Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  But giving herself to Luke was different. She'd

  watched him, and tested him, and chosen to trust him— and in trusting him, she'd finally trusted herself.

  She reached for him and he closed his eyes, his breath slowing as if her touch was some kind of miracle to be treasured and memorized. Tracing the side of his face, the angle of his jaw, she let her fingers wander and play, working her way down to his chest, tracing the rippled muscles of his stomach, teasing the swell of his erection until he pulled her up from the pillows and kissed her breathless.

  His lips moved down her neck, down her body, skim ming over her skin, tasting the faint sheen of perspira tion that highlighted her curves. He opened the clasp of her cutoffs and inched them down her hips, continuing his slow exploration.

  She wrapped her legs around him and felt his need press against her, the denim coarse against her slippery flesh. Sucking in a quick breath, she pulled his fly open and took him in her hand, then lifted herself above him and slowly eased him inside.

  He rocked her against him, moving inside her, and every cell in her body awoke. She'd never given away so much of herself, yet she'd never felt more complete. She had everything she'd ever needed, but she kept on reaching for more, tensing to take everything he had to offer.

  When the tension broke, she crested on a wave of release, feeling all the joy and elation she'd expected, but also a heady sense of power and invincibility that lifted her higher still. Union with Luke made her something more than herself, something bigger and stronger and better. She tensed one last time and felt him strain with her, and then their eyes met and they fell apart together.

  ***

  He was watching her when she woke.

  "I can't wait for tomorrow," he murmured. "And the next day, and the next."

  She sat up and stretched. "Actually, tomorrow kind of sucks," she said. "I have to go to Cheyenne with Cash."

  "You have to?"

  She nodded. "It's for Mary. For Della. I have to do it."

  "I know," he said. "But do you have to do it with him?"

  "Yes," she said. "I think I do. If there's ever another crime in Lackaduck—and I hope there's not, but it could happen—I need to have a decent rapport with the sher iff." She sighed. "I don't want to do it either, but I'm trying to think of it as an investment in the future. It's just one day, Luke. Just one." She smiled. "We've got dozens. Hundreds. The rest of our lives."

  "I don't suppose it would help any if I came along," he said.

  "Not really," she said. "The whole squeaky-toy thing makes it hard for me to get my job done."

  "Good point," he said. "But maybe I could get some extra squeaking in once you're back."

  "Absolutely," she said. "I'll be saving all my squeaks for you."

  Chapter 36

  LIBBY REALLY NEEDED TO GET HER TRUCK FIXED. SHE didn't mind driving it around Lackaduck, but she could hardly argue when Cash insisted they should drive his pristine F-250 to Cheyenne and leave the Bitchmobile parked in his driveway.

  Unfortunately, playing passenger only emphasized the sidekick role Cash had forced her into. He expounded on investigative technique for most of the drive, but at least he kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road. He even dropped a few tidbits about the Della McCarthy case while they followed Brandy's vague and roundabout directions to a gorgeous brick Victorian that had been chopped up into tiny apartments. Climbing the narrow attic steps, they tapped on the topmost door and heard a crash, then a thump before the door flew open.

  "Sorry," their hostess said. "I tripped."

  Plump and pretty, she boasted a lush cascade of spi raling blond curls and blue eyes that glowed with good humor, but it was lucky she had good looks and a nice personality, because housekeeping was definitely not her strong suit. It was no wonder she'd tripped. A threadbare sofa piled with cast-off clothing was angled across the room, fronted by a cheap chrome-and-glass coffee table loaded with empty beer cans and pizza boxes that spilled off onto the floor. Shania Twain belted out a girl-power anthem from a portable stereo, and CDs littered the floor. Libby noticed the Indigo Girls, the Dixie Chicks, and Melissa Etheridge, plus some more Shania. Either Brandy was the strong, independent type, or she was overcompensating with music.

  "This is the living room," their hostess said, gesturing around the tiny space. "My kitchen's over here."

  The kitchen was about the size of a walk-in closet, and was furnished with a miniature stove, a dorm re frigerator, and a rickety table and chairs. In front of a tiny window, a chipped porcelain sink was piled high with dirty dishes and smudged glassware. "I don't cook much, so it's okay it's so small. My bedroom's the real showplace," she bragged, leading them to a larger room decorated entirely in pink. Flicking on the light, she re vealed a huge four-poster draped with an absurd pink fur blanket that appeared to have a brutal case of mange. Clothes littered this room too, and Libby tried not to notice the pink plastic handcuffs that dangled from one of the bedposts.

  Cash noticed, though. "This looks like the rumpus room," he said, smiling wickedly.

  Brandy smiled back, a predatory gleam lighting her eyes. Shania might have told her she didn't need a man in her life, but she obviously wouldn't mind sampling a few along the way.

  "That's one way of putting it," she purred. "I have parties. You'll have to come sometime."

  ***

  The Buffalo Bar & Grill was just around the corner from Brandy's apartment, so they opted for lunch there. She assured them the food was great.

