Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  "Just stay out of it. Just mind your own beeswax," he reiterated.

  "I'm sorry, Mike, I don't know what you're talking about." Libby tried to keep her voice level. "I'm not in anybody's beeswax but my own."

  "Good. Stay there. Or you'll be sorry."

  She recoiled as her visitor peered in the window, his face inches from her own. His hair was dirty, with flakes of paint or worse flecking the curls, and his clothes were filthy and ill-fitting. He looked like he'd come from a hard day's drinking, and his eyes had a strange, unfo cused look.

  "I can tell you, you'll be really sorry," he repeated. "Sorry you ever even knew she existed."

  "Who, Mike? What are you talking about?"

  "You know who I'm talking about. Della. Pretty Della. You stop asking all those questions about her, or you'll be sorry." Turning abruptly, he trudged down the steps and headed for a beat-up Ford Fairlane parked halfway up the lawn. "Really sorry, real, real sorry," he mumbled as he jerked open the driver's side door.

  Libby watched him spin the car around, flinging div ots of turf in his wake. Her already pathetic lawn bore an arched scar where he'd pulled out. She opened the door and stepped outside as he careened down the driveway, the old car weaving from side to side. The dogs shot past her and hightailed it down the driveway, barking madly, their cour age restored now that the enemy was leaving the scene.

  "Penny, Rotgut, Rooster!" She called the dogs off and they reluctantly returned. Her hands were shaking as she grabbed her phone and hit "send."

  "Cash? It's Libby again."

  "Hey. Good to hear from you." His tone was sur prised and kind of flirtatious. "You've been on my mind all night."

  "Really? Well, I've evidently been on Crazy Mike's mind too." She swallowed. Whatever Luke said, the nickname fit. "He came out here and threatened me."

  "You're kidding. Mike never goes anywhere. Home, the bar—that's it. What the hell did he want?"

  "He said I should stop asking questions. About that girl—Della McCarthy. He said I'd be sorry I ever heard she existed."

  There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  "You've been asking questions about Della?"

  "Yeah—just a few." Libby was embarrassed to be caught second-guessing Cash's investigative skills. He was the sheriff, after all. He probably didn't like civil ians meddling in his business.

  But she wasn't a civilian. She was a reporter. And be sides, she was working for Della's mother. Just because she wasn't getting paid didn't mean it wasn't official.

  "Where are you now?" Cash asked. There was a new urgency in his tone.

  "I'm home. In my kitchen. Why?"

  "Where's Mike? Is he gone?"

  "Yeah, he took off down the driveway in his beat-up old car. Took half my lawn with him."

  "Libby, if he comes back, don't open the door." His tone was suddenly urgent. "Don't talk to him, don't let him know you're there. Hide if you have to. I'll be right over."

  "Cash, what's up? Is he dangerous? Has he hurt somebody before?"

  "He may have killed somebody before. He may have killed Della. Just sit tight. I'll be right over, and we'll make out a report."

  "I'll be here. In the closet, probably." Libby sank down on a kitchen chair, her knees shaking. "Geez, Cash. Do you think he'll come back? Why do you think he did it? Was he involved with Della somehow?"

  "He gave you one good piece of advice, hon: stop ask ing questions. I'll explain everything when I get there."

  Libby hung up the phone and ran through the house, checking the feeble locks on her windows and doors. She wondered if she should turn on every light in the place so she could see Crazy Mike coming, or shut them all off so he couldn't see in. She finally compromised by leaving a light on in the kitchen and sitting in the dark bedroom at the other end of the house.

  The dogs weren't much help. For one thing, the pup pies weren't much bigger than kittens, and not nearly as vicious. Their mom was a big 'fraidy cat too. She plastered herself against Libby's leg, shivering and whimpering at every sound. The only way she was help ing was by making Libby feel brave by comparison, and self-esteem wasn't her biggest problem at the moment.

