by Nancy Martin
“Seems like they advertised for an on-air weather forecaster. Somebody sent them an e-mail about Poppy, and they called her for an interview right away.”
“Imagine that,” I said. “Is she interested?”
“She’s over the moon.” Ten was watching my face with the same acute attention as when I told him my concern that Honeybelle had been murdered. Behind his silly nose, I couldn’t tell if he was angry or something else.
“I hope she gets what she wants,” I said with all honesty. “She’s a nice person. She deserves a lot of happiness.”
At my heel, Fred, who had been keeping an eye on Hellrazor, suddenly gave an impatient bark. Hellrazor responded by kicking up some dirt and shaking his horns. The little boys playing with the gate giggled in anticipation of a bullfight.
I said, “I’m going to take Fred out of here before he gets himself in trouble.”
“You going to stick around?” Then he asked. “Or should I come by Honeybelle’s place when this is over?”
“I’ll be here,” I said, as the crowd carried me away from Hellrazor’s pen.
I’d taken a big risk contacting the Atlanta television station that morning. Now that the deed was done, I’d have to wait to see how things played out. Poppy and Ten would make their own decisions. I’d keep my nose out of it. But part of me suddenly felt exhilarated.
Travis Joe was at the end of the exhibition area, sitting on Hondo and holding a lariat. The saddle’s stirrups had been shortened, and he looked steady up there. He spotted me and grinned. “Hey, Miss McKillip!”
“Hey, Travis Joe. You look good. Hondo won’t buck you off, will he?” I pretended to be concerned as I looked up at the boy in the saddle. Already he seemed to have lots more confidence than when I’d first seen him in Honeybelle’s swimming pool. The big Appaloosa paid attention to the crowd as if ready to protect Travis Joe if the need arose.
With a cocksure grin, Travis Joe said, “I can handle Hondo.”
The barbershop singers had stopped at last. The smell of hot popcorn filled the air, and somewhere nearby a fiddle played a lively tune. The happy voices of the crowd rose. It was a good night in a small town.
The next person I bumped into—literally—was Gracie Garcia. For once, she looked dreadful. Her mascara was halfway down her cheeks, and her hair was a mess. She ricocheted off me and then turned and stared.
“Sunny!”
I suddenly wondered if she’d been drinking. “You okay, Gracie?”
Tears pooled in her dark eyes. “Sunny, I’m so sorry.”
I reached for her arms and held her upright. “Take it easy. What’s wrong?”
“Everything.” She sagged in my grasp. “I blew it. I’m an idiot.”
“Calm down. Is there somewhere we can sit? I’ve got Honeybelle’s car if you want to go somewhere quiet and—”
She shook her head, hair flying untidily. “I’ve been really stupid. And I got fired for it.”
“Fired! For what?”
The tears started to flow then, and I guided her by the shoulders out of the crowd and over to stand by the farrier’s trailer, which was empty and quiet. She started talking, but I only understood every other word.
I said, “Take a deep breath, Gracie. Calm down. You’re too upset to—”
She snuffled up her tears. “I’ll be okay. I’ll land on my feet, get another job somehow. I just feel so dumb. I shouldn’t have said anything to anybody. I knew that from the start, but I … I couldn’t stop myself.”
“Couldn’t stop yourself from what?”
“I told Han about Honeybelle’s will.”
“Han?”
“Hannibal. President Cornfelter. I told him last week. Even with the words coming out of my mouth, I knew it was unprofessional. But he was so nice to me! He wanted to know all about Honeybelle’s will, and he … he said he was getting a divorce and needed a girlfriend. And … and pretty soon everybody was talking about … about you and Mr. Carver and Mae Mae getting Honeybelle’s money and … and Miss Ruffles and everything! It’s my fault. I’m so sorry!” She collapsed against my shoulder and began to cry in earnest. “Mr. Tennyson was right to fire me. I just … I feel like such a dope!”
