"That was necessity," he argued.
"Then I want necessity," she shot right back.
"You are crazy. Your stepfather would be right to commit you," he said.
"Then take me to Mississippi and turn me over to him."
Slade shook his head. "I don't think so. I'd have to whip his ass and today I'm too tired from all the driving."
"Slade, I'm scared about tomorrow but I'm damn sure not crazy. And I'm sick to hell of this conversation. So stop talking about it. I've had the big house—own it now. Plantation style with a cook, two gardeners, horse trainers, ranch hands, all of it. It don't bring me one bit of happiness," she admitted.
"How do you know not having it will make you happy?" he asked.
"I don't, but I'm willing to give it all up to see. And that scares me, too, if you want to know the truth."
"Good. You are human. For a while there I thought you were ten feet tall and bulletproof."
"Me? I thought you were Superman. I figured if I ever saw you without a western shirt and jeans you'd be wearing a red and blue outfit with a big old S on the front."
"Yeah, right! I'm not Superman. I'm just an old dirt farmer who hasn't got enough sense to stop farming. Ever hear that story about the man who won the lottery? He told his friend that he'd give him a million dollars of the winnings, but the friend would just ranch it all away. That's me. If I had money, I'd just ranch it all away because it's what I love," Slade told her.
"That's what I want. Something I love so much I'd put my money and life into it. You've got something worth more than money can buy, Slade. Don't ever give it up."
"Oh, honey, I wouldn't. Couldn't. What would I ever do or be without the Double L? But listen up, don't be afraid about tomorrow. We'll be in public places where they'll be afraid to do something stupid. All I need is a picture. You hide once you point them out to me. They won't knife you or shoot you in a public place. They'd get caught or someone would see them and remember their faces. That would end their profession. Think of it as a lark. We're out to ruin them so they don't kill another innocent bride."
"Honey, you have no idea what they'd do to collect that money. They're good and mad. It's a matter of principle now. I bet Ramona would do me in just out of anger over losing all that insurance money. And if I'm dead, who'd ruin them?"
"It ain't happenin' on my shift. I'm the bodyguard, remember."
Thank you Lord for that, she sent up a silent prayer but didn't say anything aloud. They were actually getting along and that was miracle enough. She didn't want to jinx it with any more admissions.
"Ready to go in for the night?" he asked when the sun finally dipped low enough there wasn't even a hint of orange left in the sky.
"I suppose. Don't you love the salt smell of the ocean though? I'll always remember this night, Slade."
He didn't think he'd forget it too soon either. The picture of her sitting there in that modest bathing suit with salt water in her hair, silhouetted against a setting sun, was branded on his brain for eternity. He might marry some day, but he'd always keep that memory and return to the days when he was a knight in shining armor and rode in to save the damsel in distress. He was the one who was ten feet tall and bulletproof when he walked side by side with Jane through the sliding glass doors into their room.
He turned the air conditioning on high cool and sat down in a chair, propped his feet on the side of one of the beds, and turned on the television. Basically, he didn't watch much TV but rather liked to read. Mysteries were his favorite: John Grisham, Sandford, even Grafton. Then there was Randy Wayne White and Carl Hiaasen that reminded him of the old writer, deceased for several years. What was his name? Slade frowned trying to remember.
"John D. MacDonald," he finally said aloud.
"One of my favorites." She came out of the bath room, her nightshirt damp where her hair hung down her back.
"Really? My dad read him and I found the books when his things were shipped home to the ranch."
"My dad loved him, too. I've read everything he wrote."
"How about Hiaasen?"
"He's a hoot, isn't he?"
"That he is. Want to watch old reruns of Law and Order or CMT? Nothing much looks good."
"Law and Order," she said. She fell asleep before the first one finished.
He stayed awake for a couple of hours and watched her sleep. It would be so easy to fall hook, line, and sinker for her but he couldn't. He'd always wonder if she really loved him or if it was simply because he'd saved her "naturally born white ass."
Chapter 11
JANE STARED AT THE LIST OF TEN TATTOOPIERCING establishments listed in the yellow pages in the hotel phone book. According to what Slade pulled up on the computer the previous night, Pensacola made brags that it was the tattoo capital of the whole area. Which one would John and Ramona go to first? She wanted to get this done and over with on the first try and not play cat and mouse all day long, running from one parlor to the next seeing if they could catch them in a picture and hopefully not get caught or dead.
She pulled her hair up in a ponytail, wrapped it tightly into a bun, and slipped the wig liner over that. Once she had the curly auburn wig in place she set a hot pink sun visor on top of it, pulling some of the curls out to cover the elastic piece at the back of her head. She applied too much eye makeup and bright red lipstick. She snarled her nose when she looked at the outfit on the bed. It had seemed like a good idea that morning; Slade had assured her that no one would notice such an outlandish outfit. She'd look as if she wanted to draw attention to herself and consequently, no one would look at her.
