tip in there for you. We sure appreciate you each and every time we come in here.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she said with a blush, but she picked up the wad of bills and shot him a smile. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Westin grabbed his jacket—the others were gone, so he assumed one of the group had stepped in and grabbed them—and pulled his gloves on, shivering a little as he stepped out the door again. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he was aware of how the cold air had taken little bites out of his skin, particularly his fingers. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, hunching his shoulders as the wind hit him face-first. Instead of going to the truck where the heater was blowing—probably full blast if he knew Bowie—he turned the corner to check on Clint and the sheriff’s deputy.
“Hey! Is he gone?”
Westin had nearly forgotten about the girl.
“He’s gone. You’re safe.”