  "And I know the bartender," she added. "So our drinks will be good and strong."

  Libby started to protest that it was too early to drink, but Cash silenced her with a quick look. Right. Ply the witness with drink, and you'll get more information.

  Dim lights and a dense haze of cigarette smoke al most obliterated the Buffalo's decor, which consisted mostly of old black-and-white rodeo photos, mounted in cheap dime-store frames that hung in random groupings around the seating area. Behind the bar, two battered bridles were draped strategically over a kitschy painting of a reclining nude.

  "Breakfast for me," Brandy said as she settled into a dark wooden booth. "I just got up."

  Libby stole a surreptitious glance at her watch. One o'clock.

  Cash motioned for Libby to sit, then slid in beside her. Brandy immediately shifted to the outside end of her bench, directly across from the sheriff.

  They placed their order with a frowsy waitress who had all the personality of a mannequin. Brandy ordered eggs Benedict with asparagus spears and a Bloody Mary, double tall, while Libby opted for a burger with extra pickles and a Coke. Brandy raised her eyebrows when Cash ordered a sirloin steak, rare, and a beer.

  "Man food. Goodness. What is it you do up there in Lackaduck again?"

  "I'm the sheriff." Cash couldn't help accompanying this line with a self-conscious hitch of his belt, despite the fact he'd locked his gun in the truck.

  "Oh, I remember," Brandy said. "You were sheriff before, weren't you? When Della… you know."

  "Been a while now," Cash said.

  Brandy listened wide-eyed to a few Lackaduck law enforcement stories while they waited for their meals. Cash's ego was growing dangerously bloated under her lash-fluttering adoration by the time the waitress returned, a tray teetering on her upraised hand. Libby's burger was accompanied by a massive mound of steak fries, as was Cash's enormous slab of beef. Brandy's en tree looked a lot healthier—two poached eggs draped in gleaming yellow hollandaise trembling delicately atop a neat row of asparagus spears.

  "I'm in criminal justice too," Brandy announced. She stabbed an asparagus spear with her fork and lifted it to her mouth, licking a drop of creamy sauce from the tip and nipping off the bud. Somehow, she managed to make eating vegetables look incredibly suggestive. "Probation and parole. Well, I was, anyway."

  "Not anymore?" Cash asked.

  Brandy turned to Libby. "I like the bad boys, you know?" she said. "And the bad boys
like me. That job was like being a kid in a candy store."

  Cash snorted, then faked a cough to cover it up. "Couldn't keep your hands off the merchandise?"

  "That's right." Brandy said. "I was spending too much time with a two-time offender."

  "Not good," said Cash.

  "Not only that, but I was two-timing the two-timer with a first-timer."

  "Sounds like you had a problem managing your tim ers," Cash cracked.

  "You could put it that way. But I was really good at multi-tasking."

  "Anyway, we wanted to talk to you about Della," Libby said.

  Brandy's eyes widened. "Oh, I know," she said. "But I can't."

  "What do you mean, you can't?" Libby was mentally tallying the lunch bill, and cursing herself for falling for Brandy's free lunch scam.

  "I was threatened." Brandy's eyes gleamed, and her voice rose with excitement. "I got a phone call last night."

  "What do you mean, threatened?" Cash leaned for ward and gave Brandy his best tough-guy squint. He was channeling Dirty Harry again.

  Brandy's voice dropped a couple octaves as she rasped, "Keep your mouth shut about your girlfriend. Unless you want to end up like she is."

  "You're kidding. When was this?" Libby asked.

  "That's the weird part. It was just last night. Kind of late. So it's like whoever it was knew you were coming." Her eyes were wide with excitement. "Do you think it was the killer?"

  "Maybe." Cash sat back, his fingers steepled under his chin. He was in detective mode now.

  Libby remembered scrawling the number on her wipe-off board. When was that? Who could have seen it? Crazy Mike? Maybe. David? Possibly. But she hadn't written down Brandy's name—just the phone number. It was doubtful either man would make the connection.

  And besides, Mike and David didn't know she was here. They'd have no reason to make the threat.

  "What did the caller sound like?" the sheriff asked.

  "Like someone disguising his voice," Brandy

  answered. "Like on TV, when they put a hankie over the phone. All mechanical, like."

  "Mechanical?"

  "Yeah. You know, no inflection. Like a machine."

  No inflection. "Brandy, could it have been someone, um, challenged?" Libby asked.

  "Challenged? You mean, like that taxidermy guy?"

  "You remember him?"

  "Yeah. He was funny, I thought. And he thought Della was a goddess." She thought a minute, nibbling her thumb nail. "That's weird. I would never have thought it was him. He seemed like the gentle giant type, you know? I'd have thought he'd be more likely to protect Della than hurt her."

  "That's what I thought too," Libby said. "Until the other night, when he broke into my house and attacked me."

  Brandy's eyes widened. "You're kidding!"

  "No, she's serious," Cash broke in. "Everybody thinks this guy's a real sweetheart, but he really loses it when things don't go his way."

