Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  Weird, but nice. They smelled good, or at least Libby did, and they felt good too, when they let you touch them. He wasn't sure Libby would ever let him touch her again, but it was worth a try, especially since she was looking at him like he'd offered her a Lamborghini instead of a piebald Dodge that had been totaled three times. He shifted a little closer and put his left arm into position across the back of the porch swing. It was a stealth move he'd mastered in high school.

  "Well, it's settled then," he said. "You can take my truck. See? Problem solved." He let his hand drop slowly down the back of the swing until it curved around her waist. She'd been sitting on the porch a while, and her black T-shirt was warm from the sun. He was itching to move his hand, just a little, to trace the tuck of her waist, the slope of her hip. That was his favorite part of a woman—that sweet, soft curve.

  But he didn't do it. He didn't move. He needed a signal from her, and he wasn't getting it. Romancing a woman was a lot like taming a horse—it was all about give and take, and you couldn't take 'til she gave.

  "Why are you so nice to me?" she asked. She relaxed, her body softening, and leaned her head on his shoulder.

  Bingo, he thought.

  All systems go.

  "Luke?" she said as his hand edged into place.

  Oh, yeah. She'd asked a question. Why was he so nice to her?

  Mostly, it was because she was a good person, and be cause he admired her for setting out on her own, for being smart and independent and spunky. And because she was nice to him, and nice to his parents. Because she had a sense of humor and a knack for seeing the best in people like Mike, despite Cash's efforts to poison her mind.

  But right now, it was because she was pretty and she smelled good and because her skin was so soft under his hand, and because that curve was perfect and she was letting him touch it, and because her skin was so smooth right there where the slope of her hip met the swell of her tummy and disappeared into her jeans, and because he liked the way she caught her breath when he brought his hand up and buried his fingers in her hair, and because…

  "Uh-oh," she said.

  "What?"

  "You're going to kiss me again." She wiggled away from him. "You're doing that an awful lot."

  "You like it."

  "I—well, yeah, sometimes, but it's not a good idea, Luke."

  "Why not?"

  "Because we're friends. And having sex with your friends is a bad idea."

  He slumped back on the swing. "Shoot. How 'bout if I make you mad, and we stop being friends?"

  She slapped him, just a little, and he grinned. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

  "Yes, I can," she said. "But if you let me use your truck, I'll forgive you."

  "If you let me kiss you, I'll let you use my truck."

  She put a finger to her chin and looked up at the sky, pantomiming deep thought. "Hmm," she said. "Maybe my friend Cash will let me use his truck."

  Luke groaned. "You win," he said. "When are you going?"

  "I was hoping to leave tomorrow," she said. "I finished up all my work early so I can go. It's just for the day."

  "Okay," he said. "I'll bring the truck by in the morn ing." They talked a little longer, until he was sure she felt better, and then he headed back home. Once he took the curve at the end of Libby's driveway, he pounded both hands on the steering wheel and did an improvised seated happy dance right there in the cab of the truck.

  Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

  ***

  Sunday morning dawned clear, blue, and cool—perfect for a road trip. David volunteered to stay at Lackaduck Farm while Libby was gone, so he'd get a break from his cramped apartment over the bar and the puppies would get some time with their favorite uncle.

  Luke pulled in at seven, just like he'd promised, and tooted the horn.

  "Hey," Libby said. "Thanks so much."

  "You're welcome," he said. "Climb in."

  "Okay." She opened the driver's side door and looked at him.

  "You want to drive?" he asked.

  "I wasn't planning on pushing your truck to Billings," she said.

  "Yeah, but I thought I'd drive. At least for the first half, and then we can switch."

  "You thought… no," she said. "You thought wrong. I'm driving. Alone. I'm driving you home, and then I'm driving your truck to Billings. That was the deal. Getting in a pickup truck with you is nothing but trouble."

  He grinned. "I thought you kinda liked it."

  She didn't say a word, but the look she gave him— brows lowered, eyes flaming—was eloquent enough that she didn't have to.

  He pulled his hat down low over his eyes and propped one arm on the steering wheel. Looking out the windshield, avoiding her eyes, he said. "I thought I'd go along. Make sure the truck runs okay."

  "No," she said again.

  "Look, it's a seven-hour drive," he said. "And Betsy can be difficult."

  "Betsy?"

  He patted the dashboard. "The truck. See? I have to come along. You don't even know her name."

  She stood in the driveway, staring at him, her fists on her hips. She'd dressed up a little for the trip, in a Western shirt with snaps and a pair of slim-fit Wranglers. Her cowboy boots had been a little too shiny when she'd first arrived, but now they were suitably scuffed and dusty. She'd look just right in the truck beside him, if he could just gentle her down and get her to stop looking at him with that killer glint in her eyes. He gave her his best smile. Reluctantly, she smiled back.

  "Oh, all right. I guess I could use some company." She shook her head.. "Why can't I say no to you?"

  "You can't say no to me?" His smile widened. "Hmm. So do you want to…"

  "No," she said. "Hey, how 'bout that? Guess I'm learning."

