Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  But she still couldn't stop thinking about Luke.

  She stabbed the keyboard a while, pounding out a scathing editorial about the romantic cluelessness of the average Wyoming cowboy, then deleted the whole thing and stared out the window a while. When she put her hands back on the keyboard, they seemed to tap the keys of their own accord, and she ended up with a highly imaginative ode to the sexual possibilities offered by the cozy crew-cab of the all-American Dodge Ram. The piece was more than inspired. It even rhymed, but its how-do-I love-thee tone hardly suited the subject matter.

  Of course, she had to delete that one too. She was a journalist, not a poet, and a journalist needed hard evi dence to back up her stories. Write what you know, her teachers had said. And she didn't know a damn thing about making love in a pickup truck. Her attempt at researching the subject had ended in abject, miserable, humiliating failure.

  What she really needed was a nap. She'd slept in, snoozing off the effects of those ill-advised vodka tonics, but she still felt like she'd celebrated Mardi Gras on the Fourth of July at Disneyland every night for a week. Too bad she didn't have any beads to show for it.

  She'd certainly earned them.

  She threw herself facedown on the sofa and closed her eyes, drifting into slumberland—but there he was, waiting patiently for her at the doorway to her subcon scious: Luke. His face. His lips. His eyes, catching the glint of the dashboard light. Her body under his, silvered by moonlight, soothed by the soft trill of crickets and the whispering encouragement of the wind in the sagebrush, seduced by the sensation of his rough rancher's hands on her skin. She couldn't forget that feeling.

  She never would.

  She turned over and glanced at the clock. It was well past suppertime. Maybe she should go into town. Fill herself up with some new experiences to replace the ones that had shanghaied her memory and hijacked her hormones.

  Tossing her bag over her shoulder, she revved up the Ranger and rushed downtown, slamming the sidewalks of Lackaduck with her bootheels, searching for some sign of a story that would fill up some column inches and keep her mind off the night before. But the streets were vacant as a John Ford film set before the cowboys came to town. The only activity was a trio of out-of towners slurping ice cream outside the mini-mart and Josie lounging by the front door of Chez Joe's, one hip cocked, a cigarette at her lips.

  And the only story left was Della's.

  "Libby," the waitress said, releasing a stream of blue smoke. "No date tonight?"

  "Nope," Libby said. She leaned up against the diner window and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm never dating again."

  "Wow." Josie looked concerned. "What happened?"

  "Nothing." It was true. Sad, but true.

  "You sure?"

  "Positive." Libby flipped her hair out of her face and changed the subject. "Hey, how old are you?"

  Josie looked puzzled. "Twenty-two," she said.

  "Good. Listen, I need to talk to you. If you'll meet me out at the Roundup later, I'll buy you a few drinks."

  "You're not going lesbian, are you?"

  "No. I could probably mess up a relationship with ei ther sex at this point. I'm an equal-opportunity disaster."

  "Oh. Well, I might not be the best source if you're looking for dating advice."

  Libby laughed. "I'm thinking the best advice is just to cut out the whole mess. Go it on my own, and con centrate on doing some good in the world. That's why I wanted to talk to you about Della."

  There was a long silence as Josie took a deep, slow breath. "Della? You're a reporter, right? You're doing a story on what happened?"

  "That's right. I thought maybe you could help."

  "I don't know anything."

  "I realize that. But you knew her. I just want you to tell me what she was like."

  "I'll be glad to. That's how we keep our friends alive when they're gone—by telling other people about them, remembering them. I'll meet you there at ten, okay? I need to fix my hair."

  "Great." Libby nodded, eager to see what Josie's hair would look like after a few hours of primping. She was halfway home when it hit her.

  Why was Josie so certain Della was "gone?"

  ***

  Josie walked into the Roundup at ten on the dot, and every head turned. She'd obviously spent the entire two hours on her hair. It rose regally above her head like the crest of some great bird, maroon spikes stretch ing a good eight inches to the ceiling. The amazing thing was, she managed to look beautiful in spite of her extreme hairstyle. She'd ringed her eyes in dark kohl, bringing out their pale gray color and emphasizing her perfect skin.

  "Yo, Josie," a deep male voice intoned from some where in the back of the room.

  "Josie. Hey." Another admirer made his presence known.

  "Jozeeee!" That voice Libby knew. It was David. He lunged through the crowd and enveloped Josie in an enormous hug.

  "Hey," she said, surprised but obviously pleased at the welcome.

  "Holy cow, you're at the Roundup. She's at the Roundup, everybody!" David said loudly. He looked her up and down. "And you look fantastic. Great outfit. Great." She wore a delicate, gauzy flapper dress that hung limply off one shoulder and swept down into a ruffled skirt decorated with stiff netting. A selection of chains, large and small, draped her waist, and a spiked dog collar encircled her neck. She had a ring on almost every finger—big, glitzy rings sporting massive fake diamonds. She looked like a page out of some cutting edge fashion magazine.

