How to Wrangle a Cowboy

by Joanne Kennedy

  She led him to one of the neater trailers, though peeling turquoise paint suggested it was one of the oldest. He helped her up three rickety wooden steps and into her tidy but impoverished home. Heavy curtains covered the windows, and Shane automatically reached over and flicked a light switch.

  “Oh, that doesn’t work right now.”

  She caught a look of pity on Shane’s face and rushed to explain.

  “I pay my bills. I’m never late. But something’s wrong with the wiring, I think. It just quit on me one day. I called, but nobody’s come to fix it yet.”

  Shane made a mental note to call Riley. He’d have tried to fix it himself, but he didn’t know much about electricity and he was liable to electrocute them both.

  “Muggins! Come on out and meet nice Mr. Lockhart.” The woman’s voice rose to a trembling falsetto. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

  With a happy purrup, the ancient Muggins emerged from under the sofa. He had probably once been a Siamese, but all markings had faded away as he was now in the last stages of geriatric decline. His head looked far too large for his skinny body, and Shane swore he could see every bone in the animal’s skeleton through the matted fur.

  “Muggins is a good boy, aren’tcha, Muggins?” The woman plumped down on the sofa and patted her lap, and Muggins made a heroic leap that clearly took all his strength. Purring, he rubbed against the old woman’s hand. “You can hold him if you want to,” she said. “Muggins won’t mind.”

  “Oh, er, thank you.” Shane had no choice in the matter, as the woman had hoisted poor Muggins into the air and all but thrown him into Shane’s arms. He tried to smile as the cat dug its claws into his arm. It evidently meant him no harm, as it continued to purr.

  “Muggins got bit by a skunk, but Lindsey fixed him,” the old woman said. “He still smells kinda funny though.”

  As far as Shane could tell, the cat smelled like cat—with a capital C. And litter box, with a capital L.

  His guess was verified when the woman gave him a sly smile. “When Lindsey comes to visit, she cleans his box for me. I can’t bend over too far, you see.”

  Shane followed her to a small closet with louvered doors, where the litter box lurked in all its odiferous glory. It took him a while to get the hang of scooping out the clumps, but he was an expert by the time they were done.

  There were a lot of clumps. No wonder Muggins was so thin.

  “If you’ll show me to the outside faucet, I’ll just rinse this off,” he said, holding the litter-encrusted scooper in front of him.

  “Oh, that’s not working right now.”

  “You don’t have water or electricity?”

  The old woman saw his expression and hurried to smooth things over. “It’s all right,” she said. “Margaret over in 3-B doesn’t have water either, and the Murphys don’t have electricity, water, or a lawn mower!” She cackled as if she’d told a joke. “Old Ed Murphy says it’s fine with him. He don’t have to bathe or mow the lawn, and he can’t see his wife at night. She’s no prize, you know.” She pointed at her mouth and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Bad teeth.”

  Shane didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. But the crying nearly won out. Winter was coming, and these people didn’t have heat or hot water. How could Brockman let them live in conditions like this?

  He wiped out the litter box as best he could, and surreptitiously left two twenty-dollar bills on the counter as he left.

  By the time he got back to the barbecue, the men were clustered around the grill, gnawing on bones like a bunch of overgrown cavemen, if cavemen wore dirty wifebeaters and had tattoos.

  “You going over to Brockman’s, then?” Ozzie asked.

  Shane nodded.

  “I bet that’s where she is,” Ozzie said. “Once Doc Ward gets her teeth into some kind of injustice, she’s like one of them little rat terriers, you know? Won’t let go. Not for nothin’.”

  Shane nodded, figuring the man had called the woman he loved a rat terrier as a compliment.

  “Brockman’s a menace to society.” Ozzie’s deep-set eyes took on a brooding cast. “Raises the rent every year, ’cause he knows we got nowhere else to go. And he’s planning to expand. Tried to get people to put deposits down on new lots, when he doesn’t even own the land yet. Can you believe that?”

  “He wanted a piece of the Lazy Q,” Shane said.

  Ozzie nodded. “I think that’s the land he took deposits on.”

  Shane remembered Brockman saying he’d give him a job if he helped him get a deal on the Lazy Q. Shane had assumed it would be a ranch job, but Brockman had probably hoped to hire Shane as some sort of enforcer or rent collector. He obviously didn’t bother with any kind of maintenance.

  Ozzie scowled again. “That means Miss Ward might not be safe around him. You’d better head over there.” The scowl cleared quickly as a summer thunderstorm. “Need a joint for the road?”

