Cowboy Fever

by Joanne Kennedy

  Teague couldn’t hide his shock. “So you took Honeybucket to the pound?”

  “That’s what you do with dogs that don’t behave,” Courtney said.

  Damn, the girl was cold. Teague couldn’t believe he’d ever thought she was helpless.

  He needed to be careful. How could he get her talking? She might have an ice cube for a heart, but he knew she was hurting inside too. If he could just get past all the layers of anger and vengefulness she’d piled up to defend herself, maybe he could find the scared little girl inside her and talk her into getting help.

  “I’m so sorry about your—horse,” he said. He’d almost said he was sorry about her dad, but that wouldn’t have worked. She wasn’t sorry about that; she’d killed him herself.

  The letters felt huge in his back pocket. Hopefully she wouldn’t go in the barn and see what was left of her music box spread out on the counter. That would really piss her off. And he was beginning to realize that Courtney was one woman you didn’t want to cross.

  “Thank you,” she sniffed. “Dutchy was everything to me. And my father…” She closed her eyes and clenched her fists so hard her arms trembled. “My father killed him.”

  “I know.” He reached over and patted her shoulder awkwardly. “You want to talk about it, Court?”

  “No.” She ducked her head and covered her face with her hands. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it, even.” She lifted her head and met his eyes. Her own were glossy with coming tears. “I just want to start all over. Okay?”

  Teague nodded, humoring her. He could tell the tears were coming, and if there was some way to put a stopper in the weeping spell that was coming, he was going to find it.

  “Okay.” He wasn’t sure how he was going to get her back to the subject of her father and get her to turn herself in, but he’d follow her lead. He’d read somewhere that deep inside, most murderers wanted to get caught. That’s why they made dumb mistakes—like leaving those letters where someone could find them. Why hadn’t she burned them, or thrown them away? It was a cry for help, that’s what it was.

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath and made a visible effort to control herself, brushing her hair out of her face and setting her jaw. “So we’ll start over. I’ll forget about Dutch and my dad, and you forget about Jodi.”

  Teague blanched. She was nuts, no doubt about it. The poor girl was so fixated on her own problems she was grasping at straws, making the world over into the one she wanted.

  When he didn’t respond, a shaky smile tilted her lips. She took a step toward him. “Let’s go in the house, Teague. You can make me forget everything.” She gazed flirtatiously up at him through her lashes. “I can make you forget too.”

  This was going too far. She’d never get help if she didn’t face reality. The first step toward getting help was admitting you had a problem, so he had to get Courtney to see the truth. Much as he wanted to avoid her tears, they were inevitable.

  “No, Courtney.” He set his hands on her shoulders. “You can’t. I want to help you, I really do. But I…”

  He couldn’t say it. He should. He should tell her straight out that he loved Jodi and there was no chance of that changing—not now, not ever. But she’d cry for sure if he said that. Cry, or fly into a rage. And God knew what would happen if she got mad.

  He patted her the way he might try to soothe a vicious dog. “But going in the house won’t help.” Man, that was the weirdest euphemism for sex ever. “We need to talk.”

  “Oh,” she said in her little-girl voice. “Oh. Okay.” She looked up at him, her lips pursed, her eyes wide as a china doll’s. “But after we talk, can we do it? I want you, Teague.” She reached out and stroked one finger down the buttons on his shirt. “I really, really want you.”

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  That seemed to soothe her.

  “You want to sit down?” Without waiting for an answer, he walked over to the bench that sat against the wall beside the barn door. She followed, and he made sure she sat down before he did. That way she couldn’t plop herself in his lap, or cozy up too close.

  He folded his hands in his lap. Courtney shimmied herself closer to him. So much for that strategy.

  “What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

  “I think we need to talk about your dad. Courtney, I know what really happened.”

  “No you don’t,” she said pertly.

  “I think I do.”

