Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  Not while he had a needle in his hand.

  "You see horses too, right?" she asked. "I'm think ing about getting a horse." Lying was okay, she de cided, in the service of an investigation. Journalistic ethics could be complicated. "I can't decide what breed to get, though. I want something fancy. I was wondering if you've ever had any experiences with exotic breeds."

  "Women." Ron clucked his tongue as he gave Ivan a final pat on the head and stood up, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. "You ladies always want the pretty ponies. You know, you'd be best off with a quarter horse around here. They have a much more stable temperament than your ex otic breeds. Arabians, Thoroughbreds—they're pretty but too high-strung. An inexperienced rider's liable to get hurt."

  "I can ride," Libby said. Actually, her total riding experience consisted of two weeks of barrel-racing les sons at a summer camp when she was twelve. Being a competitive kid, she'd been determined to get around those barrels in record time, so she leaned her pony so far into the turns that she spent more time on the ground than in the saddle. But Ron didn't need to know that.

  "I used to barrel race," she said.

  "Then you should know about quarter horses," he said, puzzled. "Nobody would rodeo on anything else. Why would you want some crazy over-bred animal when there are so many good quarter horses around here?"

  "I want a gaited horse," she said, thinking fast. "I get, um, I get saddle sore."

  "Hmmm." Ron looked her up and down with a knowing leer. "I see. You're looking for a smooth ride, aren't you, honey? We don't want you to hurt that pretty little…"

  A low growl from Ivan surprised them both.

  "Easy, big guy," Ron said. "Easy. I didn't mean any thing by that."

  "Of course not." Libby bent down to stroke Ivan's head. "We're talking about horses here."

  Ron laughed nervously. "Right. Can't imagine what set him off."

  "Anyway, I heard about this one breed. Paso Finos, they're called. Do you know anything about them?"

  "Sure. I've worked with just about every kind of horse you could name. Including one of the finest Pasos you'll ever see. Skydancer." He drew the name out as if he could taste it.

  "Skydancer? Nice name." Libby tried to sound casual as her heart bounced gleefully around her rib cage at the mention of Della's horse. She was good at this investi gative stuff. Really good.

  "Beautiful animal. Competed at Lackaduck Days a couple years ago. By far the finest horse on the grounds. A dark bay, with just one white marking on his left haunch—kind of odd, looked like a map of Texas."

  "Isn't that a flaw?"

  "Color doesn't matter much, and the animal's confor mation was so good nobody really cared. Beautiful little lady owned him, too. I got to know her when I treated him for a pretty serious problem. Saved his life, probably."

  "What was wrong with him?"

  "Pulled a tendon." Ron's definition of life-threatening conditions probably included stubbed toes and hangnails, too. "The young lady was very grateful." A lecherous grin creased his face. Libby knew he was thinking about Della, and looked away to hide her distaste.

  "We got very close, if you know what I mean," Ron continued. "She stayed on to help out here at the clinic. Had a real gentle touch."

  "How do you know?" Libby offered what she hoped was a conspiratorial leer, but she must have gone too far.

  "Oh, not from experience," he said quickly. "Too young for me. Wouldn't have minded a bit if she'd been older, though." He smirked again. "I wish she was still around to give me a hand, you know?"

  Libby shuddered. "Yeah, you need a lot of help."

  Ron didn't notice the sarcasm in her tone. "She ran off, though. Disappeared. The sheriff was investigating it like she was murdered or something. I think they ought to check with some of those cowboys. She's probably making the rounds on the rodeo circuit. Seemed to have a soft spot for those dumb bronc busters."

  "I'll bet her mother doesn't believe that," Libby said sharply. It was hard to listen to this loser talking about Della as if she was some kind of slut.

  "Well, she threw herself at one of my customers so hard he called me and complained. Guess he had a hard time resisting Little Miss Jailbait and found her to be a bit of a distraction. I could sure sympathize with him." He gave Libby a sly wink, and she flinched. Poor Della. It must have been a constant battle for her. The men around here obviously weren't able to overlook her at tractiveness and let her do her job.

  "Are you done with my dog?" Libby didn't wait for an answer but snapped on Ivan's leash and headed out the door. Ivan looked back and growled again as they left.

  "You come back anytime, now," Ron called after them. "You don't have to bring that dog, either. You just come and see me, you know? Just for fun."

  Chapter 20

  LUKE WAS LUNGING A YEARLING IN THE ROUND PEN when the colt shied and reared, pulling the line taut. Following its rolling-eyed stare, Luke saw a slight, dark-haired figure dashing up the drive on a battered old bicycle.

  It was David. Maybe the Roundup was on fire or something. Something was sure wrong. David was usu ally a laid-back guy, and he was pedaling so hard the bike heeled right and left with every stroke of the pedals.

  "Luke." David jerked the bike to a stop and hopped off, letting it tumble onto the grass outside the pen. The colt shied again at the clatter of the falling bike, tossing its head. Luke released it and it fled to the far side of the pen.

