Turning for Trouble

by Susan Y. Tanner

  She glances our way and gives a civil hello to Mr. Silver Eyes. Civil and patently cool, though not as chill as the front that blows from the north. I flatten my ears at the unpleasant force, grateful for my healthy covering of fur while knowing tomorrow could dawn sunny and mild. That is one of the vagaries of the southern states. With no desire to settle on cold ground, I leap to a folding chair that I doubt anyone has spared more than a minute to relax upon.

  Our Joss rounds the rear of the horse trailer and I see that Mr. Silver Eyes does not at once recognize the girl with her newly, and inexpertly, shorn hair. Only a few wisps float out from under a warm cap the same nondescript olive green of her oversized jacket. She acknowledged it too large when the purchase was made but cited the extra length as her reason. Truth be told, I suspect it was the shapelessness that appealed.

  Just as recognition dawns, an insistent buzzing disturbs my comfort and I realize I share space with a cell phone. The surface lights and I see ‘Tyge’ across the screen. This is my chance and it will be brief! In the scant moment that I have, I expertly bat the phone into the air, hissing to catch Mr. Silver Eyes’ attention.

  Good man! He catches it mid-air and glances at the name. I see a hard gleam of recognition in his eyes. This is a name he knows and a person he holds in distaste. I’ve given him the hint and the opening. Let us hope he doesn’t botch the deal at this point.

  * * *

  “Well done,” Cade murmured to Trouble. He placed the phone in Malone’s outstretched hand. “The phone call that made your hands shake? That was Tyge?”

  “Both times,” Joss offered, closing the distance between them.

  Malone slipped the phone into her jacket pocket, giving first the cat, then the girl a reproving look.

  Joss ignored the look. “The second call was worse. When they actually talked.”

  “Joss.” There was no mistaking Malone’s tone of voice. It was clearly a warning.

  The teen stared at her patently unrepentant. “You’re not afraid of anything. Nothing rattles you. I’ve been with you less than a week and watched you change a tire on the side of the interstate and stare down two dudes at a gas pump who tried to mess with you. But whatever is going on with this guy,” she tilted her chin toward the pocket where the cell phone had disappeared, “has you edgy. Not afraid, maybe, but edgy for sure.”

  Cade battled with his temper before he allowed himself to cut in. “What’s going on, Malone?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. I’ve been handling things for a long time, Cade, all without help.”

  She said the words quietly and evenly. He wasn’t sure if it was meant as a dig, but he felt the bite of it all the same. He was wise enough not to argue but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to hunt Tyge down and make him understand a few hard truths. And the thought of Malone facing down two guys bent on mischief chilled him to the bone. He couldn’t discount the fact that, yeah, she’d been on her own a long time. Couldn’t discount the fact that he’d been forced to put her out of his mind for a long time, that or go crazy. But he’d never been entirely successful there. He’d tucked her away as a memory and a regret. But she was back in the here and now, within reach.

  He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about the fact but he damned sure wasn’t going to ignore it.

  Chapter Seven

  The BlackJack wasn’t fine cuisine but neither was it a hole-in-the-wall. The small, non-chain restaurant boasted a top-of-the-line chef who also happened to be the owner. Beer and wine were on the menu but the offerings were good quality. If you wanted a cheap drunk, this wasn’t the place to come. Which was why Cade was surprised to see Tyge stroll in when he was half way through the perfectly seared steak on his plate.

  They hadn’t crossed paths in several years and Cade noted the changes a dissolute lifestyle had brought about in the other man. A slight paunch carried above the belt buckle had replaced the hard, lean muscle of a pay-window cowboy. His face sagged more than his age warranted. Tyge bypassed the scattering of tables with their neat tablecloths and napkins folded around dinnerware in favor of the bar. His gaze passed over the corner where Cade sat facing Asa without any sign of recognition.

