by Kelly, Diane
Though I was flattered and just as eager to put my lips on his, this was neither the time nor place. I gave him a gentle jab with my elbow. “Hush.”
“C’mon, Megan. Nobody would notice if we hid out in one of these empty stalls.” He cocked his head to indicate an empty space behind us. “Look. That one’s already full of hay. We could go for a roll in it.”
Before I could respond, a man and woman with three children in tow stepped up to me. All five wore jeans, boots, and straw cowboy hats. Given that their apparel looked new, they’d probably bought it specifically to wear to the stock show. Only a small percentage of north Texans actually lived on farms or ranches, but at rodeo time every local liked to get their cowboy or cowgirl on.
“Are you the officer who took down the bomber at Billy Bob’s?” the wife asked, her eyes gleaming as if she’d just met a big celebrity.
“Yes, that’s me.” I forced a smile. Frankly, I didn’t like being in the proverbial spotlight. It was too much pressure, trying to live up to some glorified, heroic image. I put my pants on one leg at a time just like everyone else. Heck, I often had to wrestle with Brigit to get the pants leg out of her mouth.
“Wow!” the woman gushed. “I can’t believe it!” She put a hand to her chest as if to calm her pounding heart.
“Mind if we take a picture?” her husband asked.
I reminded myself that I was here both to perform my usual duties and on a PR mission. “Not at all.” If I had a nickel for each person who’d asked to take my photo over the last few days I’d be able to buy one of those overpriced funnel cakes by now.
Seth offered to snap the shot so the entire family could be in the picture. I ordered Brigit to sit at my feet, then turned to look at Seth.
“Everybody say cheese!” he called.
“Cheeeeese!” cried the three kids.
Brigit looked up at them, smacking her jowls.
Flash!
The husband and wife thanked me, rounded up their children, and moved on.
Seth and I continued on, too, leaving the sheep fondlers behind and stepping back outside.
“Walk ahead of me,” I said to Seth. “We can’t look like we’re together out here.”
In the crowded exhibit hall, a cop could be expected to be in close quarters with those attending the stock show. But outside it would be best if we maintained some distance so it wouldn’t look as if I were goofing off. Of course a secondary benefit was that I wouldn’t appear to be with Seth should Clint happen to spot us.
As we strolled across the grounds, a black blur appeared in my peripheral vision. I turned my head to see Clint and Jack trotting past on the main drive. Luckily, the deputy seemed to have a destination in mind and was watching the path ahead of him. He continued on out of sight without noticing me.
In another minute or two, Seth and I reached the noisy midway. Seth stopped in front of the dart game. “I’m going to win you one of those.” He gestured to a stuffed brown dog with a felt tongue hanging out of its mouth and a red bandana around its neck.
He set his money on the counter. The carnie reached under the counter, pulled out three darts, and handed them to Seth.
Seth put the tip of the darts to his finger. “These are dull, buddy. Give me some sharp ones.”
The darts may have been dull, but the look the carnie sent Seth was so pointed he could’ve performed acupuncture with it.
I sent the man an equally pointed look right back. “You’re not pulling a fast one, are you?”
“No,” the man spat. “These darts are old is all.” He reached under a different part of the counter this time and pulled out three different darts, exchanging them for the ones in Seth’s hand.
Seth felt the tips. “That’s more like it.”
Seth raised the first dart and eyed the balloons tacked to the board, picking his air-filled victim. He drew his hand back and sent the dart flying. Pop! A pink balloon met its death. He raised the second dart, aimed, and threw it. Pop! This time a blue balloon bit the dust. He raised the final dart, eyed the board, and sent it on its way. Pop! Stretchy pieces of red balloon exploded into the air.
“Congratulations.” The carnie reached up, pulled one of the brown dogs down from the wall, and handed it to Seth.
Seth, in turn, handed it to me. Brigit sniffed the dog, grabbed it by the floppy ear, and yanked it out of my hands, shaking it back and forth as if trying to break its neck.