  "So when he doesn't get what he wants…" Brandy was getting the picture.

  "Exactly. But keep your mouth zipped, Brandy," Cash warned, looking her straight in the eyes. "Don't tell anyone."

  Brandy slanted her eyes toward Libby and mimed a little shiver. Then she looked up at the sheriff, meeting his eyes with a flirtatious flutter of her lashes. "Anything you say, Sheriff. Anything you say." She nipped at an other asparagus bud. "And besides, I don't know any thing. I mean, I know some of what went on up there. But nothing that really matters."

  "Like what?" Libby probed. "What went on up there?"

  Brandy glanced over at Cash and toyed with her fork, scraping pools of hollandaise sauce into swirling designs. "I shouldn't be here," she said. "That phone call… I shouldn't have come."

  "Tell me." said Cash. "I need to know. Don't let his threats scare you." He was staring intensely into Brandy's eyes. "I'm here, and I'll take care of it. I'm real good at taking care of things."

  "Wow," Brandy simpered. "I just bet you are. You can take care of me anytime. But I can't help being afraid." She fluttered her eyelashes at Cash. "Still, if you'll promise to protect me…"

  Cash relaxed suddenly, his intense manner gone. "I'll do all I can," he promised.

  "Cash is right," Libby said, trying to keep the conver sation on track. The looks Brandy was giving the sheriff were obviously shorting out the man's brain, and no wonder. It wouldn't have surprised Libby if the girl had wrestled the sheriff under the table and had her way with him down there on the floor. She was either desperate or oversexed. Maybe both.

  "The caller probably knows you're here," she said. "He probably figures you told us already. So you might as well spill the beans."

  "'Cause I'm dead anyway? Right. Okay." Brandy took a deep breath. "Della was seeing a couple guys up in Lackaduck."

  "Seeing?" Libby asked.

  "Sleeping with them."

  "Who?" Cash was giving Brandy that intense stare again. She shrugged and gave him an innocent flutter of her lashes.

  "You honestly don't know, do you?" he said, easing back in his seat.

  "I'm not sure." Brandy quirked a catty little grin and took a sip of her drink. "I know she was really into one of your ranchers up there. She was always going on about his cute butt and his pretty green eyes. I got the impression she spent a lot of time with him."

  Libby only knew one rancher in Lackaduck who fit that description. Cash caught on too. "Luke Rawlins," he said. "Had to be Luke Rawlins."

  Licking the hollandaise-coated tip of another as paragus spear, Brandy nodded. "Yup. Luke Rawlins," she said. "Della was always going to his place while she was working for the vet. Supposedly she was help ing him with sick cattle or something." She giggled. "Yeah, right."

  Cash flashed Libby a smug look. "Funny, he never mentioned that. Now why would he keep that a secret?"

  Libby sipped her drink, feigning nonchalance and praying no one would notice how much her hands were shaking. Luke and Della? Luke knew Della? They'd been friends? More than friends?

  He hadn't said a word about it. Cash's question rang in her head over and over—Why would he keep that a secret? Why?

  She gulped down a slug of coke but a heated flush rose to her face anyway, making her feel sick and sweaty. The soda went down the wrong way and left her spluttering and coughing.

  "Restroom," she croaked. "Be right back."

  "You all right?" Cash asked as he stood to let her pass.

  "Fine. Went down the wrong way." She hacked a little more as she staggered off to the ladies' room, doubled over and gasping.

  She stumbled into the handicapped stall and fell on her knees, burying her face in her hands. Luke knew Della. Maybe too well.

  That was bad enough. But there was more. Luke had seen the number on the wipe-off board. He'd recognized it—even asked about it. And he was the only person who knew she and Cash were heading to Cheyenne. She'd told him last night—the night the call was made.

  Libby's mind scrambled backward, reviewing every contact she'd had with her neighbor. She remembered the folder full of articles he'd brought to her house. There was no way he could have put that much information together in a single morning. No way. Libby remembered how he'd avoided her eyes when she questioned him about it.

  He'd been lying. She'd thought so then, and she knew it now.

  That's why he'd defended Crazy Mike so passion ately. She'd admired the way he stood up for his friend, even though it seemed kind of over-the-top.

  But of course it was. He knew Mike hadn't hurt Della. He knew Mike was innocent.

  Because he was the one who'd done it.

  Maybe it had been an accident. Maybe there were some kind of extenuating circumstances. But Luke was involved in Della's disappearance.

  Why else would he hide their relationship? Why else would he make that call?

  Chapter 37

  LIBBY TASTED PICKLES AT THE BACK OF HER THROAT and struggled to keep her lunch where it belonged. She was kneeling by the handicapped toilet, c
lutching the stainless steel armrests and spitting into the bowl, when she heard the restroom door swing open.

  "You okay?" Brandy's face appeared upside-down under the stall door, her curls almost brushing the tiled floor.

  "Fine," Libby gurgled, and spit again.

  "Sure you are." Brandy said. "You want to talk about it?"

  "Just feel sick," Libby said. "All of a sudden."