  Cade watched from the corner of his eye as Tyge took an empty barstool next to a small group of cowboys. He recognized some of them. Frank Roberts was a competitor, the older half of a father-son rope team. Somehow Cade wasn’t surprised when Frank got to his feet shortly after Tyge took the seat next to him. He doubted the two had much in common to talk about. Tyge was a has-been. Frank had kept his competitive edge through some twenty years by working hard and living clean. Tyge said something Cade couldn’t hear but Frank shook his head and walked toward the door.

  Cade wished, honestly wished, for a few minutes in which he could be just another rodeo contestant instead of a director. A brawl of any sort wasn’t something he could afford though it was something he damn sure wanted. Tyge was due a fist or two for all he’d the misery he’d dealt Malone.

  Looking up from his plate, Asa asked, “Something wrong with your steak?”

  Cade picked up his fork. “No, for a second I thought I saw someone I knew. The steak here is as excellent as I remember. Glad the owner added porterhouse to the menu.”

  “Yeah, it’s gotten hard to find most places.”

  They finished their meal in companionable conversation and parted at the front door of the establishment. Asa was parked out front, Cade in the back. The night was starkly cold though the earlier wind had dropped making the temperature less unbearable. Beyond the glow of the street lights, the dark was absolute with the thick layer of clouds hugging close to the earth.

  While Asa pulled away from the curb, Cade made a slow circle around the restaurant and walked right back in the front door to the small bar where two or three lone patrons ate first class steak and drank first rate beer. The bronze pendants over the bar cast a warm glow across the inhabitants. Tyge didn’t look half as disreputable in the hazy light.

  Cade slid onto the one empty stool, right next to Tyge. Quietly and on a hunch, he said, “I hear you’re in a tight spot.”

  Tyge tensed, cut a glance his way, then relaxed his white-knuckled grip on his beer. “Someone been talking? Malone, maybe?”

  Pretending ignorance, Cade asked, “Is she someone I need to chat with about this?”

  “Nothing she can tell you.”

  “Who can, LaMonte? You?”

  The other man hunched his shoulders. “Nothing to tell. And, even if there was, ain’t none of your business.”

  “Well, now, being that you’re a member of the association and I’m a director of same, I’m afraid it is my business.”

  Tyge turned to face him. “What do you want, Delaney?”

  “I want you to keep your nose clean and stay away from Malone.”

  “So, it was her. Should’ve known. No loyalty anywhere anymore.”

  “Really?” Fury ripped through Cade. Quiet, deadly fury. “How many times has she taken you back when your luck and your money ran out? A half-dozen? A dozen? And, with losers like you, the luck always runs out, isn’t that right?” Cade has seen it too many times. Despite the strides the sport had made, he supposed there would always be one breed of rodeo cowboys who drifted from one woman to the next, eating their food, sleeping in their bed until they either made enough at the pay window to move on or got kicked out only to do it all over again with the next.

  Tyge snarled and got to his feet. “I did for Malone what you wouldn’t do. I helped her make her dream and I helped her live it. Yeah, man, I screwed up plenty and I lost her. But you screwed up first. You lost her first. Now, keep the hell away from me.”

  Despite the sucker punch of truth, Cade stood firm. “I’m serious, Tyge. Stay away from Malone. You’re not going to use her again. If you’re down on your luck, find yourself a hole to crawl into but not anyplace near her.”

  “Hell, a man can’t even have a drink in peace.” Tyge threw a twenty on
the bar and headed for the door.

  Cade squelched the urge to follow him. His foremost thought as he got in his truck was that Malone wasn’t going to be happy with his interference.

  * * *

  Hmmm. Although there’s plenty of bustle around the barn even at this late hour, it seems an odd time for play. And I might add that I find this particular human-canine pastime incomprehensible. The Aussie, trembling with happy anticipation, waits for his master to throw some kind of stick – not a run-of-the-mill chunk of wood, mind you, but a carved stick made to look like a large bone – so that he can race to retrieve it only to have it thrown again.