The carnie snorted. “That dog sure is one vicious bitch.”
Couldn’t argue with him on that one. I’d seen her in action, seen her tear out after a suspect, grab him with her sharp teeth and refuse to let go. I might be her handler, but I still found her scary sometimes.
We continued on, Brigit carrying her new toy in her mouth as we walked.
Seth consulted the schedule he’d obtained from the ticket booth when we’d arrived. “There’s a goat-milking contest in fifteen minutes. We can’t miss that.”
I followed ten steps behind Seth as he entered the other hall, and paused for a moment inside the door as, up ahead, he scouted a good vantage point for watching the competition. Attendees walked past, some giving me a nod or a “Hello, Officer.” Others cut their eyes to Brigit and timidly scurried on as if she were a ferocious beast.
Seth raised his hand and issued a discreet signal, letting me know he’d found a good spot. As casually as I could, I made my way through the horde, glancing left and right to ensure everyone was on good behavior.
Two skinny adolescent boys had climbed halfway up the slats of the enclosure to sit on the fence. There probably wasn’t much chance of them getting hurt, even if they accidentally fell into the arena. Goat milking was a rather tame event compared to the bull riding and calf roping that would take place later tonight at the rodeo. Nonetheless it would set a bad precedent. Might as well put them on alert that no rule breaking would be tolerated.
I gave a soft tweet of my whistle to get their attention, motioning with my hand when they turned my way. “Get down, boys! Keep your boots on the ground.”
With sullen looks, they dropped to the floor of the hall Thump, thump. I gave them a thumbs-up and continued on, slipping into a place at the fence two feet away from Seth. A teenage girl stepped into the space between us, resting her elbows on the fence. Three hefty rednecks stepped up to the fence on my right.
As we watched, the contestants lifted their goats onto low platforms with a metal frame of bars at the end. Some of the goats were brown, others black, with a single cream-colored one in the bunch. Their horizontal pupils always struck me as odd, but I knew from elementary school field trips to petting zoos that the unusual eyes gave the goats superior peripheral vision, a definite plus when you had to keep an eye out for wolves or coyotes while grazing.
The contestants urged the animals forward until the goats’ heads were immobilized between the bars. The goats ready, the contestants slid buckets underneath their udders and positioned themselves on stools or benches alongside their animals.
A woman wearing an official stock show shirt stepped to the head of the group. She raised a bullhorn in one hand, a stopwatch in the other, her index finger poised to hit the start button. “On your mark!” she called.
The contestants leaned toward their goats.
“Get set!”
Two dozen hands reached for two dozen goat udders.
“Go!”
The air filled with cheers from the audience and the tinny sound of pressurized liquid hitting the sides of the metal buckets. For the most part the goats seemed to tolerate the situation, though one doe kept twisting her head, trying to back it out of the bars. The contestants’ forearms moved up and down, up and down, their muscles flexing, as they milked their goats. When the time had elapsed, the official hollered, “Stop!”
The participants raised their hands in the air to show their compliance with the order. The official meandered down the row, collecting the buckets for weighing.
“The las
t time I was entertained by teats,” said one of the rednecks, “it was at a bachelor party.”
I slid him a look. “Keep the details to yourself. This is a family event.”
He raised his palms as if in surrender. “Whatever you say, Officer.”
I stepped back from the fence, leading Brigit with me.
Seth followed, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and glancing at the screen. “I better get going. I want to get in a swim at the Y before poker night.”
“Poker night?”
“There’s always a game at the station on Friday and Saturday nights. I usually lose my shirt but tonight”—he gave me a soft smile—“I’m feeling lucky.”
I walked with him to the exit gate outside, strategically keeping Brigit between us.
When we reached the gate, Seth turned to me. “How about I swing by early tomorrow morning? We can grab breakfast at the Busy B Bakery and check out the hot rods. There’s a group that meets there every Sunday morning.”