  "Sorry." David bent at the waist, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. "Libby. Her…"

  Luke grabbed David's arm and hauled him to his pickup. The two of them jumped in, and Luke had the engine revved and the truck moving before the winded chef could get out another word.

  "I knew something was wrong the minute I opened the door," David finally said. "He was drooling like crazy, foaming at the mouth. He just wouldn't stop…"

  "What? Who? Who was foaming at the mouth?" Luke pressed the accelerator to the floor and the truck jolted down the drive, loose tailgate clanging at every pothole. "Did he attack Libby? Is she okay?"

  "Did he…?" David laughed. "No, man, she wasn't attacked. It was one of the puppies. It's sick. Throwing up. Libby's not even home, man."

  "Oh." Luke slowed the truck to a rational pace and glanced over at David. "What were you doing over there, anyway?" He was trying to sound calm, but he was almost as alarmed at David visiting Libby as he had been at the idea of a crazed madman attacking her. Not that David would hurt her. But maybe she liked the undernourished hippie type more than she liked tall, handsome cowboys.

  "I'm doing some handyman stuff for her," David said. "Working on the outbuildings."

  "Oh." Luke nodded, hoping David hadn't noticed the panic that had crossed his face. "I figured that."

  "So she had the dogs in the chicken house so I could play with 'em, you know," David said. "And the others all came barreling out, but Rooster—well, I think it was Rooster, but I still can't tell them apart—was just sitting in the corner, kind of hunched over. I went in and picked him up and that's when I saw he was sick. I left a mes sage on Libby's cell, but I couldn't get hold of her, so I hightailed it over to your place. Thought maybe you could give us a ride to the vet."

  Luke nodded, then rolled down his window. He knew David had been part of the Great Unwashed at one point in his life, but you'd have thought a cook would be more conscious of stuff like body odor. The guy smelled awful. He pulled to a stop at the end of the driveway, then started to turn toward Lackaduck.

  "Vet's that way," David said, pointing to the left.

  "But we have to get the puppy."

  "No. I got him," David said. He undid the top button of his shirt and a tiny, miserable face peeked out.

  No wonder the guy smelled. Luke was pretty sure the dog had thrown up inside David's shirt.

  "I didn't want to waste any time," David said. The little dog heaved and gasped, then gagged hard.

  "Um, could you put him back in t
here?" Luke asked. "My truck…"

  David grimaced and shoved the dog back into his shirt. "Like nobody's ever puked in this truck before," he said, scanning the truck's worn, stained upholstery. "You've had this thing since high school, right?"

  "Yeah, well, it's been a while since anything like that happened," Luke said. "And I'd like to let it be a little longer."

  Luke swung into the vet's driveway, parking beside another pickup. It looked awfully familiar. Especially the insult scratched into the side and the drooling mon ster hanging his head over the side of the bed.

  "Libby," he said.

  She rolled down the window and his heart lurched, spun, and fell down at the sight of her. How could anyone call this woman an "evil bitch?" She looked more like an angel with her big brown eyes and tilted up nose. Those curls were like a rusty halo framing her face. He wanted to…

  "What's up?" she asked.

  Luke stared at her a minute, slack-jawed, then jerked back to reality. "Rooster's sick," he said. "David found him. Come on."

  "What happened?" She jumped out of the truck and clapped her hand over her mouth as David hauled the retching puppy out of his shirt. "Oh no."

  The three of them ran inside. Ron took one look at the dog and hustled them into an examining room. He was immediately in professional mode, his attention focused on his patient for a change, instead of the nearest female.

  "Can you think of anything around your place your dogs might have gotten into?" he asked. "Poison? Insecticide? Antifreeze?"

  "No. I don't think so," she said. "I cleaned out the barn and tossed a bunch of old packages of rat poison and roach bait. Still, they were there, so someone might have used some inside the barn." She started to shake. "I should have been more careful. Oh my God, I should have checked more carefully once I found the packages."

  Ron shook his head. "This guy had to have ingested a lot of poison to get this sick. And why would he be sick and all the others okay? You're not letting them run, are you? If he bothered the neighbors, they might have fed him something."

  "I don't have any neighbors. Except Luke—and he wouldn't hurt them. Besides, they're usually in the barn all day when I'm gone. Today I left them in the chicken house so David could play with them when he came to paint."

  "There must be something in the chicken house," Luke said.

  "No. It's clean. I scrubbed it all out," she said. "It's probably the cleanest place on the whole farm, actually. The chickens have better living conditions than I do." The puppy gagged again, and Libby moaned. "I can't believe this is happening. Is he going to be okay?" She was trying to keep her cool, but tears welled up in her eyes. "This is Rooster. He's the feisty one. Please, is he going to be okay?"

  "I can't say for sure," Ron said. "He's vomited a lot, so there's probably not much poison left in his system, whatever it was. I'm going to give him a sedative and pump his stomach to make sure we get the rest out. The rate he's going, he'll damage himself vomiting this violently. We'll run some tests then, figure out what it was. Meanwhile, I'll give him some intravenous fluids to prevent dehydration."