  Her biggest problem was deciding whether to bolt for the basement if a car pulled in the driveway. She wondered how she'd tell if it was Crazy Mike coming to finish her off, or Cash coming to rescue her.

  Chapter 14

  CASH MADE THE MOST OF HIS ENTRANCE, REELING INTO Libby's drive with sirens screaming, a cloud of dust bil lowing behind the cruiser. The porch light flickered to life, and the front door opened as he approached. Libby leaned against the jamb, watching him. He put a little extra lawman swagger in his walk so she'd feel safe. Protected.

  "You okay, hon?" A herd of little yapper dogs leapt behind her like a herd of crazed rabbits, barking their heads off, then scrabbled their paws on the linoleum in their haste to run and hide as he approached.

  Libby blushed, and no wonder. She was hardly dressed for male visitors. He'd hoped she might be wearing some kind of lingerie, or at least a lacy robe—but the single life apparently hadn't done much for her nighttime fashion sense. She was dressed in an outfit that could only be described as jammies. Granny jammies.

  And she had bunny slippers on her feet. Pink ones, with googly eyes.

  Still, she looked kind of cute. He reached out and touched her arm. "You okay?"

  "I'm fine," she said, but her voice was shaking. She drew away, folding her arms. Probably resisting the urge to touch him back. "It's just too much. First my truck, now this."

  Cash pulled out a chair at the head of the kitchen table and sat down, pulling a pencil and a memo pad from his pocket. "Tell me as much as you can about what Mike said. It could be important."

  Libby perched on the edge of the chair next to him and tried to explain the events of the past hour. Her story was a little convoluted, but then her memory was probably scrambled by fear. She didn't seem to have any trouble remembering what Crazy Mike had said, though. Those words were probably etched on her brain.

  "He said I'd be sorry if I didn't stop asking ques tions—that I should mind my own business," she said.

  Cash jotted down the phrase. "Did he say what he'd do?"

  "Not specifically. But I don't think I'll be asking any more questions around Crazy Mike." She blew out a long breath. "So what's the story, Sheriff?"

  Cash tucked the notebook back in his pocket. "There's no story, really. We haven't got anything on him, except that he talked about Della a lot after she disappeared. Asking everybody where she was, what happened to her." He sat back, bouncing the eraser end of the pencil on the table. "A lot of people think he had something to do with her disappearance."

  "Do you?"

  "Yeah, I hate to say it, but I do." He looked away from her expectant face and the pencil tapped faster. "A lot of people think Crazy Mike is harmless. He grew up around here, and if you knew him as a kid, it's hard to see him hurting anybody." Leaning for ward as if to emphasize his point, he returned his gaze to Libby's face and let the pencil rest. "But he was never quite right."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There's no impulse control," he said. "For in stance, he had this little dog a while back. Looked a lot like these critters you've got." He motioned to ward the dogs, who were bobbing and weaving in the doorway. The siren had freaked them out, so it was one step forward and two steps back as they edged their way into the room. Cash's gesture sent the pup pies back a few feet, but Penny skittered across the floor and jumped into Libby's lap. "It went with him everywhere, and he was really attached to it—always carrying it around, wouldn't let anybody touch it. It was always 'mine, mine.' About a month after Della disappeared, the dog did too. A few days later I found it out back of his place in the woods." He pushed back from the table and shoved the pencil into his pocket. "Its neck was broken."

  "Oh, no. You think he killed it?"

  "Yeah. He loved that little dog, but he was so pos sessive about it. He
probably squeezed it too tight, or got mad when it tried to do its own thing or something." He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. "And the possessive thing he had with the dog? He was that way about Della, too—following her, talking about her, hanging around the place she was staying. His coming out here makes me think you're on his mind in the same way. That's not good, Libby. Not good at all."

  "He really is crazy," she murmured.

  "He sure is," Cash said. "But he's right on one thing." He gave her a hard look. "You should stop asking questions."