  She whistled, and Ivan rounded the corner of the house. Dropping the dented tailgate, she stood back as the big dog vaulted into the truck bed.

  "Ivan's coming?" Luke asked.

  She nodded, tugging the seat belt around her waist and settling in. Ivan thrust his head through the sliding rear window of the cab and slapped his tongue over the side of Luke's face. It was like being smacked with a wet pound of bacon. Luke reached up and wiped off the slime.

  "Oh, look," Libby said. "He remembers you."

  ***

  The rain started before they'd even made it to Chugwater.

  "Pull over," Libby said. "Ivan's getting soaked."

  Luke glanced up at the rearview mirror and saw the dog huddled miserably in the truck bed. Real ranch dogs loved riding in the back of a pickup, no matter what the weather, but Ivan was becoming less and less of a real dog. Luke suspected Libby let him sleep with her on the bed, and she was always petting him, stroking him, whispering sweet nothings into his cockeyed ears.

  Lucky dog.

  Sighing, he pulled over onto the shoulder. Libby hopped out of the car and clucked her tongue, and the dog set his paws on the side of the truck bed and flopped over the side like a trout flipping out of a bucket. After stopping to relieve himself against a mile marker, he hoisted himself up into the cab with an assist from Libby, who grunted as she lifted his hindquarters, then hopped in behind him and slammed the door.

  "Hi, buddy," Luke said warily.

  Ivan lifted one front paw and presented it for shaking. When Luke didn't take it, he pawed the air, slapping the shift knob and throwing the truck into gear. The truck lunged forward, burped, and stalled.

  "Yikes," Luke said. "Can't you sit in the middle?"

  "He'll be fine," Libby said. "He's just saying hi."

  Ivan grinned and panted. A string of drool drained off his tongue and left a damp spot on Luke's jeans.

  "Let me rephrase that," Luke said. "You are sitting in the middle. He's drooling, he's wet, and he stinks. If you sit in the middle, he'll only smell up one side of the truck."

  "Yeah," Libby said. "My side."

  She had to admit that the odor rising from the dog's damp pelt as the truck's heater warmed the cab was p
retty powerful. "Come on, bud," she said, moving to ward him and patting the passenger seat. "Get over."

  The dog lumbered across her lap and sat upright with his hind legs splayed wide and his belly pooched out, gazing happily out the window like an old man on a bus trip to Branson.

  "I don't think this'll work," Libby said, nudging her knee against the gear shift. "My legs are too long."

  "No such thing."

  "You won't be able to shift."

  Luke reached down and eased her knee aside so she straddled the shifter. "There," he said. "That'll work fine." He thumbed toward Ivan, who was decorating the passenger side window with wet noseprints and streaks of slobber. "And you're a lot less likely to drool on me than that guy."

  Libby's mind flicked back to their Thursday night interlude in the pickup truck. Luke might be wrong about the drooling. She kept remembering the feeling of his hands on her skin, his weight on her body, and this ride wasn't helping her forget. The truck cab was barely big enough for the three of them, and his leg was pressed hard against her thigh. When he pushed the clutch to the floor and yanked the gear shift into second, his hand veered perilously close to her dan ger zone.

  "See? Fine," he said.

  She sucked in her breath and glanced at his face, just inches away.

  It would be all right, she told herself. The trip was mostly highway driving. The truck would be in fifth most of the time, not second. Luke might touch her knee, but she could deal with that.

  She rummaged in her purse and dug out a CD, sliding it into the player. Soon Chrissie Hynde was telling them all about the brass in her pocket and how special she was. It was a seven-hour drive and it was the only music Libby had with her, so Chrissie's pockets were going to be mighty heavy by the time they got to Billings.

  It was a good thing the music was there to fill the silence that stretched between them. She'd never been so close to Luke for so long, and she was uncomfortably conscious of his warm thigh pressing into her own, the nearness of his face to hers, the hand he rested casually on the gear shift between her legs.

  At least he was trying to behave. That hand stayed on the gearshift a whole hour before it drifted over and rested on her thigh. She tensed and he lifted his hand, flashing her a questioning glance, and the place his hand had been suddenly felt unbearably cold. She slid her eyes sideways and quirked him a nervous smile and the hand settled back into place.

  For some reason, that touch felt as intimate as a kiss—partly because she'd invited it with her smile, giving tacit permission for a gesture that felt some how proprietary. She'd seen couples driving through Lackaduck this way, their silhouettes almost a Western cliché—the cowboy-hatted driver with one hand on the wheel, his tagalong sweetheart snuggled up next to him in the center of the bench seat, big hair brushing his square shoulders.

  But it felt right. Easy. For the rest of the trip, she remembered what it felt like to be half of a couple, and she didn't mind a bit.

  ***

  Eastern Montana looks a lot like Wyoming—flat and barren, with vast pastures of golden grass and gray green sage broken by occasional dry stream beds and rocky outcroppings. The sky is broad and deep, colored a rich, glowing blue that stretches unclouded to the ho rizon, where you can just make out the purple shadows of distant mountains.

