Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  I could run around at your beck and call, Libby thought guiltily. She remembered the flush of pleasure she'd felt when she learned there was a possible murder case to solve in Lackaduck. She'd been glad there was a tragedy. Glad there was a young girl missing. She was turning into one of those tabloid types, glorying in other people's pain. She looked at Mary's haunted eyes and wondered how she'd strayed so far from the heart of what journalism was all about.

  She was supposed to be helping people.

  "Do you have any new ideas?" Libby asked. "Were there any leads Cash didn't follow up on?"

  "Yes, but I can't be down here to do anything about them. My husband—he had a stroke about a year ago, and I have to stay with him. He doesn't remember much. Sometimes he doesn't even seem to know who I am." Mary looked away, pretending to adjust her makeup, but Libby suspected she was dashing away a tear. "He remembers Della, though. He asks for her all the time. He complains she never comes to see him. It about breaks my heart."

  Libby looked down at the table, tracing the curves of the wood grain with one finger. She'd been feeling sorry for herself for weeks, moping about her petty problems. So her boyfriend left her. So her dog died. Big deal. This woman was mourning her daughter while she cared for a husband who no longer recognized her.

  "So did you say you were a reporter?" Mary asked.

  Libby nodded. "I work for the Lackaduck Holler now, but I did some crime reporting in Atlanta. Investigative work."

  "Well, maybe you could do some investigating for me."

  Libby felt a jolt of excitement, then a wave of shame realizing she was still using Mary's tragedy to boost her career. Looking at the woman's flushed, expectant face, she decided it probably didn't matter. All Mary wanted was a reason to hope—a faint possibility that her daugh ter might be found.

  "I could try," Libby said. "I'd be glad to try."

  Chapter 9

  "SO WHAT BROUGHT DELLA TO LACKADUCK IN THE first place?" Libby asked, patting the chair beside her.

  "She stopped here on her way to visit the uni versity." Mary sat down and nodded a thank-you as Crystal set a heaping chopped salad in front of her and slid a teetering plate of burger and fries Libby's way. "She was headed there in the fall, and she loved this town. She'd shown her horses at Lackaduck Days every year since she turned fourteen. The last couple years, she spent the whole summer here, working for a veterinarian."

  "A veterinarian? It wasn't Ron Stangerson, was it?"

  "Yes. At the Lackaduck Animal Clinic."

  Libby wondered. Could the Ronster have taken his flirting too far with a girl that young? Surely he had more sense than that. Then she remembered her last ap pointment and realized he didn't have any sense at all.

  She noted Ron's name under "Suspects" in her men tal file cabinet, just behind Mike's, then glanced up as the saloon doors flapped open. A tall figure silhouetted against the daylight stepped into the bar and resolved itself into her friendly neighborhood cowboy.

  At least she thought he was friendly. But Cash's com ment was nibbling at her subconscious, eating away at her newfound trust, hinting at something sinister going on under that well-worn cowboy hat.

  He sure didn't look sinister. He looked—well, he looked good. And he sure acted like an honest-to-God good guy. But judging from Libby's previous roman tic escapades, she was no judge of character. For some reason, her taste in men tended toward lying, cheating scumbags. And judging from the spasms of lust that ric ocheted through her nether parts whenever Luke walked into a room, he was probably the lyingest, cheatingest scumbag around.

  "Hey," he said. "I finished my errands. Am I too late for lunch?" He nodded toward Mrs. McCarthy. "Ma'am," he said. He tipped his hat off and clasped it to his chest, nervous and polite as a cowhand come to Sunday dinner at the big house. "May I join you?"

  Libby fooled with her fork. Mrs. McCarthy was smiling knowingly, no doubt thinking she was watch ing a romance develop. Crystal had been thinking the same thing. So was everybody else in town, including Luke himself.

  This had to stop.

  "I'm kind of in the middle of something here," Libby said. "Sorry."

  "It's all right," Mary began, but Libby shook her head slightly and the woman hushed.

  Luke glanced at Mary, then at Libby. He was wearing the same charming, hopeful expression that had lured Libby to the Roundup with him the week before, and sent her off in search of him this morning. She kept her face impassive and waited for him to get a clue.

  "Oh," he said. "Sorry." He set his hat back on his head and turned to leave. When he reached the door, he looked over his shoulder and smiled hesitantly. "I'm not stalking you or anything, you know. I just thought—oh, never mind."

  Libby shrugged and picked up a fork, rubbing an imaginary speck of dirt off the tines.

  "See you around then," Luke mumbled. The doors flipped back and forth a few times behind him, and she squelched an unwelcome stab of regret. Mary winked at her.

  "He likes you," she said with a playful lilt in her voice. "And he's cute. If I were your age… well."

  "I'm just not looking for that right now," Libby said firmly, as much to convince herself as to inform Mary. "I'm actually doing him a favor. My last relationship didn't end well. It'll be a long time before I can trust anybody."

  Mary leaned forward, her expression earnest. "You'll get over it." She patted Libby's hand and looked toward the window, watching Luke cross the parking lot. "Our country boys are a lot more trustworthy than your city types, you know."

