The Fin and Feather was close enough to Paola to have actual water lines, which was a blessing. Because I lingered in the shower long enough to empty a cistern. Randy favored gold Dial soap and Body on Tap shampoo (which according to the label was one-third beer), and when I finally wrapped myself in a bath towel the unfamiliar scents clung to me.

The mirror above the sink showed me a woman with bags beneath her eyes, but at least the sweat and dirt and blood were gone. Also, the aspirin was kicking in, and my headache had retreated from DEFCON 2 to bearable. Things were looking up.

“Ellison?” Libba’s voice came from the other side of the bathroom door. “I brought you clothes.”

I opened the door, and she frowned at me. “Wow. You look awful.”

“Thanks.”

“Here.” She thrust clean underwear and a sundress at me. “Get dressed, then we’ll talk.”

Two minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom and found her waiting.

“Do you have a brush?”

“Sorry. I’m not carrying a purse.”

My hair could stay a rat’s nest, at least it was clean.

“Talk,” she demanded.

“Sumner did it.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

“I don’t have the energy for much more, and the sheriff wants to talk with me.”

“Willa told me you took off running.” Her eyes narrowed. “That means you figured out that Sumner was guilty and ran toward danger.”

I shrugged.

“We’ll put aside the running-toward-danger bit. For now. How did you know it was Sumner?”

“There’s a difference between suspecting and knowing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Can I explain later?”

Libba crossed her arms and scowled at me.

“Between the heat and the adrenalin and the fight—”

“The fight?”

I held up my hand and let her see my bruised knuckles. “The fight.”

She grinned. “You hit Sumner? I’m so jealous. Also, when you mention fighting, waiting for an explanation gets less and less attractive.”

“Too bad.”

“Charlie needs to check you out.”

“Charlie is a cardiologist.”

“Which means he’s smart enough to tend to your cuts and bruises and make sure you’re not concussed.”

“I need to talk to Anarchy.”

“I’ll make a deal with you. Let Charlie check you out, then we’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“I have to talk to Sheriff Bascom.”

“Let Charlie check for head injuries, then talk to the sheriff. Then we’ll take you to Anarchy.”

How could I refuse an offer like that? “Deal.”

Chapter Seventeen

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We crowded into Anarchy hospital room—me, Libba, and Charlie.

Anarchy looked pale.

Pale enough to make me worry. “The doctor is sure you'll be okay?”

“Positive.” I wanted to believe him, but he was a man. And in my experience, men acted like head colds were the bubonic plague, while treating serious illnesses like paper cuts.