Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  "Funny," Brandy mused. "It came on right when I men tioned Della's dreamboy. You got it bad, don't you?"

  "No," Libby said. "It's just that we're friends. Or at least I thought we were. He—I trusted him." She felt her stomach surge and leaned over the bowl again. "And I think the meat's bad here. Really feel sick."

  "More like lovesick," Brandy said.

  Libby gagged once, then felt the nausea subside. "No." She stood up, tottered a little, then backed away from the toilet and out of the stall. Feeling a little dizzy, she hoisted herself up beside Brandy on the counter. "It's just—I'm always wrong about men. Always." She wiped her clammy forehead with the back of her hand.

  Brandy fished a Kleenex out of her purse and handed it over. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm not sure anything really happened between them," she said as Libby dabbed at the back of her neck. "She liked him, but she said either he was a saint, or he was gay. She just couldn't get a rise out of him, if you know what I mean."

  "Really?" Libby's head cleared as if she'd sniffed a shot of ammonia.

  "Yeah. She said he was a little slow on the uptake."

  "No, he's not." The words were out before Libby could think them through, and she could feel herself flushing again. Brandy grinned and popped her hand in the air for a high five. Libby slapped it halfheartedly.

  "Taking Lackaduck by storm, aren't you?" she said. "That sheriff's wishing it was him."

  "No," Libby said. "He's just a friend. Not even that, really." She levered herself off the counter and onto her rubbery legs. Brandy tucked a hand under her elbow.

  "Take your time," she said. "Take it easy."

  Libby splashed her face with cold water and dabbed on a touch of makeup—mostly blush, to make up for her ghastly paleness. Once she'd run a brush through her hair, she felt well enough to make it back to the table on her own.

  "You okay?" Cash stood to let her back into the booth.

  "Fine," Libby said. "Guess that was too many pickles."

  "Right. So, where were we?" he mused. "Oh, yeah. We were at the part where Luke Rawlins turned out to be a lying scumbag." His eyes were fixed on Libby as he said it, and she nodded.

  "I suppose," she said. "But Brandy says nothing hap pened between them. I think Della was too young for Luke to… well, you know." She was doing her best to convince herself that Luke was innocent, but the images flashing across her mental movie screen said otherwise. She saw the folder, bulging with clippings. The phone number scrawled on the wipe-off board. Luke's face, alive with passion as he defended Crazy Mike.

  "She was way too young," Brandy said. "But there was somebody else that didn't care about that. Mr. Second Choice, she called him." She reached over and stole a French fry from Cash's plate and Libby noticed that his face had darkened with anger. What a jerk. It was just a French fry.

  "I don't know who it was," Brandy continued. "She hinted around that it was somebody important—rich, maybe. And it was a man, she said. Not some dumb boy our age." She shrugged. "Whoever it was, she was seeing him for a long time."

  "How long?" Libby asked. Della hadn't spent much time in Lackaduck, but two weeks might spell long-term relationship to someone like Brandy.

  "Years. From the first time she came to Lackaduck," Brandy said. "I think it was serious, in a weird sort of way. She said he even came up to Sheridan to see her sometimes. It was a big secret."

  Libby finally realized what Brandy was saying. Glancing at Cash's stricken face, she saw that he got it too. Della had met someone the first time she came to Lackaduck—when she was fifteen. And somehow, the relationship was still going on when she disappeared.

  Libby had been almost sure that Crazy Mike was re sponsible for Della's disappearance. The strange scene at his workshop, the things in his treasure drawer, his fear of the sheriff—it all added up. But if what Brandy said was true, someone else might have been involved too—someone who'd seduced a fifteen-year-old girl and carried on a secret relationship with her for three years.

  And no matter what Brandy said, there was a good chance that person was Luke. Maybe Della had been protecting him when she'd told Brandy nothing hap pened between them.

  "It was serious?" Cash asked. He looked pale. Libby felt a stab of sympathy. Della was underage when the af fair began. And it happened on Cash's watch. Libby knew he took his duty to "serve and protect" seriously. And she was sure he was thinking he'd failed to protect Della.

  "I think the guy was older," Brandy said tentatively. "Della made a big deal out of it, like they were star crossed lovers or something. It drove Larissa crazy. She was really worried about it."

  "She should have been," Cash said.

  "I don't know, really." Brandy waved her hand care lessly. "Della could be a bit of a drama queen. I don't think she was, like, in love with the guy or anything."

  Cash shook his head sadly. "No telling how the guy felt, though," he mumbled. "Judging from what we're piecing together here, I think maybe he was serious about her."

  "Too serious," Libby said.

  "Dead serious," said Brandy. She tried for a theatrical shiver, but somehow it came off as more of a jiggle. She glanced down at the sparkly watch on her wrist. "Hey, I have to go." She eyed Cash like he was yet another asparagus spear. "Could somebody walk me back to my apartment? I'm a little scared."

  "I'll walk you back," Libby said, springing from her seat. "Cash, I'll meet you at the truck."

  ***

  "Whoa," Brandy breathed as she and Libby waited for a break in traffic. "No offense, but I was kind of hop ing your sheriff would walk me back. He's really some thing."