  Billings isn't the prettiest town in Montana, but it's probably the busiest. The highway into town passes several oil refineries, then carries new arrivals into the seedy south side of town. Boarded up sandstone buildings from the 1800s prove the town's historic pedigree, but they're surrounded by cracked sidewalks, storefront soup kitchens, and pawn shops advertising guns and jewelry.

  "Larissa lives up on the Rims," Libby said, "but Larissa married some stockbroker or something. They have a big fancy place that looks out over the whole city."

  They left the South Side and cruised down a wide thoroughfare bordered by fast-food joints and quick lube stations. Beyond the business district, they turned north into a residential area that worked its way steadily uphill toward the rocky cliffs that bordered the edge of town.

  Larissa had a big fancy house, all right—a glass and cedar castle that rose from a broad terrace of rock that overlooked the city. They sat out on the deck, a redwood refuge that offered a gorgeous view of the city spread out below. Lights winked on one by one as night settled over the valley.

  Larissa was lovely and obviously older than her friends. Her long Scandinavian face was framed with straight blond hair, cut shoulder length. A wide, sen suous mouth balanced large blue eyes and high cheek bones. Fixing an appraising stare on first Libby, then Luke, she lit a long thin cigarette and let loose a long curl of smoke.

  "My one concession to girlish folly," she said. "I started when I was fourteen. Never have managed to quit. It's too good a prop." She inhaled again, then re leased another stream of smoke. She looked like Marlene Dietrich, like a jaded movie star mourning her youth. Which was odd, since she was maybe twenty-seven at most. "What do you want to know about Della?"

  "Whatever you think might help," Libby said. "Especially her love life, I guess. Did she have a boy friend, somebody she was seeing?"

  "Probably." Larissa sat back on the porch swing and swung gently forward and back. "But Della always had secrets. Especially from me. She didn't want me to know what was going on in her life, because she knew I'd tell her what I thought, and she didn't want to hear it." She stopped her swinging to lean forward and stub out her cigarette. "Della made a lot of bad decisions."

  "She was young, though," Luke said. He was leaning forward in one of Larissa's padded patio chairs, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped. "Young people make mistakes. It's part of growing up."

  "I know. I'm not criticizing her. I'm sorry it sounds that way." Their hostess shook her head sadly. "She was a won derful person, more alive than any of us—you know what I mean? But somehow, she managed to grow up with zero survival skills." She lit another cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke. "She came from a family that loved her unconditionally. All her life, she could do no wrong."

  "That's how you're supposed to love your kids," Luke murmured. Libby smiled. He was right. If she ever had kids… but she probably never would. With her track record, marriage would be disaster, and she sure wasn't up for the single mom experience.

  "Yeah, it's great, until they enter the big wide world where nobody's looking out for them," Larissa said. "Nobody's protecting you in the real world. Look what happened to Della."

  "How did you meet her?" Libby asked.

  "We were horse show buddies. I was the one who found Cielo for her."

  "Cielo?"

  "Skydancer," Josie said. "Cielo Bailando was his Spanish name. He was a Paso Fino." She sighed. "He was beautiful. She'd seen my Paso, and she loved him. Had to have one."

  "You don't see many Pasos in Western riding," Luke said.

  "You don't, but you should," Larissa said. "They're agile and trainable. And such a pleasure to ride." She looked over at Libby. "They're gaited horses, with a smooth, fast walk. 'Gaited' means they move their legs differently from other horses."

  "It's like they dance," Luke said.

  Larissa nodded. "My husband calls my Paso geld ing 'Twinkle-toes.' But he's nothing compared to Skydancer." She shook her head. "I wish I could have bought that horse myself, but I couldn't afford him. Neither could Della's parents, but they'd promised her a stallion, and she worked on them day and night to buy her a Paso stud. They finally relented. I think they always did. Della always got what she wanted."

  "So you told her about Skydancer?"

  "Her father came to me for help at a show in Arizona. There was an auction, and he and I traipsed all through the grounds, looking for Della's surprise birthday pony." She flexed her lips disapprovingly. "Once he saw Skydancer, it was all over. The horse went for over twenty thousand dollars, but somehow Mr. McCarthy bought him."

  Libby gasped. "He was a schoolteacher. So was his wife, so
they had two incomes, but still…" No wonder Mrs. McCarthy couldn't pay for nursing care. They'd probably mortgaged their home to buy that horse.

  "I know. I couldn't believe he did it. He just waited until the last bid was in. The auctioneer said "going, going…" Everybody thought it was over, and then Mr. McCarthy threw his hand in the air. Let me tell you, there were some really pissed-off breeders leaving the auction that night. He paid an outrageous amount for that stallion."

  "Was it a mistake?"

  "I thought so at the time, but no. Skydancer won some major ribbons, and his stud fees went through the roof." A touch of bitterness crept into her tone. "My guy looked like dog meat beside that horse."