by Baxter Black
Cooney had set his mind that if Pica wouldn’t return his e-mails, he’d just go see her. He was booked on an early morning flight to Calgary. Straight was perplexed and concerned over Cooney’s overreaction to Pica’s problem. He listened and didn’t encourage him one way or the other. He himself had never been in love, so how could he possibly understand? It’s like expecting a male obstetrician to tell you how it feels to have a baby: Something’s wrong with this picture.
“Okay, thanks, Straight,” said Cooney. “I’ll be flyin’ in to Omaha on Thursday. I’ll see you then. I’ll give you a call or maybe e-mail you along the way to keep you posted. I’m gonna rent a car and drive to Pincher.”
Straight just looked at Cooney.
“Ain’t you got nuthin’ to say?” asked Cooney. “Like this is the stupidest thing you ever saw, or what do I think I can do when she’s already got lawyers and relatives, givin’ her advice . . . and she won’t even answer my e-mail, and for all I know she still thinks I’m God’s gift to the Losers Club.”
“Nope,” said Straight. “I just wish I knew somebody I cared that much about. It must be a deep feeling.”
“It is,” said Cooney. “It gets you down inside.” A pause. “Okay,” said Cooney, blowin’ out his breath, “I’ll see ya.”
We can take a moment here, dear reader, to comprehend that this giant ball of nervous, scary, breathless, soul-baring intercommunication exists between just two humans, outside earshot of the rest of the universe. Only Straight knows what is driving Cooney, and he can’t define it. If Cooney’s plane crashed and Straight had to explain why Cooney had been on a flight to Calgary, he’d be hard put to do it. The first question would be, “Did she know he was coming?”
Straight had a meeting in Denver with OTT. Straight dropped Cooney off at the curb of Will Rogers International Airport to get checked in, then parked their pickup in the long-term lot. He had a later flight scheduled to attend a meeting in Denver with OTT.
Oui Oui’s addition to the OTT traveling program had been a hit. It was like having a Playboy bunny LIVE! in the booth! She attracted attention like a lightning bolt in a microwave. Her attire was revealing, bold, sexy, and seductive. She walked that fine line between lovable and lascivious, between titillating and bawdy, between your grandmother kissing you on the cheek and someone running a tongue up your midline navel to chin! Oui Oui had nothing to do with rodeo, cowboys, tradition, the PRCA, or education. She was simply the musky scent a mountain man would daub on his trap. It drove them beavers crazy! She was so good with the drooling boys who came by the booth to gawk and get autographed photos. Not Straight’s, mind you, but hers.
But behind the scenes Straight had noticed that she and File were getting close: confiding, touching, acting very familiar. She had several noms d’amor for File that Straight overheard: Filey, FiloMan, Filomatic, Filly Fi Lo. When Pica had been the LIP LASTER girl, Straight, Pica, and File would often eat together, visit about the booth activities, their future. Now, as soon as the show was over Oui Oui would head to the motel alone. File would stay and close the booth and find his way back to the motel by himself. Oui Oui always complained of tired feet, stupid fans, bad motel breakfasts, how hard she worked, on and on. She was constantly pressing File to get her first-class tickets, more per diem, a bigger clothes allowance, a personal trainer, and a lady-in-waiting.
Yes. She was truly obnoxious, selfish, and imperious in real life, but when the spotlight hit her she became the most beautiful, sensuous, charming orchid in the hot house! She could turn it on.
This last weekend Straight had accidentally come upon File and Oui Oui discussing Pica’s “problem,” as it had come to be called. File was whining that Oui Oui wasn’t being very generous with her time considering all he’d done for her.
Straight stopped in midstep when he heard the word Caribbean. File and Oui Oui suddenly noticed his arrival and immediately changed the subject. A memory snapped into Straight’s brain of Cooney saying maybe Pica had been framed.
CHAPTER 35
September 27, Tuesday, 9:00 a.m.
Pincher Creek, Alberta
Cooney drove into the scenic little town of Pincher Creek, the gateway to Waterton Lakes National Park. The town had a bit of a European feel. Switzerland, maybe, except for the abundance of three-quarter-ton, four-wheel-drive pickups with iron grill guards and steel toolboxes that occupied every other parking space.
Cooney went into the local veterinarian’s clinic on the outside of town and inquired as to the whereabouts of Juneau D’TroiT’s place. “You a hunter?” asked the lady behind the counter.
“Yeah, of sorts, I guess,” smiled Cooney.
“West on Highway 3,” the she directed. “Probably five miles. If you reach Cowley you’ve gone too far. It’s on the south side of the road, maybe a mile back towards the mountains. D’TroiT’s has a wooden sign. You can’t miss it.”
Less than thirty minutes later Cooney turned at the sign. The house, outbuilding, and corrals were set back from the road. The house was a two-story, wooden structure with fresh paint and a small front porch with a small lawn surrounded by a split-pole fence. It sat in a stand of large poplars, quakies, and pines. A creek meandered through the surrounding fields and furnished drinking water for the stock in summer.
