Prairie Gothic by J.M. Hayes

But two years gave Simon a nice edge on a boy just entering sixth grade and without friends to offer the strength of numbers. On his first day, the boy who would be sheriff had approached the building overburdened by a load of books and anxieties. Simon picked young English out, recognized his fear, and struck, knocking everything from his hands as he fought through the crowded entrance. The sheriff still felt the humiliation, scrambling about on hands and knees, trying to rescue his belongings from beneath a stampede of students. Some had paused to smirk or giggle—maybe even grin a little wider because of the way Simon stood there and mocked him. One year was all it lasted. Less, really, because by the end English had friends. There wasn’t a middle school at Buffalo Springs then. Next year, Simon was suffering his own humiliations as a mere freshman at the high school next door. Their paths seldom crossed again, until English became a freshman himself. By then, he was nearly Simon’s size. Too near for the harassment to continue. But for one brief year, Becky Hornbaker’s darling Simon was the sheriff’s worst nightmare.
    â€œFinally got here, eh, Sheriff. Took your sweet time. You find that thieving brother of yours yet?”
    Simon was sorting through the contents of a dresser drawer he’d brought into the hall. Well, not really sorting, more like tossing, piece by piece, into a pile at his feet.
    â€œSimon, what are you doing?”
    â€œLooking for our family’s property. Your nut-case brother made off with it.”
    â€œIf Mad Dog took something, why search here?” He noticed the drawer contained women’s lingerie. “And whose room did that stuff come from? That’s not your uncle’s.”
    â€œAny of them old biddies who helped Mad Dog cart Uncle Tommie off coulda stole it. When there ain’t no law around, sometimes we gotta make our own.”
    Simon stirred the silks and satins with a foot, then turned toward the door. It led into Alice Burton’s room.
    â€œSimon. You don’t have permission to search this room. Mrs. Martin and Mr. Deffenbach said they’ve asked you to leave. Now I’m doing the same.”
    Simon had put on weight and muscle over the years. He probably had twenty pounds on the sheriff, though most of it hung over his belt. He tried to suck it all back into his chest as he swung around.
    â€œWho’s gonna make me?”
    The childishness of the remark took the sheriff right back to grade school. Hadn’t Simon matured at all?
    The sheriff edged to the side, getting a look around Simon and into the room, trying to reassure himself that Mrs. Burton was OK and Levi wasn’t waiting just inside to back his father’s play.
    The old lady was in her rocking chair by the window, but someone had tied her hands to its arms. Her eyes met his. “Get these filthy Hornbakers away from me, Sheriff!” she yelled.
    The sheriff let his hand drop near his holstered .38. “I want you to raise your hands, turn around, and put them on the wall.”
    â€œLike hell, you Englishman’s bastard,” Simon shot back, ever the master of juvenile repartee. His hand darted under his coat, like he was reaching for a gun of his own. The sheriff stepped in, pivoted, and kicked. Though the toe of his boot connected a foot lower than it would have when that sergeant taught him the move, the sheriff’s Army training paid off perfectly. Simon Hornbaker folded in half and collapsed against the wall with a crash. He wasn’t reaching for anything anymore, except maybe his breath. The sheriff stepped in, grabbed him by his hair, and straightened him out on the floor. A quick pat down revealed a cozy little 9 mm automatic. The sheriff dropped it in one of his own pockets and connected Hornbaker’s right wrist and left ankle with handcuffs. Simon tried to say something. It didn’t resemble any of the languages