The lights strung overhead started to feel like a kaleidoscope, spinning around us, glaringly, painfully bright. I couldn’t think it all through. I felt sorry for Gracie, but a spark of anger spurted up inside me, too. My friend had betrayed me. I wanted to forgive her. I felt sorry for her emotional state, but at the same time I wanted to shake some sense into her. It could have been because of her that Miss Ruffles had been kidnapped. If Gracie had kept her mouth shut like she was supposed to, nobody would know about Miss Ruffles inheriting everything for a year.
“I’m so sorry,” she moaned. “I’m really sorry I made this hard for you.”
I gathered my wits and said, “It’s okay. You’ll be all right.” I patted her shoulder. “Gracie, I need to know about President Cornfelter. He’s in trouble at the university, right? He was harassing employees?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t a sex thing. He just … he needs to have people on his team, to get things done, to … to … I don’t know … make everything good for the university. Sometimes he pushes too hard. It’s all for a good cause, that’s what he says.”
“But he threatened someone? How?”
“He told them he’d fire them if they didn’t work harder.”
“And Honeybelle? Did he threaten Honeybelle?”
“I guess so,” she said miserably. “He said if she didn’t pay for the new stadium, he’d set fire to her car, with her in it. But he didn’t mean that—not really. It’s just the way he gets sometimes.”She shuddered on a big sigh and stood straight, trying to wipe her eyes. “He bullied me, too, I guess. I’m such a loser.”
I managed to say, “You’re not a loser.”
She tried to laugh. “Thanks, but you’re wrong. Tonight I’m a big, big loser.”
I felt sorry for Gracie. There was no use making her feel worse about herself. “How about if I buy you a drink somewhere?”
She shook her head. “I’ve already had too much. I came here to … to meet Han, but he blew me off. He was using me, Sunny. He doesn’t want me for a girlfriend. So I’m going back to my place. I need to be alone to figure out what comes next.”
I put my arm through hers. “I’ll give you a ride.”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but the walk will clear my head.”
“I’ll bring you some coffee in the morning.”
“Okay, that’d be great. You’re great. Thanks.” Gracie gave me a hasty hug, then turned and disappeared into the rodeo crowd.
I looked beyond the spot where she’d slipped into the throng and saw Hondo again—this time with Hut Junior and Posie standing beside him, Travis Joe still in the saddle. Posie’s expression was one of shock and fear, but Hut Junior had his arm around his wife. There was no mistaking the pleasure in Travis Joe’s face. He was happier than I’d ever seen him. Posie surely had to see that, too.
I watched Hut Junior comforting his wife. He looked so normal. A nice man, a supportive husband, a thoughtful father. Did he have it in his soul to kill his own mother? He knew about Mr. Carver’s heart medication and where to find it. Had he come for breakfast with his mother on the morning of her death and slipped the pills to her? If so, what was his motive? The sole leadership of Hensley Oil and Gas? Or had Posie done it to give her husband what he wanted?
If it wasn’t Hut Junior or Posie who killed Honeybelle, it had to have been President Cornfelter, who could have given Honeybelle some kind of poison in a doughnut outside the bakery while she waited in her car. He must have assumed he’d get his stadium when she died. Only after he pumped Gracie for information about Honeybelle’s will would he have learned Honeybelle outsmarted him.
Then there was Mr. Gamble, the only one who could have concealed Honeybelle’s true cause of death. Because he inflicted it himself?
&
nbsp; Either way, it was an ugly mess. I still couldn’t get my head around the idea of anyone wanting to kill Honeybelle—that outrageous but lovable woman who despite her flaws had made a big difference to many people.
I still had to find Rudy to unload the prairie dogs, so I made an about-face and headed in the other direction. Fred came with me. By sheer luck, I saw Rudy standing by a trash can, eating a chili dog. He spilled on his shirt and used one finger to scoop up the dribble and put it into his mouth. Half of it slid back down onto his beard. His hat looked more mashed than ever.
A bunch of kids stood in a circle around him, listening to the old-timer tell a tall tale.
“Shore,” he drawled, in answer to a piped-up question, “I yanked open the door and grabbed that rattler by its tail and threw it in this here sack, and tomorry I’ll take it out somewhere and turn it loose so it can sneak back and into your house to bite you!” He jabbed one boy in the chest with a bony finger to imitate a snake’s bite.