  I don’t believe the positioning of their game is by chance as it is within viewing distance of our equipage. We moved the truck and trailer from its earlier check-in location to a place with hook-ups for plumbing and electricity. Much nicer than the din of the generator, though that proved useful as we traveled cross-country. Numerous security lights hold the dark at bay. The horses are all snug inside the barn area with its entrance to the climate-controlled arena where, last I checked on her, Ms. Rodeo hand-walked each of her equines in turn. That action made me a bit nervous as so many other contestants appeared to be riding in close proximity rather than walking, and some on animals who were not behaving as well as they might have been.

  It seemed to make Joss equally nervous as she hovered, placing herself between her mentor and the riders as much as possible. That Ms. Rodeo also noticed the protective movement was evidenced by her half-smile at each occurrence.

  And here comes Joss now so the horses must be settled and Ms. Rodeo on her way. Yes, she emerges from the barn in conversation with the young man who has had an eye for Joss though Joss wants nothing to do with him or with any human male creature. No doubt her experience at the hands of some of that species has not been kind, leaving her with a deep mistrust. She does, however, seem to have accepted that Mr. Silver Eyes is not a threat.

  She’s a pretty girl and I’ve watched her play with face products some evenings but she washes the color enhancements away at bedtime and never wears any outside of the living quarters of the trailer.

  Townie has grown fond of her and, on his next fetch, races toward her with the stick rather than returning it to his master. Her face lights up with a smile as she accepts the wooden piece, which must be rather repulsively damp by now.

  As interesting as it is to observe these humans, none of this moves my investigation forward. It is the essential but boring part of my work, waiting for the next clue to emerge and deducing the method by which to convey that clue to the humans entrusted to me. They can be stubborn about receiving the information so I must always be clever about my delivery.

  Now, while my current humans are all accounted for, I believe I’ll take a turn about the grounds. There’s information to be gathered and hints of nefarious deeds to be revealed and I’m confident I’ll learn little of consequence by loitering here amongst friends.

  Although this isn’t my first rodeo – hehe, pun intended – I’ve only recently come to realize that professional rodeo is a very nomadic existence. I’m sure the contestants gathered in this place all have a home base but it seems the more successful of them don’t get to spend much time there.

  The barn is lively and I pick my path carefully so that I’m in no danger of being trampled or of stepping into some disgusting pile of droppings. No doubt Townie would relish the opportunity to roll in some nastiness but not moi.

  Not all of the liveliness is horse-related. I pass a boy chatting up a girl and then a couple in a rather heated disagreement. Oh, the drama of romance and of human romance in particular! They are, by no means, a peaceful species and youth seems to aggravate the worst of their characteristics. I pause near a small gathering of cowboys who stare into a pen of muscular horses with lustrous coats and point out which are most rank to one another. As best I can tell from their conversation, I don’t think rank used in this regard is meant to describe something malodorous. Further along, the bull riders are involved in much the same stance and conversation as they gaze at rather large bulls with wicked, long horns. The eyes of the cattle hold a glint that seems, at least to me, to contain a certain cheekiness.

  I’m about to give up my quest, at least for this evening, when I hear voices around the next corner. They carry a darker undertone, not quite anger but certainly no idle pleasantries. I edge closer, keeping to the shadows, so as not to be noticed. It is likely to have become apparent that Ms. Rodeo is traveling with one sleekly sophisticated black cat and I prefer to remain inconspicuous for the moment lest my reputation precedes me.

  Hmmm, the tête-à-tête seems to be about money. My studies have given me a great understanding that money – or its lack – is at the root of many human foibles, frequently resulting in the failure of friendships, partnerships, and marriages. There is something about the voice of one of them that catches my attention and I move a bit closer. Unfortunately, I can’t see them, their faces or expressions, unless I round that corner and risk exposure which, I believe, would not be my best course of action.

  “You owe me for last time. I need the money and I want it now.”

  “You’ll get it after the next job. I promise. And a bonus with it. My word on that.”