  “He abused me.” She used the same conversational tone she’d use to tell him her father had grounded her, or taken away her cell phone. Teague was pretty sure it was a lie, but who knew with this family? He’d humor her. See if he could steer the conversation to the point where she’d make a confession.

  He wished Oprah was here. Or Barbara Walters.

  No, not Barbara Walters. Then Courtney would cry for sure.

  But Oprah would handle this just right. He wasn’t much for TV, especially in the middle of the day, but a couple times when he’d been inside with a cold or something, he’d watched the way she handled people in her interviews. She’d get them talking, and then she’d ask questions that led them to reveal the truth about themselves. How did she do that? Teague wrinkled up his forehead, trying to remember.

  “He abused me repeatedly,” Courtney said in that same matter-of-fact tone.

  Teague did his best to arrange his features in an Oprah-like expression of sympathy and understanding.

  “How did that make you feel?” he asked.

  “Mad,” Courtney said. “Really mad. And—and violated. Dirty.”

  Teague nodded sagely. “I can understand how you would feel that way. What did you do then?”

  “Nothing.” Courtney swept her foot across the dry ground in front of the bench, leaving a streak in the dust. “I didn’t do anything. I told my horse, though. I told Dutch.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk to animals,” Teague said. He really did understand that. He did it himself sometimes. Just the other day, he’d told Rocket he loved Jodi and wanted to marry her. He hadn’t known it himself—not the marrying part, anyway—until he’d told the horse.

  “But I can’t talk to Dutchy anymore,” Courtney said. The little-girl voice was back. “Dutchy is dead.”

  Oh, boy, Teague thought. Here we go with the tears.

  Sure enough, the waterworks spurted into action. Courtney leaned her head on Teague’s shoulder and soaked his shirt in two minutes flat. He put one arm around her and patted her shoulder. Damn. He never knew what to do when women cried.

  “Dead,” Courtney sobbed. “Oh, Teague, he’s dead.”

  “I know,” he said, patting faster. “I know.”

  He was relieved when the sobs gave way to hiccups.

  “I’m s-s-sorry,” she said. She gulped and wiped her nose with a little snort.

  “That’s okay. It’s okay to cry,” Teague said. It wasn’t okay, not in his world, but it seemed like the right thing to say. “You have to let it out.”

  “I know. And I did.” Courtney lifted her tear-stained face from his shoulder. “I let it all out. So can we go in the house now?” She tried that seductive look again, but with her eyes nearly swollen shut, it wasn’t too effective. She looked like a pink baby mouse before its eyes opened.

  “No, Courtney.” He tried for a stern, fatherly tone. “I think there’s some other stuff you have to let out.”

  She hunched her shoulders and stared down into her lap.

  “I don’t want to talk about that other stuff.”

  “You’ll feel better if you do,” he said.

  She bit her lip and he could feel her unbending, relaxing. It was going to work.

  “You won’t tell anyone?”

  “Not unless you want me to.”

  “Okay.” She straightened and
took a deep breath, folding her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl who was about to recite the state capitals. “My daddy didn’t really kill himself.”

  “I know,” Teague murmured in what he hoped was an encouraging tone.

  “My stepmother killed him.”

  Teague sighed. Turning sideways on the bench, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the letters.

  “Courtney, I went and got your music box for you.”

  “Oh, thank you. I…” She saw the letter and her eyes widened. “No!”

  “Yes. I know what happened.”

  Courtney grabbed the top letter and glanced at it.

  “Oh look,” she said in an unconvincing monotone. Good thing the girl wasn’t headed for Hollywood. She was a lousy actress. “It’s a suicide note. Daddy must have left it for me.” She crumpled it in her fist and grabbed for the other one.

  “No, Courtney,” Teague said. “You wrote these. You were going to leave them with the body, weren’t you? But you couldn’t do it.”

  She grabbed again for the other letter, her fingers spread like claws, but he crumpled it in his fist and hid it behind his back. Throwing herself at him, she pummeled him with her fists, then raked her nails down his face.