She pulled the spandex, Hawaiian-print miniskirt on and topped it with a hot pink tank top cut low in the front to show the absence of tattoos peeking out from between her breasts. According to Slade, Ramona and John would be looking for Jane with a tattoo on her boobs keeping company with a fellow with a freshly shaven head and a tattoo on his arm. He wouldn't be searching for a red-haired bimbo hanging on the arm of a blond cowboy. For the grand finishing touch she slipped on big sunglasses with twinkling rhinestones around the lenses.
He whistled through his teeth when she came out of the bathroom. "I do believe we could make a few dollars if you'd stand on the street corner tonight."
"You offering to be my pimp? You'll have to get a black Italian suit and one of those honking big necklaces to hang around your neck. And at least one ear pierced with about a three-carat diamond stud in it."
Slade shuddered.
Jane giggled. "I thought you might change your mind. It's not fair that you get to go dressed like that," she said.
He wore sandals, a pair of baggy shorts, and a tank top that showed nothing more than a farmer's tan. Definitely a cowboy farmer in town for a vacation who'd picked up a local lady.
"You've got the list, so which one do we start with?" he asked.
She shut her eyes and pointed. It was a silly way to make a decision but made as much sense as any other. "Hula Moon."
"Okay, then Hula Moon it is."
Half an hour later they'd checked out of the hotel and were hunting for a parking place close to the Hula Moon. A receptionist with blond, pixie-cut hair and big brown eyes looked up from behind a desk. She asked if they had an appointment and Slade told her they were just shopping around and trying to get up the nerve to actually get a tat.
Jane gasped when she looked down on the reception ist's desk and saw a picture of herself on a different flier than the one she'd seen in Terral, Oklahoma. The new one was a head shot of her taken the day she and John had engagement pictures done. Her hair was freshly done and her smile bright and beautiful.
"Who's that?" Slade asked.
"Don't know her. A couple came in about twenty minutes ago. Asked if we'd done a tattoo on this woman in the last two days. Even said it was between her breasts. They said she might be coming back for a piercing today. I'm to call that number if I see her," the lady said.
"Why are they hunting f
or her?" Jane asked.
"I didn't ask. Guess she's been kidnapped or something."
"I saw her yesterday at the Psychedelic Shack. She was with some big old bald-headed fellow," Slade said.
"What a lucky break. They said if I helped them find the woman, they'd give me a reward."
Slade slipped his arm around Jane. "You ready, honey?"
"Yeah, I think I'm about to change my mind. It's going to take a whole bottle of Jim Beam before I let them hit me that many times with a needle."
The receptionist smiled. "It's really not that bad. We have pain-free now. But maybe you'd like to try a temporary, one that only lasts a few weeks; see how much fun it is and then come back for a permanent one."
"I'll think on it," Jane said.
When they reached the Psychedelic Shack, John and Ramona were sitting in the waiting area looking through magazines. They were the only two people in the room and both looked up when Slade and Jane walked inside. It didn't take them long to turn their attention back to their books.
Slade whispered. "This isn't going to be easy. I was hoping for a whole crowd of people."
"I'm getting hives and this wig is hotter'n hell," Jane whispered.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear. "Well, here goes. Play along with me."
She nodded and took a deep breath.
"Honey, are you sure you want a rose on your hip? I think Tweety bird would be better, and right below your navel. Just think of all the times I could kiss his little beak," he said loudly.
Jane didn't have to fake the stereotyped hooker giggle. She was so nervous it came out easily. "My Daddy will have your wild hide tacked to the barn door if he knows you're talkin' like that. He says only whores and white trash get tattoos and I wear a bikini when we go to the lake. So it's going to have to be a rose on my butt so he can't never see it."
"If he knew what we been doin' in his barn for the past six months, he'd have my wild hide in the church sayin' weddin' vows," Slade said.
He turned to John and Ramona. "Hey, y'all must be in here for a tat or a piercing. I bet you're about to get your belly button done, ain't you?" He looked right at Ramona trying to memorize every detail to tell Agent August if he didn't get a picture.
She shrugged.
"Come on. Y'all give us an opinion. A rose on her hip or a Tweety on her navel?"
Ramona wore black slacks, a black shirt, a pissed-off look on her face, and Ray Ban sunglasses. John had on his signature dress slacks, a white polo shirt, and sunglasses that matched hers perfectly, his black hair combed back like a television preacher.
They both lowered the glasses at the same time and looked at Jane.
"The rose," John said.
"I agree," Ramona said.
"Hey, Pun'kin, come look at this picture," Jane said.