I debated my response. I couldn’t help but feel cautious. And, to be honest, I felt a little annoyed. I’d met Seth months ago but still knew virtually nothing about him. Though he’d agreed to answer my questions, after asking about his grandfather’s issues I’d been hesitant to force open another can of worms. I’d hoped Seth would be more forthcoming on his own, but he hadn’t been. Didn’t he want to get closer to me? If not, was I just wasting my time with him? Was this relationship worth the trouble? I was beginning to wonder.
“Sunday’s the only day I can sleep in,” I said. Not that Brigit would let me laze around all day. The darn dog always roused me by six A.M. to let her out to pee.
Seth’s eyes darkened with disappointment. “The bakery’s got great cinnamon rolls. Good coffee, too.”
I looked away for a moment, spotting Clint and Jack near the cattle barns. I turned back to Seth. “What’s in it for me?”
He offered a confused smile. “Cinnamon rolls and coffee?”
“I want more than that.”
He was the one who seemed cautious now. “What do you want?”
“I want to know about your parents.”
Talking about his family seemed to be the last thing Seth wanted to do. And I wanted to know why. I wanted to know Seth.
He stared down at me for a moment, before responding. “Okay.” He let out a long, resigned breath. “Can we talk about it after we go to the bakery?”
“Deal.”
“Good.” He turned and began to walk off.
“Hey!” I called after him. “How early is early?”
He turned back around and held up seven fingers.
“Damn,” I muttered. “That’s really early.”
EIGHT
BAAAAAD DOG
Brigit
This stock show was nothing but a big disappointment.
All of those people said cheese, but then gave her none. Teasing her like that was downright rude. She should’ve bitten them while she had the chance, taught them a lesson.
She’d been sorely tempted to leap over the fence and help herself to some of that goat milk, maybe even some fresh goat meat. The goats’ baaas as they lamented their immobilization taunted Brigit. They might as well have been saying, I can’t run away! Come and get me! But Megan had maintained a tight grip on Brigit’s leash, keeping her close. Grrr.
Sometimes Brigit wished she could be free, run with a pack of wild dogs in the woods, bay at the moon, and hunt for prey. Then again, she liked sleeping on the soft futon with Megan, enjoyed the liver treats her partner regularly dispensed, had fun chewing on Megan’s supple leather shoes. Being domesticated wasn’t all bad, she supposed. Still, next full moon, she’d be getting her howl on whether Megan liked it or not.
NINE
STALLING FOR TIME
Robin Hood
She climbed the rickety steps to the front door of her parents’ trailer. No easy feat in her four-inch stilettos, especially when the metal stairs shook and swayed under the slightest weight. Hell, you’d think there was an earthquake going on.
Saturday night and her two older sisters, Crystal and Heather, were parked on the couch, a bag of potato chips between them, two store-brand grape sodas and a tub of onion dip on the glass-top coffee table in front of them. White trash food. She bet her sisters had never had polenta or mascarpone, whatever that was.
How Crystal and Heather could be content to spend the weekend at home in front of the television she would never know. How did they expect to have any fun or meet a man if they didn’t ever get off the damn sofa? Did they think Prince Charming would come trolling for his princess at the trailer park?
Of course their chances of meeting Prince Charming were slim to none, even if they did drag their asses off the couch. While Robin Hood scrimped to have her hair professionally dyed a striking platinum blond, her sisters had left theirs the plain mousy brown all three of them had been born with. While Robin Hood wore the latest fashions by trendy designers, her sisters were content with traditional Levi’s and T-shirts. While Robin Hood worked out regularly to keep herself in decent shape, her sisters made no such effort, arguing that their retail jobs and helping their mother clean houses provided more than enough exercise. Though she would never understand how her sisters could be satisfied with their meager, unexceptional lives, a small part of her envied their contentedness. Things would certainly be easier for her if she lacked ambition and taste.
“Hi, honey,” called their mother from the kitchen, where she stood on two fully functional legs in front of the open fridge, her arms loaded with bottles of mustard and mayonnaise, packages of processed cheese and salty lunch meat in her hands.
