Boomer closed his eyes and figured he’d sleep for a few hours. The gator was safe, iced up as it was. He heard the click of a lighter, then smelled burning tobacco as she inhaled. Tired as he was, he fell asleep and only opened an eye when he felt her stir nearly six hours later. He wanted to sleep longer—hell, he deserved it—but he had to check on the gator and make sure it was still cool and besides, the damned banty roosters that belonged to Jed Stomp, his stupid-ass neighbor, were crowing up a high-pitched raucous that could wake the dead.

A bit of a headache nagged at him as he climbed out of bed. He gave Mindy Jo’s naked, round little butt a playful slap and headed back to the kitchen, where he pulled on his hunting clothes again.

The sun was high in the winter sky, the day promising to have a little heat for January. A crow sat on the peak of the roof, eyeing him and emitting irritating caws.

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbled, wishing he had his twenty-two. Damn noisy thing.

In the carport, he opened the bed of the truck, then worked to slide the gator and the tarp out onto the gravel of the driveway. The crow’s caws were echoed by a jay who’d come to squawk. To add to the noise, he heard the damn squeal of the coffee grinder from inside the house. Mindy Jo was up and going through her ritual of grinding coffee, which he thought was a big bother when you could buy a can of Folgers for less money at the Piggly Wiggly.

Ignoring the morning cacophony, Boomer grabbed his sharpest knife and went to cuttin’ on the gator. It was hard work, but he was already counting the dollar signs in his head and thinking that he’d go check the other traps later. Maybe he’d gotten lucky. Just about finished with the messy job, he heard the screen door creak open, then slam shut.

Mindy Jo, wrapped in some silky Asian robe, pink slippers, and faux ostrich feathers, walked onto the screened-in porch. She held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Three of those miserable cats wound around her leg. The gray tom, with no tail and only one eye, had the nerve to glare at him. God, he hated that stupid lynx.

“He is a big un,” she said, not stepping off the porch as she eyed the alligator’s carcass. “Just get one?” She took a drag from her cigarette and tipped back her head to let out a stream of smoke from one side of her mouth.

“Fer now. I’ll check the traps again later this morning.” He was sweating, working hard as he eviscerated the animal. “And he ain’t too scarred. Skin’s good. The hide’ll fetch a good price.”