The kids screamed and laughed.
In midchortle, Rudy caught sight of me. “Well, if it ain’t the president of the Be Kind to Prairie Dogs Society! You serving tea and crumpets to those critters yet, Sunflower?”
“I have four in the trunk of my car for you,” I said. “I presume you’re going to give us a discount for doing half your job.”
“You presume, huh? You gotta be the smartest dern customer I ever had.” He polished off his hot dog in a single gulp and used a paper napkin to inadequately wipe his beard. “What do you say, kids? You want to come help ol’ Rudy wrassle some prairie dogs?”
I decided I didn’t want to watch, certainly not if he truly had a snake in his sack. I pointed. “The car’s parked up that way, just past the farrier. A white car with the trunk open, and four traps in plain sight. You can’t miss it.
“Right you are, Sunflower.” He saluted. “C’mon, kids. Who wants to help ol’ Rudy?”
The kids all jumped up and down and turned to follow him. He was the Pied Piper with a writhing sack on his shoulder. More kids joined the parade until there was a whole mob of them headed toward Honeybelle’s car.
I blew a sigh, and Fred gave me a commiserating look. He didn’t want to watch either. We walked away from the parking lot, back into the stockyard.
I soon found myself behind the bleachers, between the corral and the abandoned bunkhouse. People surrounded us, but here the crowd wasn’t moving so fast. People were standing in groups, waiting for the rodeo to start again. Small children darted through the crowd, laughing.
I stopped still, looking at the bunkhouse.
I remembered the teenagers I’d interrupted when I came to the stockyard to meet the person who’d stolen Miss Ruffles. At the time, I thought it had been a place where the local kids came to socialize.
Tonight on the bunkhouse steps, a trio of teenage boys sat passing a brown paper bag back and forth. Two of them were boys who had been at Ten’s ranch to practice their rodeo skills. In the middle sat Trey Hensley.
He was smiling loosely, a little drunk, maybe. Enjoying his friends. Looking relaxed and confident as they waited for their rodeo events. Two of his fingers were bandaged. So was one wrist.
He saw me staring and stopped smiling. His gaze dropped to Fred. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the bunkhouse.
“C’mon, Fred,” I said, heading for the bunkhouse.
At the same instant, screams erupted from the parking lot.
“Snake! Snake!”
Whether because of the screams or the look on my face, Trey suddenly scrambled to his feet and dropped the brown paper bag. His friends shouted at him, but he turned and ran into the darkened bunkhouse.
Fred and I went in right after him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Pony Express Riders Wanted. Young, skinny, wiry fellows not over 18. Must be expert riders, willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred.
—PONY EXPRESS EMPLOYMENT AD
It was dark inside the bunkhouse, but not so gloomy that Fred and I couldn’t make our way across the large, empty room toward a door. Underfoot, the warped floor was uneven, but I went straight after Trey. Fred shot ahead of me, in hot pursuit, barking. His bark almost drowned out the screaming outside.
Trey plunged through the door and tried to slam it behind himself, but the door bounced on its hinges and flew open far enough for me to shoulder my way into a tiny room. Trey spun around to face me, trapped, the look on his face frightened, then turning angry.
“You can’t hurt me,” he snapped.
“Where is she?” I demanded. “Where’s Miss Ruffles?”
“It’s not my fault. None of it.”
“Where is she?”
“This isn’t your business,” he insisted. “It’s family business, and you don’t belong here.”
“Where’s the dog? Is she alive? What have you done with her?”
“I didn’t hurt her!”
“Where is she?”
Fred was already under the remains of a bunk bed, digging at the floorboards and barking.
“She doesn’t belong to you,” Trey said.
“She’s my responsibility. Your grandmother wanted me to take care of her.”
“My grandmother was a mean old bat.”
“Mean!”
“She shoulda promoted my dad, given him what he wanted, not made him wait. Now we have to move away, and it’s all her fault.”
“So you took Miss Ruffles? So your dad could have Hensley Oil and Gas?”
“All my friends are here. My mom doesn’t want to leave. None of us do. But my dad—it’s not fair!”