She supposed she should feel guilty for misleading Evan about her mother. But it was his own fault if he’d fallen for her made-up sob story and made no effort to verify her claims. Besides, he had more than enough money to spare. President Obama might have failed to make great strides toward social justice but, without the Tea Party or a burdened conscience standing in her way, Robin Hood had successfully effectuated her own small-scale form of wealth redistribution. Still, though she’d been able to pad her wallet and amass valuable possessions via white lies and petty theft, she had no plans to stop there. Oh, no. Robin Hood could not be satisfied with small amounts of cash and trinkets. She deserved more. Much more.
“I’m going to make your sisters a sandwich,” her mother called, now pulling a loaf of white bread from the pantry. “Want one?”
“No. Thanks.” She didn’t want to live like her family. She didn’t want to look like them. She didn’t even want to eat like them.
She retrieved a towel from the bathroom cabinet and returned to the living room. After shooing her mother’s mangy mutt from the recliner, she spread the towel over the chair so as not to get dog hair on her designer jeans or leather jacket.
She turned to her sisters, who’d hardly glanced up the entire time she’d been here. Though Robin Hood had come up with a plan to solve her financial dilemma, she needed some Merry Men, or Merry Women, to help. That’s where her sisters came in. “Why don’t you two clean yourselves up and come to the rodeo with me tonight?”
Heather’s brow crimped. “The rodeo? Since when are you into that kind of thing?”
Since I figured out the event could provide some interesting opportunities. Robin Hood lifted a shoulder. “Maybe I figured it was time to expand my entertainment repertoire.”
“Repertoire?” Crystal rolled her eyes. “There you go again with your uppity words.”
“Yeah,” Heather said. “You’re such a snob.”
It was the same old accusation she’d been hearing for years. When she had begged her mother to sign her up for junior cotillion, her mother had given her a patronizing smile. “Now, honey. Why should we pay someone to teach you how to foxtrot and eat a five-course dinner? You’ll never need to know those things.”
They acted like it was a crime to want to better yourself, accused her of thinking she
was better than the rest of them. They were right about the latter. She did think she was better than them. No, she knew she was better. They might be content to live in a tin can and barely scrape by, to scrub other people’s floors and toilets, to shop at thrift stores and bag their own groceries at the Save-A-Lot. But she wasn’t. She wanted more for herself.
And she was going to get it.
“Come on,” Robin Hood said. “It’ll be fun.”
Crystal gestured at the TV screen. “But The Bachelorette is on.”
Robin Hood pointed to the DVR. “Record it for later.”
“This is a recording,” Crystal said.
“Then why are you complaining?” Rage and frustration boiled up in her. Seriously. What is wrong with these people? She looked away for a moment, doing her best to tamp down her anger. “There will be lots of cute cowboys at the stock show. Wouldn’t you rather meet a guy of your own than watch some bimbo on television hook up?”
Crystal and Heather looked her way with vacuous expressions, then looked to each other, shrugging simultaneously.
“I guess we could go,” Heather said finally. “We ain’t been out in a while.”
It’s not ain’t, she thought. It’s haven’t been. For God’s sake, did her sisters have to sound like such hicks? What an embarrassment they were. If not for the fact that they looked so much like her—without her dyed hair and high-end cosmetics, of course—she’d doubt whether they truly shared DNA.
Crystal’s face brightened. “I can wear my new boots.”
Crystal had recently landed a sales clerk position at the Justin Boots outlet store on west Vickery. Though she paid little attention to the rest of her clothes, she’d always had a minor shoe fetish. It was one of the few things, perhaps the only thing, that Robin Hood and Crystal had in common. Given the number of new pairs of boots Crystal had brought home recently, it appeared her sister spent most of each paycheck in the store.
Their mother sauntered into the living room, two paper plates in her hands, the smell of baloney and mustard wafting in with her. “Here you go, girls.” She handed one plate to Crystal, the other to Heather.