  "I hope so." Libby sighed. "They're sure better look ing." She pushed the image of Luke's hopeful smile out of her mind. "Let's get back to Della." She squirted a dab of ketchup onto her plate and dipped a fry in it. "She was into horses?"

  Mary nodded. "She had a Paso Fino stallion—a real winner. We bought him just before—well, just before she came here this last time."

  "Paso Finos? Out here? Aren't they from Peru or something?"

  Mary nodded. "They're actually very versatile. That's what Della said, anyway." She sighed. "He was expensive, but we figured as long as Della was at the stable, she wasn't likely to get involved with drugs or boys. Skydancer kept her safe." She cleared her throat to keep from choking on the irony. "At least, that's what we thought."

  Libby nodded and picked at her fries, giving Mary a chance to recover her equilibrium. The woman pushed her salad around the plate, but she didn't eat a bite.

  "Della was meeting some friends here," she finally continued. "That's how we found out she was miss ing." She stared across the room, as if reliving the day her daughter disappeared. "Brandy—she came up here from Cheyenne—called us right away when Della didn't show up. And then Larissa, their friend from Billings, came down later. She and Brandy hunted all over town for Della."

  "Was Della's car here?"

  "They never found it. That's the one thing that gives me hope. How could the car disappear without Della driving it?"

  "Maybe a carjacking gone wrong?"

  "Trust me, nobody would steal that car." Mary's laugh was shaky. "It was a little tiny thing, a Geo Metro, all beat up."

  "I'll need to talk to her friends," Libby mused. "Brandy, was it? And Larissa?"

  "I can get you their numbers. But let me tell you my three suspects."

  "Shoot," Libby said.

  Mary held up one finger. "The first one's that Crazy Mike, of course," she said, then tilted her head toward the kitchen. "The second one's the chef."

  "Because of his record?"

  "That, and he just gives me the creeps. Always smil ing, after all he's been through. It's not natural."

  Libby pictured the chef in his apron, his eyes spar kling as he dashed off the entrees.

  "Okay," she said. "But I doubt he's involved. In my experience, most drug addicts, recovered or otherwise, don't have the energy to commit crimes of passion unless someone's standing between them and a fix. It doesn't sound like Della was involved with anything like that—was she?"


  Mary drew back as if insulted, then thought better of it and relaxed. "I know you have to ask that, but no. She was a good girl."

  "I figured that," Libby said. "So who else?"

  Mary raised another finger. "That vet. The man's a creep."

  "I've met him, and I know what you mean. I didn't realize Della worked for him. That's interesting."

  Mary looked at her watch and pushed her chair back. "I've got to get home. The visiting nurse leaves at five, and it's a three-hour drive at least. Can you follow up on some of what I've told you?"

  "I can. Give me your number, and I'll give you mine. Maybe you could call me with the numbers for Della's friends."

  They scrawled their numbers on bar napkins, then stood and hugged awkwardly.

  "Let me get lunch," Libby said, rummaging in her satchel.

  "Now, Libby, that's the least I can do," Mary pro tested. "You're taking all this time to help. I'm certainly paying for your lunch."

  "All right. But I'll get the tip." Libby felt around for her change purse. She always kept a few small bills in there for just this kind of occasion. Now where was it? She began emptying her bag onto the table—wallet, makeup bag, gum… no change purse. This was embarrassing.

  "I'm sorry, Mary, I've lost my change purse some how." She opened her wallet and grimaced. "All I have is a twenty."

  "Well, I don't see why you should pay anyway." Mary handed Crystal her own twenty and waved away the change. "Worth every penny, Crystal."

  Libby followed Mary out to the parking lot and watched her clatter off in an old Ford pickup that had obviously seen better days. She wondered what the woman's life was like, with her daughter gone and a sick husband, and shook her head.

  "Aww, don't say no, honey," a voice behind her said. "Not 'til you know what we got to offer."

  She turned and saw the two bikers from the bar leaning against a black pickup truck. They were both thoroughly upholstered in black leather, and the truck, loaded with add-on chrome, was perched so high on its oversized tires that it looked like it might tip over right there in the parking lot.

  "I don't think you have anything I want," Libby said brusquely, and stalked over to her truck. She glanced around the parking lot, wishing the sheriff hadn't left.

  "But we got a real treat for you, baby," the man said. He gyrated his hips and gestured obscenely.

  His friend grinned, revealing the few crooked teeth he had left in his gums. "We got paid," he said gleefully. "We got a whole case of Coors and a real nice room at the Super 8. You could come on back with us. We could have us a real fun party, honey."

  "I don't think so," Libby said. She swung up into the pickup and slammed the door, hitting the locks the minute it closed.

  "Come on!" the first guy shouted. He ran to the side of the pickup and tried to boost himself into the bed. Libby started the truck and slammed it into reverse.

  He fell and staggered away.

  "Bitch!" he shouted, struggling to stand. Libby heard something hit the back window and looked back to see his gap-toothed friend selecting another missile from a handful of rocks. She gunned it and got out of there.