"You find something else you like better? I'm willin' for about anything but them wild mushrooms you were talkin' about," he said.
"No, the picture of this woman right here. Says there's a reward if these people at this number find her. Didn't we see her at the Pensacola Tattoo place this morning? Remember, that was the one where she come in with that bald-headed fellow and they were looking for a piercing?"
Both John and Ramona whipped off the sunglasses in unison and tucked them in their pockets.
"You saw her where?"
"You the people we'd be calling?" Jane asked.
"That's right," John cocked his head to one side and drew his eyes down. He remembered seeing that man somewhere before. Something about the way he stood and held his head looked familiar. "How long ago did you see them?"
"That depends on how much the reward money is. I expect it ought to be worth a hundred dollars. That'd pay for most of my Tweety bird—or my mushrooms, if I can talk this old redneck into it."
Slade laughed. That accent she used was part Mexican and part pure Ellen.
John whipped out his billfold and handed Jane two fifties.
"Ten minutes ago," she said.
They took off so fast that he left the briefcase sitting beside the chair. She waited until they were at the silver gray van before she opened the door and whistled loudly. "Hey, y'all forgot something."
Slade stepped up behind her, pretending that someone had called and holding the phone up to her ear, all the while shooting over her shoulder with his cell phone as fast as he could click the button. He managed to get several pictures of John coming back for the briefcase and three of Ramona waiting beside the locked van.
Jane waited until they were in the truck to start humming and kept it up the whole time she removed the wig and wiped the excess makeup from her face.
"I hope you got something you can use because I'm not doing that again. I can't believe he didn't recognize me and kill me on the spot," she said.
"It's the eyes. A picture is worthless if the person is wearing sunglasses because the eyes are the windows to the soul," Slade said. "That's why I wanted a picture without them. Barely made it before Ramona stuck hers back on. I think I got several good ones of John. Next roadside rest or place where we can pull over for a few minutes, I'm sending them to Agent August."
She tugged at the miniskirt. "How do we know he's not in on the deal, with a name like that?"
He stared at her trying to cover her knees with barely enough material to keep her underpants from showing.
"Gut instinct," he said hoarsely.
"Don't look at my legs," she said.
"Why not? They're good-looking legs and you're covered every bit as well as you were on the beach last night. I can't understand why a woman will parade around in a bikini and then feel naked in a miniskirt. Just don't make a bit of sense to me."
"There's an exit with a McDonald's. You can get your job done there and I can change into jeans."
"You wouldn't make a good hooker anyway," he said.
"And you'd make a terrible John."
They began to laugh at the same time at the obvious pun.
He parked the truck as close to the door as he could and fetched her duffel bag from the backseat.
"I expect we'd better be sure the hotel we stay in tonight has laundry facilities. This is lighter than your dirty clothes sack."
"That would be a good idea—or else we could buy some new things and disguise ourselves as two execu tives from… let's see, maybe an oil company. I'd like to see you in an Italian suit and dress shoes," she said.
He chuckled. "That's one thing you won't never see. I'm a boots and jeans man."
"But as a disguise?"
"I'd rather be a pimp," he said.
She picked out her last clean pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals and carried them inside to the bathroom where she changed and finished cleaning her face. She left the miniskirt and tank top slung over the door of the bathroom stall. Maybe someone would be glad to find a free hooker outfit.
She smelled fried apple pies when she got back inside the truck.
"Coffee?" she asked.
He nodded and passed a cup to her along with a pie in a small box. "Thought you might like something to put the butterflies to rest."
"What butterflies?" she asked as she sipped.
"Those that are still fluttering around in your stomach. You started humming when we left the tattoo place. That might help cure them."
"Butterflies nothing. I've got buzzards the size of gorillas flying in my stomach. I've never been so damned scared in all my life," she said.
"You were cold as snow in there, girl. I was proud of you and your Ellen impersonation. I swear you could have been a girl right off the farm dressing up in what you thought was pretty clothes."
"You sayin' I was overdressed? Man, you sure know how to bust a girl's fashion bubble. God, this tastes good. Did you only buy us one each?"
"No, I bought a dozen. Considering what we just did, I didn't want to ride with you very far without food. Oh, and there's a couple of those cheap little chicken sandwiches in there that you like so well, too."<
br />
They hadn't driven an hour when his cell phone rang.
"Hello," he said. "Well, I'll be damned. If that don't beat all. Thank you and please keep us informed."
"What?" she asked.
"They've never seen or heard of John or Jonathan. His picture didn't come up on anything they've got."
"He must be very good then. This wasn't an amateur hit, was it? He's one of those horrible men who only do a job right and that's why he's still after me, because I'm the only one who got away and can identify him." Her voice had a hauntingly hollow sound.
One Lucky Cowboy Page 18