He heard a loud buzzing coming from the back and drove toward the sound. A tall, lanky man with ear protectors and safety glasses was cutting boards from a twelve-foot-long piece of pine tree trunk on a thirty-six-inch electrical circular saw. Cooney parked where the man would be able to see him approach.
When the man saw Cooney he finished the cut he was making, then shut off the saw.
It whined to a stop.
Suddenly the quiet of the morning enveloped Cooney. He could hear the birds chirping, the man’s footsteps in the gravel, the ticking of his engine cooling. A cow dog cautiously crept closer.
“Howdy,” said the man.
“Howdy,” said Cooney. “I’m looking for the D’TroiT ranch.”
“Are you with the press?” the man asked suspiciously.
“Do I look like I’m with the press?” asked Cooney.
“Well, I don’t look like the prime minister’s valet either, but I could be,” replied the man.
“Are ya?” asked Cooney.
“No. I’m the famous Uncle Firmston who serves as the guardian of the gate to protect the pestered Princess Pica from paparazzi.”
“You have found me out, my good man. I am not a reporter but merely a friend who is concerned about the princess and seeks permission to see her,” confessed Cooney.
“You would not be that Lionel character, would you?” asked Firmston.
“No. Unfortunately, he is a much better bronc rider than me,” said Cooney. “I am merely a friend who wishes to offer comfort.”
“Is she expecting you?” asked Firmston.
“I’m afraid I made the hasty decision to hunt her up before I was able to contact her,” said Cooney. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell her I have come calling.”
“Tell me, have you studied Shakespeare?” inquired Firmston.
“It was not my good fortune to be taught his plays. And you, Mr. Firmston, are you a student of the titan of the Thames?” asked Cooney.
“No,” said Firmston, “I have no official training either. I am just a humble word manipulator, a practitioner of the sleight of vowel, a consonant concoctor, and, I fear, on this beautiful Tuesday morning . . . I have met my match.”
“So,” said Cooney, “does this mean you will lead me to the majesty in question?”
“She is in the tack room as we speak, sorting the camp gear for the upcoming fall hunting season. You may find her thus occupied.”
“My thanks to you, kind sir. I shall recommend you to the prime minister the next time he and I are try
ing on socks.”
Cooney was feeling more confident after his playful conversation with Uncle Firmston. He walked across the farm yard to the tack room, which was actually an enclosed part of a large open-faced barn shed.
He heard a radio playing country music and the occasional noise of things being moved around. From under the shed roof he could see in. A large window facing the east side allowed the morning sun to light the room. He could see a woman in jeans and a work shirt bending at the waist, pulling something from underneath a work bench. She was straining. She bent down to get a better grip when Cooney said, “Maybe I could help?”
Pica straightened to 90 degrees quickly and whacked the back of her head on the bottom of the work bench. She fell back onto her backside, slapping her head against the board floor with a thunk.
The brim of her well-worn hat bent flat and slid down to cover her nose.
For a moment she lay flat on her back in snow angel fashion at Cooney’s feet. His confidence escaped him as if he had been punched in the stomach.
She peeled her hat back and looked up at the person standing over her. He saw her expression grow from surprise to recognition to anger.
She rolled to her right side and got her left foot under to catapult herself upright and regain her footing. Unfortunately, she hooked her right boot in a strap on a harness. Her attempt to rise was aborted, and she fell into his legs, knocking him backward across the door jamb and landing in his lap.
Her head was on his chest, her arms reaching out, her body pinning him to the floor.
“I . . . I didn’t expect this joyous a welcome,” he stammered.
“You . . .” she began. “How dare . . . you . . .” Then she started to make strange huffing noises, then muffled cries that rolled into choked laughter, uncontrollable heehaws, hysterical hoots, finally exhausted gasps, heavy breathing, and a long whistling sigh.
She lay on top of him in that same position for what seemed a heavenly hour to Cooney but was really only twenty-three seconds.
In that brief interlude, his engine room took over the conning tower. The fiery glimpse of her black pupils, the ascending display of her parted prehensile lips, the riveting view straight down the front of her shirt as she rose from the floor . . . nearly blinded him! They replayed in his mind like a slot machine coming up grapes, roses, and melons.
The collision and subsequent engulfing were tumultuous. He felt as if he were melting when she finally relaxed her entire weight onto him. Then he realized she had begun to cry.
He wrapped his arms around her and held her until she brusquely pushed herself off of him.
Tears glistened on her face. She gave him a hard glower. “You are the last person I . . .”
Cooney raised a hand in protest, then put his index finger to his lips, indicating silence.
“No,” he said, his brain taking control again. “I am the first person you need and the last person you should turn away.”
She stared at him. Then her visage softened slightly to a less-suspicious pose. “Why?” she asked.
“Because I believe,” he began, “. . . because I do not believe—for a second—that you are responsible for the wreck you are in.”
“But you,” she said with distaste, “why you? You’ve done nothing but embarrass me . . . and yourself.”
The spirit of Stone Roanhorse rose in Cooney, and he said, “The answer is, I am both.”
Without knowing why she understood, she did—immediately.