  “Give it to me! Give it to me!”

  He dropped the letter to the ground and grabbed her arms before she could dive for it. She’d dropped the first one while she fought him, and both papers blew up against the barn on the faint breeze and fluttered in the grass.

  “No!” Courtney shrieked. She twisted in his grip but he held on and waited her out, keeping his calm as best he could and trying to control her with a firm grip and steady gaze. That’s what worked on bulls—but bulls, even at their worst, were more rational than this crazy woman.

  He held on while she writhed and shrieked some more. He half-expected her to turn into a snake, like some witch in a fairy tale, but she finally gave up and slumped in his hands, almost falling to the ground. Teague waltzed her over to the bench in a stumbling, clumsy two-step and sat her down.

  Courtney put her head down and cried in earnest now, huge, racking sobs shaking her delicate frame. She was a monster—but she’d been de-fanged. She didn’t make any effort to hit him again, or claw at him. Teague looked away so he wouldn’t be tempted to comfort her.

  “I’m sorry,” she wept. “I’m sorry, Teague. But he deserved it. He killed my horse. He ditched my mom. He didn’t care about me. Not one bit.” The sobbing choked out whatever else she’d been about to say.

  Finally, she seemed to get control of herself. She sat up.

  “What’ll I do, Teague?” She sniffed and wiped her nose with a faint snort. “What’ll I do?”

  “I think you should turn yourself in,” Teague said as gently as he could. “Did your dad have a lawyer? We should probably have him meet us there.”

  She glanced at him, her swollen eyes narrowed to slits, and for a minute he thought he caught a glimpse of the old scheming Courtney in her gaze. It was like she was gauging him, assessing him… but no. The look was gone in an instant, and weeping Courtney was back.

  He must have imagined it.

  Chapter 43

  Courtney sniffled and looked up at Teague through red-rimmed eyes. “Okay,” she said. “My dad’s lawyer is Steve Reynolds.” She sniffed again. “He was always nice to me.”

  “You know his number?”

  She nodded. “It’s in my phone.” She looked at Teague expectantly. “My phone’s in my purse, in the car.”

  Teague set his hands on his knees and hoisted himself to his feet. He felt exhausted—wrung out. He wondered how Oprah managed to do this stuff day after day. Of course, most of her guests weren’t psychotic.

  He walked over to the car and opened the door. The purse was on the floor on the passenger’s side. He leaned over to get it, stretching to grab the strap. The damn thing tipped when he hauled on it and dumped its contents on the floor. Grabbing the cell phone, he turned back to Courtney.

  “I’ve got it. Now—hey!”

  She was gone.

  “Courtney!”

  Dang. He was an idiot. He hadn’t imagined that scheming, assessing look. She’d been trying to figure out how to get away from him. Obviously, it hadn’t been too difficult a problem. He was an idiot.

  “Courtney!”

  He glanced around the yard. Where could she have gone? His eyes lit on the grass beside the barn and he realized the letters were gone. She probably figured she’d destroy the evidence and run.

  Well, she couldn’t run far—not with him standing by her car. But how had she disappeared so fast? He looked right, then left.

  There was only one way she could have disappeared that fast. She must have run into the barn.

  He paused. She probably planned to head for the back door, then go out and run around the side to get back to her vehicle while he chased her through the barn. If he waited, he could head her off.

  He folded his arms and leaned against the Lexus. He’d wait her out. She’d have to come out eventually. And while he waited, he’d call the sheriff.

  He should have done that in the first place. He’d wanted to present Woodell with a done deal, the case wrapped up and solved, a contrite criminal on his arm.

  He’d overestimated himself. A blonde bimbo heiress had outsmarted him.

  Damn. It was like having Paris Hilton beat you at chess.

  Just as he flipped the phone open a high-pitched scream sounded from the barn. It wasn’t Courtney. It wasn’t human.

  It was a horse.