  Lackaduck's idyllic small-town atmosphere was fad ing fast.

  Chapter 10

  LUKE SPENT MOST OF THE NEXT DAY IN THE NORTH pasture after an ornery steer broke through the fence and led the herd over a mess of barbed wire to mill around in County Road 12, bawling their dismay at being lost and having their legs cut up. He and Tango herded them back to pasture easily enough, but it took half the day to repair the fence and patch up the bovine cuts and scrapes.

  Just as he finished up and mounted Tango to head for home, he spotted a plume of dust billowing down the dirt road that connected his ranch to Libby's place. She had company.

  No concern of his.

  Or was it? She was his neighbor, she was a woman, and she was all alone out there. Cowboy chivalry de manded that he check it out—right? He cocked his wrist and checked his watch. He had time. He could stop by Lackaduck Farm and still make it to his appointment in Laramie later.

  He urged his horse into a trot and headed for the road, squinting to make out the vehicle at the head of the dust cloud. It looked like a UPS truck. She'd probably ordered something for that sparsely furnished house of hers. With any luck, it'd be a slipcover for that hideous sofa. Tapping Tango with his heels, he relaxed into the rhythm of the quarter horse's fluid lope. Libby probably didn't need pro tection from the UPS guy, but he needed a distraction.

  He slowed Tango to a walk when he hit the driveway. No sense letting his new neighbor think he was bored enough to chase after every vehicle that cruised the road— even though there were days when that was true. Ranching was a long series of dull, eventless days, punctuated by non-stop panic when a storm struck or calving time hit. There was either too much to do, or not enough.

  Today was a not-enough day.

  Something small and white skittered in front of Tango's hooves when he turned into Libby's driveway, and the horse shied to one side. The creature looked kind of like a chicken, only skinnier. It dove into the sage brush and disappeared before Luke could get a really good look at it. Could chickens move that fast? Maybe it was some kind of racing poultry.

  He calmed the horse and trotted him up to the house, turning him into a small fenced area beside the barn.

  "Wha'dja get?" He jogged up the front steps as the delivery man pulled away. "Anything good?"

  Libby lofted a large white box in the air. Frantic peeping blasted from the air holes poked in the side, and something was skittering around inside, scrabbling against the cardboard.

  "Chickens," she said.

  "More? You already have some, right? I saw one on the way up. It scared the crap out of Tango."

  "Oh, that's not mine. That's Wild Thing. She belonged to the previous owners, but I guess they couldn't catch her when they left. So she's gone native." She grinned. "She pretty much scares the crap out of me too."

  Libby flipped the screen door open, propping it with her foot while she jockeyed the big box inside. A high-pitched yelp greeted her, and Luke braced himself for his first encounter with the terrible Ivan.

  But what rocketed out of the living room definitely wasn't Ivan, though it was terrible in its own way. It was a seething mass of brown and white, leaping and spin ning like a breaking wave around Libby's heels.

  "What the…" He backed against the wall. The crea tures broke off tormenting Libby and surged toward him. They were dogs, all right—little yapper dogs. If there was any bullmastiff in these guys' DNA, it had been completely obliterated by some wimpier strain. Like lab rat, maybe, or hamster.

  "What the heck are these?" He bent down and picked one up. It was obviously just a puppy, white with brown patches. It looked up at him and let loose a tiny belch, then slurped him on the lips.

  Libby scooped up the biggest dog and held it to her chest. "Umm, this is Penny. And the rest of them are her babies. I'm fostering them for the shelter. Look out. That's Rotgut. He throws up a lot."

  Luke hastily returned the puppy to the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What does Ivan think of them?"

  Libby collapsed onto the sofa as if surrendering more than the truth. Looking up from under her lashes, she seemed to be going for some effort at female supplica tion. It obviously didn't come easy.

  "There is no Ivan," she said. "I lied because I thought you were a serial killer."

  Luke fell onto the sofa beside her, laughing. The momma dog leapt onto his chest, joining in with a toothy grin, and he ruffled her fur. "So Ivan is… is…"

  "Totally made up. I couldn't help it," she protested. "There you were, telling me how dangerous it was to be alone, and all of a sudden I realized it might be you that was dangerous. For all I knew you were Ted Bundy's kid brother."

  Luke quieted, wiping his eyes. "I get it, and I'm sorry. I can see why you'd be nervous."

  And he could. Hadn't he felt a spark of alarm w
hen he'd seen the truck heading for her place? He couldn't imagine how she felt, out here all alone and unpro tected. Although judging from her demeanor, it took more than a few days on her own to get her spooked. He laid his hand over hers. "I just can't believe it," he said, shaking his head. "I come up here expecting Ivan the Terrible, and instead you've got these ridiculous little animals that hop like bunny rabbits. What the heck are they, anyway?"

  "Jack Russell terriers. And only the mother is mine. I'm just fostering her puppies until we find homes for them." She leaned forward, her eyes aglow with sudden enthusiasm. "Do you want one? Jack Russell terriers are really popular. Remember Eddie on Frasier? He was a Jack Russell."