  "How come you're here?" David asked, taking both her hands in his and gazing adoringly into her eyes. "You never come here."

  "I came to see Libby," she said shyly. Bold as she seemed, she was clearly overwhelmed by the attention.

  "Score! Libby! She's my friend too!" David led her to Libby's table and pulled out a stool. The tables were high, and he hiked Josie into her seat, almost flinging the poor girl across the room in his enthusiasm.

  Josie took his hand. "Sit with us, David. Libby wants to hear about Della."

  "Can't. Gotta make bar food. You want nachos, don't you, Josie?"

  "I sure do."

  "And a dry martini? Straight up, with a twist of lemon, not lime?" He winked. Libby had never seen him so happy, not even with the puppies.

  "Perfect," Josie said. "And something for Libby."

  "Just a Coke," Libby ordered. She was working, after all. And besides, you never knew when your neighbor might show up and hijack your libido.

  She and Josie watched David make his way through the crowd. "He likes you," Libby said, stat ing the obvious.

  "I like him," Josie said. "But he wants more than I do. I'm not ready to settle down. David has a biological clock like a woman's. He wants to have babies." She sighed. "Maybe someday."

  "You make a nice couple," Libby said. "He's a good person, isn't he?"

  "The best," Josie said. "So what did you want to know about Della?"

  "Just what she was like. What her friends were like, what she did for fun. Stuff like that. But tell me about your self first. I hardly know you. What's your last name?"

  "Wales."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "Why would I kid about something like that? My parents were Frank and Lorna Wales. They named me Josie. Dad was a Clint Eastwood buff. At first, I hated it. But now I kind of like it. Clint's cool, after all, even if he is old. And I like the outlaw part."

  "The Outlaw Josie Wales," Libby said.

  "That's me!"

  "Are your folks here in Lackaduck?"

  "No, they live over in Lusk. Hicksville. They've lived there all their lives. I swear they've been dating since the fourth grade, or maybe even kindergarten. I grew up there, but I was determined to get out. Got all the way to Lackaduck, but now I'm stuck."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. I like it here. I like my job, and David's here, and it's safe. I went to Denver a couple times. Thought I'd love it there, but I was scared."

  "All the crime? The noise?"
>
  "No, not that. I liked that, in a way. It was just that there were so many people like me there. I was afraid I'd get lost in the crowd. Here, I stand out. Everybody knows who Josie is."

  That was an understatement. Half the crowd was watching her in fascination—the male half. She was like a brilliant quetzal touching down in a barnyard. In spite of her extreme hair and makeup, it was obvious Josie was the prettiest girl in town.

  "You know, you've made a good decision," Libby said. "I lived in Atlanta for a long time. I wanted the bright lights, the big city, all that. But here I am in Lackaduck, too."

  "You started a farm, right?"

  Libby laughed. "A ranch. I'm told you have to call it a ranch out here."

  Josie rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, a ranch. Next you'll be wearing a cowboy hat and shouting 'yee-haw.'"

  "Could happen. Anyway, tell me about Della."

  Josie bit her lip, staring down at the table. David trot ted over with their drinks and a huge plate of nachos. He started to say something, then saw Josie's face. "You're talking about Della?" he asked Libby.

  "Yeah. I think so."

  "Don't rush her," he said, and walked back to the kitchen at a slower pace, pausing twice to watch Josie with a worried look on his face.

  Josie lifted her head and looked at her drink. "No olive," she said. "Twist of lemon. That's what I like about David. Everywhere you go, they put olives in these. He always remembers how I like it." She took a generous sip and held the glass up, admiring it like a work of art.

  "What did Della like to drink?" Libby thought maybe a direct question would help the girl get started.

  "Anything she could get!" Josie rippled out a high pitched giggle, suddenly animated. "She was underage, you know. We both were, but she was two years younger than me. And she looked it! Nobody would serve her. She was the kind of girl who'll be getting carded when she's forty, she looked so young." She stopped sud denly, realizing what she'd said. "She'll never get to forty, though."

  "Why are you so sure?" Libby asked. "Couldn't she have run away or something? What makes you so sure she's gone?"

  Josie shook her head slowly. "She would never just run away. She had too many people who loved her, and she loved them too, like anything. Especially her mom. She always felt bad about the things she did, that they would hurt her mom. She never wanted her mom to know."

  "What things?"

  "Oh, you know. Girl stuff. Getting drunk and sleep ing around. Della really liked to party, and she liked to fool around with guys. A lot. She was really beautiful, but it seemed like she needed guys to tell her that. She was always flaunting what she had, fishing for those looks you get. You know, it feels good when a guy gets all googly-eyed over you. But that doesn't mean you have to sleep with him."

  "Did she have a relationship with anyone here?"

  "I think so. There were a couple cowboys we met at the rodeo over in Burns. She had the trailer rockin' with one of those guys, and I couldn't really blame her—he was real cute. But they didn't have to be. Cute, I mean. She'd pretty much do it with anyone who asked."