  "He'll have to stay here, then?"

  Ron nodded. "Best thing you can do is go home and keep an eye on the rest of them. If you see any signs of sickness—retching, or listlessness, any drooling, any thing at all unusual—get them in here fast. I'm surprised it's only one of them that's sick." He picked up the puppy gently. "I'll go get started. You'd better go home."

  "Call me, will you, Ron? Let me know if there's any change?"

  "Of course."

  The pressure had been building up, and now Libby lost it. Luke put his arm around her and coaxed her from the room. Sobbing, she let him hold her a little tighter.

  "He'll be okay, Libby." He patted her shoulder. "Remember, he's the feisty one."

  When they got home, the rest of the dogs were doing fine. Penny was kind of mopey when she figured out they hadn't brought Rooster back with them, but she perked up when Luke started mixing up the dog food while Libby smothered the puppies with kisses and handed out treats. David prostrated himself on the floor for the dogs' entertainment, and they tumbled over him, showering his face with wet puppy kisses. No one was drooling or retching.

  The three of them sat on the floor to watch the pup pies devour their food.

  "Makes me hungry just watching them," David said, glancing at his watch. "I need to get home." He levered himself to his feet. "Glad everything's okay.

  "Only because of you," Libby said. "It's a good thing you were here."

  David shrugged, embarrassed by the praise. "I'll be back tomorrow. Finish the job."

  He swung out the door and Luke stood, then reached down and pulled Libby to her feet. For a moment she was very aware of the kitchen's silence, broken only by the buzz of the light over the sink and the munching of the puppies at their dish. Luke looked down at their joined hands. "I was wondering," he said.

  Uh-oh.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?"

  Libby blushed. "Like what?"

  "Like you're worried I'm going to kiss you or something."

  Libby looked down at the floor. "Because—I don't know."

  Luke brought his other hand up and tipped her chin, look ing into her eyes. "If you're going to worry anyway…"

  "Oh, no." Libby backed away.

  Luke turned away. "Sorry." He looked genuinely hurt and she felt a rush of regret. "Saving it for the sheriff?"

  "No," she said, trying for a light tone. "Just saving it."

  "For later?" Luke looked hopeful.

  She shook her head.

  "Speaking of later, that's what I was wondering. Do you want to have dinner?"

  She remembered her awkward meal with Cash and shook her head. She wasn't about to repeat that mis take—not even with Luke. Of course, if Luke pushed her up against the truck and tried to kiss her…

  "No," she said. "I'd better not."

  "My mom wanted to know, and I forgot to ask. She made meatloaf just for you, 'cause I told her you liked it. I was supposed to call if you couldn't come."

  "Well…"

  "Good." He nodded, as if she'd come to a firm deci sion and wasn't standing there dithering. "Do you want to just ride with me? I'll bring you back later."

  "Nope. I'll follow you in the Bitchmobile," she said. After Cash, she'd sworn off riding shotgun. "I'll just park it where your mom won't see it. Wouldn't want her to know what an evil bitch I am."

  ***

  Luke's mother had everything ready, all right. The table was neatly set, plates and flatware all in their customary positions according to Emily Post—but Emily might not have approved of the menu. Each plate held a pair of clean white Jockey briefs, neatly folded and decorated with two cherry tomatoes and a sprig of parsley. In the center of the table, a salad bowl held rolled socks, along with a pair of tongs for easy serving.

  "Urp," Libby said. She tried to suppress the giggle that was rising in her chest and slid her gaze toward Luke. He took the non-traditional dinner right in stride.

  "Mom," he said. "You did laundry."

  His mother, standing by the counter, nodded and smiled.

  "But it's dinnertime," he said gently. He started to gather the plates from the table. "I'm in the mood for meatloaf," he said. "We had underwear last night."

  "Oh." His mom looked uncertain, wringing her hands. "Did I do something dumb again?"

  "Mum, it's not dumb," Luke said. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "You're never dumb. But we only have underwear for dinner on Wednesdays."

  "These little salad doohickeys are nice, though," Libby said quickly. "They'll look great with the meat loaf." Luke flashed her a grateful smile.

  "Oh, the meatloaf!" Ella trotted over to the stove and opened the oven door to release a billow of gray-black smoke. "I must have forgotten."

  Luke took his mother's arm and pulled her gently away from the oven. Spotting a pair of potholders on the counter, Libby used them to lift the
loaf pan from the stove.

  "This looks good," she said. "I like it crispy. Can I have an end piece?" She looked down at the dish in her hands and blanched. She'd pretend it was Cajun meatloaf—blackened.

  To her relief, Luke took charge of the meatloaf, sawing off the burned bits and laying a neat slice from the center on each plate. Eagerly, his mother placed the tomatoes and parsley beside each slice, cocking her head as she gauged the correct arrangement for each bit of garnish.