  "I thought you went for the bad boys, Brandy."

  "I do." A car horn sounded and Brandy waggled a fluttery finger wave at a black Trans Am that was jacked up on super-wide tires. "Bad boys all the way."

  "But Cash is one of the good guys. He's not your type."

  "Oh, yes he is," she said, suddenly serious. "Trust me, Libby. He's a bad boy. My radar's never wrong. Have you noticed the way he looks at you? Gives me the shivers—the good shivers. He may be the sheriff, but he's dangerous."

  "You think?" Libby pictured Cash's square jaw, his bedroom eyes. Brandy was right. He didn't look like a sheriff; he looked like an outlaw. There was definitely a "bad boy" vibe there.

  "Oh, yeah," Brandy said. "Definitely dangerous. You ever get tired of that one, you let me know. He's just my type. And I get the impression you might want to move on to that rancher guy."

  "Cash is all yours if you want him." Libby kicked a pebble into the gutter. "And forget the rancher. Luke's a lying scumbag."

  "He told you he didn't know Della?" she asked.

  "No," Libby said. "He never actually said that. It's more a sin of omission. He knew I was looking into Della's disappearance, but he never told me he even knew her. Why would he keep that a secret?"

  "Well, maybe you ought to find out. Maybe she pushed him too hard. She could come on awfully strong with guys. Or maybe there was an accident out there on that lonesome ranch of his."

  Libby glanced over at her as the traffic pulled to a stop and they hit the crosswalk. "Were you ever there? At his ranch?"

  "Nope," she said. "I met him, but I never dated him. He was cute, but if I had to choose, I'd go for the sheriff," she said. "Much more interesting. I'd say he's capable of just about anything."

  "I know. Sometimes that worries me. He gets so intense."

  "Well, don't be scared, silly." Brandy nudged Libby and winked. "He'd never hurt you."

  Chapter 38

  BY THE TIME LIBBY GOT BACK TO THE TRUCK, CASH was in the driver's seat, tapping a restless boot on the floorboards. He couldn't believe she'd taken off with Brandy like that. He had things to say, and he had a feeling she might not be ready to listen. Well, he'd have her to himself for the drive home, and she'd have to hear him out whether she wanted to or not.

  It was funny. Most women pressured a guy for com mitment long before he was ready, but Lib
by seemed to actually shy away from it. She'd been hurt, Cash knew.

  It wasn't him. It was her.

  Libby hoisted herself into the truck and fastened her seat belt.

  "So, you were a big hit with Brandy," she said. She upped her voice into Brandy's flirty register and fanned her face with one hand. "My goodness, Sheriff."

  "Hey, can I help it women swoon over me wherever I go?"

  "Don't let it swell your head, buddy. Brandy swoons over all the boys."

  "The bad boys."

  "Yeah, well, she says you're one of 'em. Even if you are the sheriff. So look out. I'm onto you."

  "She said that?" He couldn't help sitting up a little straighter, smiling a little broader. "She thought I was hot, didn't she?"

  "She said lots of things, Cash." Libby laughed, re membering the conversation. "Remember, though, she's a multi-tasker."

  "Isn't that another word for slut?" Cash asked.

  "She's a nice slut, though."

  He remembered Brandy's blond curls, her curvy fig ure, and most of all, those handcuffs.

  Those handcuffs were intriguing.

  "The hooker with the heart of gold. A Western sta ple," he said. "Like Miss Kitty in Gunsmoke."

  "That's one way of looking at it. Although I wouldn't call her a hooker."

  "Nope. Just a slut."

  "Cute, though," she said.

  She was right. Brandy had the kind of body every man wanted—big-busted and slim-hipped, and, most important, ready for action. He'd thought about taking her up on her offer to attend one of her parties. He'd make it a private party—just her, him, and those handcuffs. He shook his head. That wasn't the kind of woman he wanted. She might get his motor revved up, but she wouldn't keep it running.

  Libby would, though.

  "I'm sorry Luke disappointed you," he said.

  She shrugged. "Hopefully that's all he did." She took a deep breath, and he wondered what was coming next. She looked down at her hands, then out the window— everywhere but at him. It seemed like she was trying to make up her mind about something.

  "What's the matter, Libby?" He gentled his tone. "Tell me."

  She inhaled again, then finally looked him in the eye. "Luke saw Brandy's number on my wipe-off board at home, and he recognized it," she said. "I didn't have her name written down; just the number."

  "You think he was the caller?"

  "He could have been." She swiped at her eyes, but not before he'd caught the shine of a tear tracing the curve of her cheek.

  "You know, this takes me in a completely new di rection," Cash said. "I'll ask him a few questions." He patted her leg. "See? You've given me a new lead."

  "Great." Swallowing hard, she looked out the win dow at the fallow fields and pastures hurtling past. The highway was practically empty. There weren't many rea sons to travel over the barren, stony landscape between Lackaduck and Cheyenne, so they shared the road with a few tractor-trailers and a motley assortment of pickup trucks, all of them driven by men in cowboy hats.