CHAPTER 36
September 27
Pincher Creek, Alberta,
on the D’TroiT Ranch
Pica stood, absentmindedly picked up a shoeing rasp, and leaned against the bench. Had Cooney been alert to her every nuance, he might have interpreted that as a defensive maneuver, but he was too empathetic to take it personally.
“So, what are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came to help you,” he said.
“What do you think you can do that’s not being done already?” she asked.
Cooney had given considerable thought to this very question. He responded. “Since I know you are innocent, probably framed, then the first thing we have to do is find out who did this to you.”
“What makes you think . . .” she started.
He interrupted her, “Because I’ll bet you a loonie that not a single person, including your lawyers, the OTT, your family, or your friends has lifted a single finger to begin the chase.”
She stared at him.
“Have they?” he pressed.
“Well, no, I guess. They’ve been mostly, like, worrying about my bail and court hearings,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said. “And you are stuck up here, lyin’ awake nights, wondering what’s gonna happen. Probably goin’ crazy, I’ll bet.”
“So just what do you, like . . . think you can do?” she asked.
“Right now nobody’s doin’ anything to find out who’s trying to frame you. If I make one phone call, I’ll be doin’ more than them.”
“I think that OTT is trying to help me, hopefully,” she said.
“It’s my opinion that OTT is covering its own butt. They’ve laid you off, shipped you far away, hired Oui Oui Reese to take your place, and never looked back,” he said a little cruelly.
“Their lawyers are working . . .”
“When was the last time you talked to them?” Cooney asked.
“Couple weeks ago, maybe?” she replied.
“Listen,” he said. “Since you got arrested, or since I read it in the papers, it’s all I can think about. I don’t know if you need me, but I need to help you, so I can sleep. Two heads are better than one. I’m thinkin’ that if you were an innocent mule for endangered species smugglers, we would have to go to the place you left from, that island, or whatever it was.
“That would mean you were a random choice, and they planned to rob you when you got back to the States. You can do some Internet searching for smugglers, particularly of that kind of stuff. If you come up on a good lead, we . . . or I can go down and start digging.
“But,” he continued, “if that was not the case, instead, someone specifically wanted you to get caught with contraband . . .”
“What?” she said. “Who would want that to happen to me?”
“That is the million-dollar question,” he said. “I think that’s where we start putting our heads together.”
Two hours later they were sitting on the front porch. They had been talking like two teenage girls. Each feeding off the other. She’d gotten them some coffee. They had established a bond.
“Cooney,” she said, “I don’t know what to say. None of my lawyers or the OTT people have even discussed any of this with me. How you knew . . . I mean, this is exactly what I should be doing, finding out who’s behind all this.”
She studied him as he sat in the old lawn chair, letting the silence have a turn. He had taken off his hat. His straight, dark-brown hair spread out over his ears like wings—hat hair. He also had brown eyes and latte-colored skin. It was obvious he hadn’t put on a clean shirt or jeans this morning, nor were his boots shined. Only his belt buckle shined. It was new. “Saddle Bronc Champion.”
“Cooney, can I ask you a question? Why did you say women can’t ride bucking horses?”
He felt a little blurp in his stomach. “What I said was although women are allowed to ride in rough stock events in the PRCA, you don’t see many of them doing it. So, logically it’s because . . . well, they find it hard to, uh . . . compete, ya know. It doesn’t mean there aren’t exceptions to that observation. You, obviously, but for the most part . . .” Cooney realized he was babbling. “I can only chalk it up to bein’ stupid. I’ve got no excuse.
“I can tell ya that I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry I e
ven talked to that jerk of a reporter. I’ve been paying for it plenty, but there is nothing I can do to go back and change it. If I could I would, but sometimes ya just mess up. You don’t mean to, you’re sorry you did it, but the damage is done. You just gotta buck up, take the flack, and go on.”
He looked over at her to see if his explanation made any sense.
She was thinking about it. Also about his throwing up at her feet in Miles City. Of his hanging out of her ex-sister-in-law’s car passed out and half-naked. The thoughts were enough to give a woman pause.
“That’s a pretty buckle,” she said, avoiding what could have been an ugly conclusion to the nicest morning she’d had since her arrest.
“Thanks,” he said. “Snake River Stampede, Nampa, Idaho.”
“I haven’t been paying attention to the rankings. How are you and Straight doing?”
“Straight’s coming back steadily,” said Cooney. “He was in a slump, but I’m still bettin’ he’ll make the finals.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I’m settin’ good in the broncs and the bulls,” he said.
“I like to watch you ride,” she confessed. “You really hang in there and hook it to ’em. It’s like you never let up. Really aggressive.”
“I saw you ride Crash Bar in Caldwell,” returned Cooney. “It was a beautiful ride. No, it was more. It was a spectacular show, which put me in my place and did more for women’s rights than all the woman generals in the U.S. of A. Marines!”
She grinned at him.
Cooney was invited to lunch. Afterward he decided it was best that he depart before he somehow managed to make a mess of his visit. “I’ve got lots to do,” he told her. “I’ll be talking to you or e-mail everyday to keep you informed.”
She didn’t walk him to his car, just waved from the porch.
After Cooney’s car had disappeared down the lane and back out of sight, Pica remained standing on the porch.