  “Your word?” That snarl speaks volumes. “There won’t be a next. Not for me. I told you I’m out and I mean it.”

  “There is no ‘out’ for any of us. You knew that walking into this.”

  “The hell I did. You changed the game and the rules halfway through the last load. If you’d been anywhere around when I found out what I was hauling, I swear to God, you wouldn’t be standing here, now, running your mouth. Forget it. And forget me.”

  “You’re making a mistake, cowboy. A dangerous one. This isn’t a game and the rules are what they are, when they are. You need to remember, I’m not the one calling the shots. I’m not the one you’re going to answer to when you don’t show up at the next load point.”

  A wealth of menace is carried in those words and that tone. The cowboy he threatens – whoever he is – had best watch his back. It is his voice that nags at me, but I’m not sure why that is.

  “I won’t be there. Tell your boss and you can also tell him that his ‘enterprise’ won’t last long if gofers like you keep pulling tricks on drivers like you did with me.”

  A soft laugh conveys anything but humor. “You don’t get it. It wasn’t me who ‘pulled the trick’ as you call it and you aren’t the first sap to get dragged deeper into the spider web. All I do is tell losers like you where to be and when to be there. I’m curious about something though ... what pulled you out of hiding?” He chuckles as if he knew the answer before he asked the question.” You went to ground and then you show up here. What’s the draw, cowboy? Did I push the right button?”

  “You can go to hell.”

  The voice is further away and I ascertain this conversation is over. Now if I can just get a glimpse of the men and figure out which is which. Alas, as I slip around the corner, both are walking away, angled in different directions. The shadows which provide such excellent cover for me allow me to discern little in turn. I can tell only that both are similar in build, average height and slim-hipped with broad shoulders. Both wear jeans and boots and western hats as do a hundred other men here. I could never identify them in a lineup. Only their voices will distinguish them to me should I encounter them again.

  With all that said, I have no means of knowing if this exchange has anything to do with the deputy marshal’s investigation. I heard no real proof of wrongdoing, though my suspicions are strong. To be honest, my mission seems a bit murky at the moment. My concern began with a glimpse of jeans and boots disappearing into a trailer unbeknownst to its owner. But Joss is no threat and seems to carry no threat with her. Though she remains fearful of recognition, we are far from her point of embarkation in Lake Charles, Louisiana. Beyond that, it is unlikely anyone could have trailed her successfully th
rough our crisscrossing of many states. Her arrival is a coincidence and therein lies the needle that pricks at my thoughts. I do not trust happenstance.

  And while it’s true there’s an investigation of some sort of crime in or around the association to which Ms. Rodeo belongs, it doesn’t seem to involve her, even on a peripheral or happen-stance level.

  The only hint of trouble surrounding her seems to be related to the telephone calls from her former amore, who seems to have gotten himself in a bit of a bind with some less than reputable business partners. Ah-ha! The voice on the speaker phone! That was the hint of familiarity I heard in the conversation just past! And, as they would say in some penny dreadful, the plot thickens. And was her cell phone number the ‘right button pushed’? Had the threat of danger to her drawn the cowboy from his safe lair?

  Oh, the frustrations of not being able to concisely communicate all that I know to my humans. I will find a way as I always do but I will need the right moment, the right opportunity, as I did with the cell phone. In the meanwhile, I have much to keep me busy if I’m am to discern what skullduggery is afoot, all the while keeping my humans from harm.

  Chapter Eight

  Malone leaned against the railing of the warmup pen where she and Trouble watched Joss long trot one of the horses Malone had placed in her charge. Joss had proven herself a tireless worker with a gentle but firm hand with the horses. Barrel racing and rodeo were new to her but she was a fast and willing learner. She’d confided to Malone that she preferred her new surroundings to the roughness of the horse track but Malone knew both sports had their seamier side. Joss had seen the more sordid aspects of horse racing before finding herself in the upper ranks of rodeo. But there could be no ‘upper’ anything without an equivalent ‘lower’. Malone would protect Joss from that if she could.