  The scream tore the air again, and he dropped the phone and ran for the barn. What the hell was she doing?

  Just as he dashed for the barn door, there was a low bellow. He didn’t have time to react before an enormous black-and-white blur shot out of the barn door and knocked him over. He hit the ground hard and started to struggle to his feet, but Bruiser hooked him with one black horn and tossed him in the air. He felt himself flying, helpless as a ragdoll, and then he hit the ground hard and the air whooshed out of his lungs as something heavy hit his chest.

  The last thing he saw was the barn, tilted sideways and wreathed in stars, and the bull’s huge hoof suspended in the air above his head.

  ***

  Jodi headed for Teague’s as soon as she finished thanking the den mother. She wondered if he’d had any luck finding Courtney’s music box. If he had, he’d have returned by now—unless Courtney intercepted him along the way.

  It was a five-minute drive to Teague’s place, but it seemed like eternity to Jodi as she eased the truck along the pitted dirt path. Teague really needed to get his ranch road graded. She was concentrating so hard on protecting her truck’s suspension she almost didn’t see Rocket in the road, trotting straight down the middle as if he was headed somewhere important. Thinking fast, she jerked the emergency brake so the truck skidded sideways, blocking the road and frightening the horse enough to make him skid to a stop and turn around to gallop back toward the ranch.

  What the hell was he doing loose? She backed the truck up and eased back onto the road, following the galloping horse. Teague would never, ever let Rocket run loose, she was sure. Something was wrong.

  As she rounded the curve, the first thing she saw was Courtney’s SUV parked beside the pasture fence.

  Dang. It figured. Would the girl ever give up? Jodi felt sorry for her with all that had happened, but didn’t she have someone else to run to besides Teague? Why couldn’t she go for Gustaldo or one of the other polo players?

  As the ranch house and barn came into view, she jammed on the brakes and blinked at the scene before her. Courtney was the least of her problems. Rocket had reached the barnyard and stopped short, tossing his head in the air. He seemed almost as shocked as she was to see the enormous bulk of Bruiser standing dead-center in front of the b
arn, his head lowered, one paw scraping the ground like a cartoon bull about to charge. His furious gaze was fixed on something that was lying on the ground in front of him.

  Teague.

  Without thinking, Jodi leapt out of the truck and ran to the man collapsed in the middle of the driveway. She was halfway there when the bull bellowed and charged. Letting out a shout, she waved her hands and ran past him, away from Teague. She’d seen the bullfighters at rodeos save cowboys a hundred times. She knew how they did it.

  They did it by turning the bull’s attention to themselves, and then getting in the barrel before they could get gored.

  But there was no barrel at Teague’s.

  Glancing around as she ran, she spotted the paddock gate. She also spotted a momentarily confused Bruiser, mere feet away, looking from her to Teague and back again. Putting on a burst of speed, she shouted at the bull and clambered up the metal rungs of the gate moments before the animal’s horns hit the steel with a resounding clang that bounced him backward, stunned. The vibration ran through her body like a stun gun shock. She and Bruiser stared at each other for a dumbstruck, electrified moment before either of them could figure out what to do. She shook her head and her mind cleared.

  Trouble was, it stayed clear. There wasn’t a thought in her head. She had no idea where to run, what to do, how to react.

  Bruiser swung his great head from side to side and lowed like he was complaining about the headache he’d no doubt earned from his collision with the gate. The bull seemed to be looking for a new target to vent his rage on. For a minute, he fixed his gaze on Rocket, and Jodi felt sick. She couldn’t let the bull hurt the horse. Teague’s livelihood depended on both animals.

  The bull paced toward the horse slowly, stiff-legged as a stalking cat. While his attention was otherwise occupied, Jodi climbed down from the gate and ran over to Teague. She didn’t want anything to happen to the horse, but Teague had to be her first priority.

  “Teague,” she hissed. “Teague!”

  He didn’t react. Her stomach churning, she pressed her fingers to his neck.