  "How 'bout a book on tape?" Cash asked. He ges tured toward the stereo. "I listen to them all the time on the road. This one's pretty good."

  "What is it?"

  "Anne Rule," he said. "True crime stuff."

  "She's great," Libby said. She sounded happier. "The best. Sometimes I think about writing one of those books myself."

  "Did you ever hear how she got started?"

  Libby nodded. "The Stranger Beside Me. She worked with Ted Bundy and wrote her first book about him. It was a huge hit, and her career took off." She twirled a strand of hair thoughtfully and stared out the window. "She found herself right in the middle of the story. Dumb luck."

  "Not so lucky for all those pretty dark-haired girls he killed," Cash reminded her. "But maybe you're lucky too. Maybe this thing about Della would make a good book."

  "Not really," she said. "Ted Bundy was attractive and intelligent. That's what made it such a good story. Our story's probably about a lonely, unhappy, mentally handicapped man who apparently went berserk one time and killed a teenaged girl. I'm not sure people want to read about that."

  "Maybe. But it might be about an attractive, intel ligent cowboy who killed a teenaged girl." He glanced over at her hands, knotted tightly in her lap, and saw the knuckles whiten. "The Cowboy Killer. And if he was working together with the mentally handicapped man— if both of them were in on it? Wow. That would be a bestseller."

  Libby swallowed hard. "Geez, Cash, thanks. Now I'll be scared to go home."

  "That might not be such a bad thing," he said. He offered himself a silent congratulations on steering the conversation right where it needed to go. "You really ought to just stay at my place. I want you to feel safe."

  "I'm safe," she protested. "I've got Ivan. I'll just pick up my truck and go, okay? I have work to do."

  She was one stubborn lady. It was going to take more than a suggestion to change her mind.

  Chapter 39

  LIBBY HAD PLANNED TO PICK UP HER TRUCK AND GO straight home to avoid spending too much time with Cash—but when she saw the graceful mares and their foals milling around in the paddock she couldn't help pausing to watch. As she approached the fence, one of the foals wobbled toward her on his slender legs. Inch ing toward her, he flared his nostrils, extending his neck until his muzzle was just inches from her hand. Then he snorted and dodged away, dashing across the paddock with his tiny hooves flashing.

  "Look at him prance," she said.

  "That's the thing about Quantum's foals," Cash said. "They can really move. And look at the head and tail carriage. They look great in the ring, I can tell you. Want to see the barn? Quantum's in there. My stallion."

  She hesitated. It couldn't hurt to look at the stallion. She was getting more and more interested in horses. Luke must be contagious.

  She'd just check him out for a minute. Then she'd go straight home.

  Cash's barn had two sections—a large area for the cattle and a stable section for the horses. They entered the stables by a separate door that opened into a long hallway paved with bricks. On one side was a single door labeled "Private"; on the other side was a row of seven spacious box stalls, each heaped with clean straw bedding over a rubber mat to protect the horses' feet from the hard concrete floor. At the end of the walk way was an enormous support post that led up past the hayloft to the roof of the barn, where streaks of sunlight peeped through the shingled roof.

  "What's in here?" Libby rattled the locked door on the left.

  "Tack room," Cash said shortly. "Nothing much. Some more ribbons and stuff, and my saddles and supplies."

  Libby figured the room must be messy, since Cash didn't want her to see it. She turned and looked down the alleyway at the big support post. There was a ladder up one side, almost blocking access to the rest of the barn.

  "You'd better hope you never have a fire in here."

  "No kidding. That would be a bad thing," Cash said, as if she'd stated the obvious.

  "No, I mean the way the barn's laid out. If the horses got going the wrong way in a fire, they'd come up against this post. They won't go backwards in a fire, so they'd never get out."

  "They can get around it." He demonstrated by squeez ing through the gap, then back on the other side. "It's tight, but it's not like I'm keeping Clydesdales in here. Actually, it works out fine. The opening provides cross-ventilation, but it's too small for the cattle to get through."

  He led Libby to a box stall and swung open the top half of the door. "This is the guy, here. Daddy to all those foals out there."

  Libby peered in, expecting to see a showy chestnut like the foal, but the horse that swung its head around and nickered wasn't nearly as impressive as his offspring. She didn't know much about horses, but Quantum didn't look like a winner to her. His color was a muddy brown, and his legs seemed too short for his height.

  "Nice," she said, cautiously.

  "Not really," Cash said with a short laugh. "He doesn't look like
much. But he's from awesome blood lines, and I knew he'd breed me winners." He grinned. "Everybody laughed when I bought him, said I didn't know what I was doing. But I proved 'em wrong. I mean, you saw those foals out there."

  Libby reached up and stroked the stallion's neck. "He's sweet," she said. "I thought stallions were mean."

  "Not this one." Cash turned and started down the aisle. "Great temperament."

  Libby lagged behind, petting the horse. He sure didn't look like a pricey foundation stallion, but what did she know? She was stroking his nose when she heard a rus tling noise in the straw. Quantum shifted nervously as a skittering shadow crossed the back of the stall.