“It was Honeybelle’s property, her decision—”
“This is none of your business.” Trey’s jaw was set. “You should go back where you came from.”
“Where’s Miss Ruffles?”
Fred had already made it very clear where Miss Ruffles was. He dug frantically at the floor under the bunk. My heart was a heavy lump in my chest, though, because I didn’t hear any responding sounds from under the floor—not a whine, not a scratch.
Trey tried to dodge past me, but I blocked his path. I was exactly his height. Maybe I wasn’t as strong as he was—he had proved that when he lassoed me and knocked me down—but tonight I was more determined. In a hard voice, I said, “Get her out of there. I want to see her.”
“She bit me.” Trey displayed his bandages. “I had to tie her up.”
I pointed under the bunk. “Get her out.”
“Call off the other dog.”
“Fred,” I said, and Fred came to me at once. He dashed in a circle around me, though, crazy with excitement.
Trey gave up playing tough. Sullen again, he got down on his hands and knees and shoved himself under the bunk. He pulled up two of the floorboards and struggled to reach both hands underneath. He cursed and heaved, and a moment later out came a furry bundle. He threw it down on the floor at my feet.
I went down on my knees beside Miss Ruffles. For a horrible instant I thought she was dead.
But she was only muzzled and bound into submission—all four legs trapped together by a stout rope. She rolled her eyes at me. She was breathing in harsh, shallow pants, and when she saw me, she began to struggle against her bonds. Her whine was desperate. I heard myself talking to her, soothing her, as I strained to untie the rope.
“I only got her tied up an hour ago. Don’t let her loose.” Trey backed up against the bunk. “She’ll bite me again.”
My fingers hurt as I tore at the rope, but I managed to loosen it and pull it off her legs. I went to work on the muzzle next. The rope was fastened tight at the back of her head.
“Go get some water for her,” I said. “Right now.”
Trey didn’t need to be told twice. He rushed past me, and I could hear his boots as he ran across the floor of the bunkhouse behind me. I heard the crowd outside, too, shouting and screaming—clearly declaring some kind of emergency.
But I had one of my own. Miss Ru
ffles was free but couldn’t stand. Was she weak from hunger? In shock? I didn’t know, but it was something bad.
Fred crouched close beside her, poking her with his nose, licking her face. Miss Ruffles looked from me to Fred and back up at me again, and I saw the spark of life grow in her eyes. A second later, she scrambled up, swaying just a little. Panting, she climbed into my lap and began frantically licking my chin. I held her tight, glad to feel her strong, squirming body.
“Oh, honey,” I said to her. “I’m sorry it took me so long. It’s so good to have you back!”
I got to my feet with Miss Ruffles in my arms. She let me carry her. Fred dashed in circles around us as we made our way out of the bunkhouse to the porch.
From that vantage point, I could see most of the stockyard. People were running in all directions, and I realized most of them were trying to find their children in the melee. The crowd that thronged the space between the corral and the bunkhouse parted suddenly, and I saw two prairie dogs go racing down the open path.
It all made sense. Rudy had been showing off for the kids, and now my prairie dogs were loose.
Directly in the path of the two escaping prairie dogs were the barbershop singers. They scattered like bowling pins, straw hats flying—all except for President Cornfelter. He stood rooted to his spot, staring, and in another second one of the prairie dogs was running up his leg as if seeking shelter in an especially colorful tree. Cornfelter shrieked and danced, and the prairie dog flew off him and ran away.
From the exhibition area, another swarm of people came bursting out, shouting. Parents picked up their kids and ran. Men jumped up onto the tall fences for safety. Some of the women ran up on the bunkhouse porch with me, gathering their children around them.
“What happened?” I asked.
“It’s Hellrazor,” one of them shouted. “He’s loose!”
The bull suddenly appeared at the opening of the fence. He wasn’t just loose in the arena, he was loose in the public area. Hundreds of people were in his path.
The only thing between Hellrazor and mass destruction was Travis Joe, sitting on Hondo. The old horse stood very still, eyes on the bull, but in his saddle Travis Joe looked frozen with fear. His lariat slipped from his hand and landed in the dust at Hondo’s feet.