  "You're probably right," she said, straightening the fringe on a place mat as if it was the most important task in the world. "It's just—I'm a reporter, Cash. I know there's more to Lackaduck than Grange meetings and quilting bees." She abandoned the place mat and looked up at Cash, setting her jaw. "Asking questions is my job."

  "I know that. But I don't think you'll make any friends if you put Della's case in the paper again. It's something this town would like to forget."

  "Della's mom doesn't want us to forget, Cash."

  "I know that. And I haven't forgotten. Far from it." His voice dropped into a gentler tone. "Libby, I'm doing the best I can. I haven't forgotten Mrs. McCarthy's little girl, and I haven't given up on finding her. Can you tell her that for me?"

  "I will." She got up. "I'm sure it'll make her feel bet ter. Would you like a cup of coffee, Sheriff?"

  "Well, we're about done here."

  "I'd just as soon you stick around a while."

  He couldn't blame her. She'd had a bad scare, and was probably just realizing how foolish it was for a woman to settle out here on her own. No wonder she liked having a man in the house—especially a man with a badge and a gun.

  "I wouldn't mind coffee. I've got a long night ahead."

  Libby picked up a bag with a Starbucks label and dumped some beans in an electric grinder. She sure was a city girl. Most folks just kept a can of Folgers on the counter, but she had to grind hers fresh. It was kind of nice, though. Smelled great. Homey.

  Over the roar of the machine, she asked, "So how long have you been the sheriff?"

  "About four years."

  "What did you do before that?"

  "I sold insurance for a while and ran some cattle on the side, but a year or so ago I got into horses full time. Picked up a really good stallion and bred some real win ners. I mostly ran for sheriff 'cause nobody else would step up and take care of things."

  "It seems to suit you."

  "It does." He adjusted his belt and settled back in his chair. "So what goes on between you and our friend Luke?"

  Libby measured the pulverized beans into the cof feemaker and hit the start button.

  "Nothing special." She turned to face him. "What was it you were saying about him the other night?" She tried to remember his words, but all she could recall was that he'd made it sound like Luke was dangerous. "You said I should be careful around him."

  He shrugged. "Oh, nothing."

  "Nothing?" It hadn't sounded like "nothing" the other night. It had sounded like a warning.

  "It's just that I thought you had something going with him," Cash said.

  "Well, I don't. I mean, I got in a car with him once." Her tone took on a sharp edge. "Apparently, around here, that makes us a couple." She watched the cocoa colored liquid drip into the pitcher. "Anyway, why is it so important? Is there something wrong with him? Or are people here really that hard up for gossip? Dang. I've never seen a grown man so interested in soap opera stuff."

  "I'm not interested in soap opera stuff."

  "Could've fooled me." She set two mugs on the table, along with a quart of milk and a hideous sugar bowl shaped like a chicken.

  "I'm interested in you," he said.

  ***

  Yikes, Libby thought. That silky tone on the telephone wasn't just reflexive flirting; Cash really was inter ested in her. Amazing. She had as much self-esteem as the next girl, but he was possibly the best-looking man she'd ever seen, and his charisma level was off the charts.

  So why wasn't she excited?

  Maybe because he was so good looking, so weirdly magnetic. Every time she looked at him, her brain short circuited, but when he touched her, the thrill she felt was ten percent attraction and ninety percent fear.

  And he touched her way too much.

  "I'm not looking for a relationship, Cash," she said.

  "Okay," he said. "Sorry. I kind of figured that, but it was worth a try. Hopefully we can still be friends?"

  "Oh, sure," she said.

  "I like to keep a good rapport going with the press," he said. "I need to be able to trust you, and in return, I can give you information that'll help your stories."

  Libby didn't really need a course in Journalism 101 from the sheriff, but she was glad he recognized the need for give-and-take between law enforcement and the media. Even if the media happened to be a two-bit local rag that carried more stories on calf rop ing than crime.