  "But she was so pretty. Why would she do that?"

  Josie shrugged. "I don't know. It was like she had to prove she could have anybody. There was somebody else here in Lackaduck too, but she wouldn't say who. Just that he was a stud."

  "You didn't have any idea who it was?"

  "Not at all. I think David might know. He kept warn ing her, telling her she had bad taste in boyfriends. But he wouldn't tell me who."

  Libby thought about Mrs. McCarthy, home alone with her sick husband, missing the daughter she thought she knew.

  "How long did you know Della?" It seemed like a lot of information for a short acquaintance.

  "I met her at Lackaduck Days years ago, when we were just kids. She used to come down here with her Arabs, and then with Skydancer." She looked dreamy for a moment. "That was one beautiful horse. He turned heads even more than she did. They were some pair."

  "Did you show horses too?"

  Josie shook her head. "I had sheep." Smiling, the girl reached into the vinyl clutch she'd brought along and drew out a stack of snapshots. "I thought you might want to see these," she said, handing them over.

  The first photo was of two young women standing in front of a carnival ride. One Libby recognized as Della. The other was apparently Josie, though she was hardly recognizable. Her hair was long and straight, and her happy smile revealed a mouthful of braces. The only thing Libby recognized was those pale gray eyes, clear and bright.

  The next picture was of Josie alone. She was standing in a fairground arena, leading a black-faced white sheep before a panel of judges.

  "Nice sheep," Libby said dubiously.

  "As sheep go," Josie said. "Check out the next pic ture. That's Skydancer."

  The photo was a professional shot of a beautiful bay horse standing perfectly squared against a blue sky. The horse was breathtaking, with a finely arched neck, his tail carried high and proud. Libby didn't know much about horses, but she could see he was a beauty.

  "Della was paying for college with his stud fees," Josie said. "He was amazing."

  The next picture was a wallet-sized portrait, a print of the studio shot of Della Libby had seen on the Internet. On the back, round girlish handwriting spelled out "Friends 4ever! Luv, Della." Josie picked it up and her eyes brimmed with tears. "She was so cool, Libby. We really hit it off during Lackaduck Days, and we emailed and text-messaged all the time after that." She heaved a heavy sigh. "Friends forever." She traced the letters with one finger, then looked up at Libby. "You should talk to Larissa. Talk to Brandy. Maybe they know something." She slumped. "All I know is that I miss her."

  "Well, I feel like I know her a little better now," Libby said. "Thanks."

  The truth was, Josie had given her a whole new pic ture of Della McCarthy—one Libby didn't think she'd be sharing with the girl's mother.

  Chapter 27

  WHEN LUKE DROVE UP TO THE HOUSE THE NEXT DAY, Libby was sitting on the porch swing with her arms folded, staring at the warped floorboards. He could swear he saw a wisp of smoke coming out of her ears.

  Uh-oh. He'd figured after a good night's sleep she'd see things his way. In fact, he'd thought she might even be grateful. After all, he could have taken advantage of her. He'd thought maybe she'd thank him. Maybe she'd even decide that she still wanted to—well, probably not. But you never know.

  All he knew was that he wanted her worse than ever. And if she was mad at him, and she didn't want him around, he was going to have a hell of a time dealing with it.

  He took a deep breath. "What's the matter?"

  He paused at the bottom of the steps. Either she was mad, or she was going to cry. He wasn't going up there if she was going to cry.

  "My truck," she said.

  He blew out a sigh of relief. "You're mad at your truck?"

  She nodded, her lower lip thrust out in a pout. "I want to go to Billings and talk to one of Della's friends, and my truck says 'Evil Bitch' on it and I can't drive it on the interstate that way."

  "Hmm." Luke stepped up onto the porch, moving cau tiously, as if he was approaching a pawing, head-tossing rodeo bull. "That's a problem, all right." He lowered himself onto the porch swing and set it to rocking, just a little. Maybe that would be soothing. Maybe it would calm her down.

  "Stupid truck," she said. "Stupid vandals."

  "Yeah," he said. "Stupid."

  They rocked a while, and Luke wondered if there was smoke coming out of his own ears, because he had an idea that was burning up his synapses and scorching his cerebellum. It would solve Libby's problem, and it would solve one of his problems too.

  It was a double-decker problem solver.

  "You could take my truck," he said.

  "I could?" She turned to look at him, her lips parted, her eyes wide and glistening like she might cry any minute.

  "Well, you don't have to," he said. He didn't think the truck was that ba
d. Sure, it was kind of odd-looking, with parts from four or five other trucks all bolted on where he'd smashed it up, but it was colorful. He liked to think it was kind of like a paint horse. Multicolored.

  Flashy.

  "That would be so—so great," she said. She sniffed, and he edged away. If it was great, why was she getting so teary? Women were weird.