  "Listen, I'm not happy you're digging up the Della McCarthy thing, but if you're determined to do it, we should talk," he said. "Maybe we could meet some eve ning this week."

  "Sure," she said, relieved. Cash didn't seem like the kind of guy who took rejection well, so she was glad he was still willing to cooperate.

  "How about Friday? We could meet at Chez Joe's, downtown. They serve food like Mom used to make— meatloaf, homemade mac and cheese, that kind of thing. It's actually pretty good."

  She wasn't sure a small-town sheriff was a great judge of culinary quality, but she was partial to meatloaf.

  "Sounds good," she said. "But won't everyone think we're on a date?"

  "They'll think we're on a date if I so much as look at you," he said. "But what matters is you and I both know it's a meeting. A business meeting."

  "Okay," she said. Luke would probably draw the wrong conclusion, but that might be a good thing. Maybe then he'd stop coming around.

  That was what she wanted, right?

  "I'll pick you up at six." He downed the last of his coffee and pushed his chair back. "Well, I'd better get back to town."

  "Wait a minute," she said. "Don't pick me up. I can meet you there."

  "In your truck?" He lifted one eyebrow, and she groaned. She wasn't going to drive the Bitchmobile any more than she had to.

  "Okay. Good point." She stood to see him out and suddenly remembered her outfit. Ducking her head, she flushed. The sheriff must be desperate. How could he possibly have lust in his heart for a woman dressed in bunny slippers and flannel jammies? She looked like a Care Bear.

  It was embarrassing. She'd have to redeem herself— show him her Barbie doll side Friday night. She turned away and pretended to be busy washing out the mugs while Cash stood in the doorway, shuffling his feet as if he was reluctant to leave.

  "See you Friday, then. And call if Mike comes back. If you hear anything, or get scared, just call."

  "I'll be okay," she said. "I've got the watchdogs here." The dogs had snuck back into the room, but they were still suspicious of Cash. They skulked around the baseboards like guilty hyenas.

  Cash bent and held a hand out to Penny, who was hol ing up under a chair. She yipped and peed on the floor.

  "Yeah, they'll help," he said. "They'll take on Crazy Mike. Call me, Libby. Don't hesitate."

  Chapter 15

  WHEN LUKE PULLED INTO HER DRIVEWAY THE NEXT day, Libby was framed by the open barn doors, tug ging an oversized hay bale across the floor. There was a towering mountain of golden bales in the center of the barn, and she was apparently trying to clear the space by stacking them against the wall. A disheveled ponytail was collapsing around her ears in damp, spiraling ten drils, and her legs, revealed by a pair of skimpy denim cut-offs, were laced with scrapes and cuts. Rust stains from the baling wire crisscrossed her fingers.

  As Luke approached, she braced herself and gave the bale a final heave, then watched in dismay as the wire snapped and the hay scattered across the floor. She col laps
ed onto the few bales she'd managed to move and slumped her shoulders.

  "I miss my two-bedroom condo," she mumbled, hanging her head. He could see flecks of hay speckling the back of her neck, where a fine sheen of sweat proved she'd been at this a while. "I miss my concrete patio and my hanging petunias. I miss being clean." She stared at the unmoving mountain of hay stacked dead-center in front of the barn's big sliding doors. "I never thought I'd say this, but I even miss having a man around the house to help with the heavy stuff."

  "Well, I can't take you back to Atlanta," Luke said. "But I could get you clean. We could go take a shower. I'll soap, you rinse." He grinned to show he was kid ding, but it sounded like a pretty good idea. He remem bered the strap falling from her shoulder the day before, the flash of untanned skin it had revealed, and imagined her shucking out of her shirt, peeling those cutoffs off her long, tanned legs, stepping into the water and letting it run over her skin, making it glisten and shine. He wanted to touch her again, trace that tan line with his finger, follow it across her skin, see where it led.