  Shane was about to get indignant and tell Ozzie he never did drugs, but then he saw the man waving something that looked like a deer-sized drumstick.

  “No thanks, man. Gotta get going.”

  Ozzie nodded. “You need me, you know where to find me.” He presented Shane with a meaty fist. “Peace, man.”

  Shane bumped Ozzie’s knuckles with his own, surprised at his new feeling of solidarity with the man he’d feared just the other day.

  “Yeah, thanks,” he said. “Peace.”

  Chapter 54

  The glare of Shane’s headlights glanced off a metal fender as he approached the Brockman house. Squinting into the darkness, he spotted Bud Ward’s old pickup, parked in the trees behind the “Puppies 4 Sale” sign.

  Ozzie was right. Lindsey just wouldn’t give up. Not when she knew little furry critters were suffering. To be fair, she obviously cared about people too. Cleaning old Muggins’s litter box probably wasn’t her only act of kindness at Springtime Acres.

  Maybe she should run for the county commission. Take Brockman’s seat.

  Spinning the steering wheel hard to the right, he bounced the truck up the pitted driveway and skidded to a halt right in front of the door.

  He was half-in, half-out of his pickup when Brockman emerged from the house, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. He didn’t look the least bit surprised to see Shane.

  “Guess I’ll be getting that deal on the land I want after all,” he said. “No thanks to you.”

  “What do you mean?” Ignoring the gun, Shane took a step toward Brockman. “Where’s Lindsey?”

  Ed shrugged one shoulder and spun the gun around so the muzzle pointed right at Shane’s heart.

  “Your woman is right where I want her. Pretty soon her grandma’ll be where I want her too—out on her wrinkled ass, and that land’ll be mine.” Brockman took a step back, glancing over his shoulder toward the front door. Lindsey had to be in there somewhere, but how could Shane get past that gun?

  Ozzie was right. The man was a scum-sucking pile of goat shit. Shane stepped closer, tensing his arms instinctively as if he wore six-guns like Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke. But he didn’t have any sort of weapon with him. He didn’t even have a plan. He’d run here without thinking, panicked to think of Lindsey messing with Brockman.

  He’d always had a sense that Brockman was unbalanced. “Go along to get along” was a convenient way to cover up the fact that deep down, he just didn’t want to deal with the man.

  Brockman waved the shotgun. “Hands where I can see ’em.”

  Shane did his best to stay calm. “Where’s my son?”

  “It’s not my day to watch that faggot brat of yours. I don’t know where he is.”

  Shane studied Brockman’s face and decided he was probably telling the truth. Trouble was, that might mean he didn’t have Cody, but he did, in fact, have Lindsey.

  So where was his son? Torn, Shane made up his mind to solve this problem fast so he could get home. Cody was probably up in the attic or out in the barn.

  He’d been keepi
ng score in his head, saving up ammunition to feed the only weapon he had—his anger. So far, Ed had called Lindsey “his woman,” terminology that offended him deeply. Lindsey didn’t belong to him or any other man. Then he’d called Cody a “faggot brat,” which was plain rude. The kid was only a brat on occasional Monday mornings and bedtimes, and as for the other—who knew? The boy was only six.

  Ed had also made a reference to Grace’s ass in a manner that was disrespectful rather than admiring. That put a big old cherry right on top of Ed’s steaming pile of goat shit.

  Shane had to find a way to take Brockman down—to get the gun, and get past him. He watched intently for an opportunity, praying for a distraction.

  The howl of a single dog rose from the house, filling the air with mournful cries.

  Ed licked his lips and glanced over his shoulder again. “I told you. Stick with me and you’ll go far. I’ve got a job for you if this all works out.”

  Shane almost laughed in his face. What kind of job would he have, working for Ed? Would he be rounding up folks at the trailer park on horseback if they don’t pay the rent on time? Or throwing destitute senior citizens out of their homes? Ed must think he was desperate.

  The howling of the dog was joined by another ruckus, this one coming from the road. It sounded like the shouting of dozens of men, but as it grew louder, Shane made it out to be the sound of a dozen lusty voices, all singing Sammy Kershaw’s “Queen of My Double-Wide Trailer.” Lindsey’s name was inserted liberally into the lyrics.

  Two days ago, Shane would have been insulted. But now that he’d seen Springtime Acres, he understood. The people there saw Lindsey as some kind of royalty. They had as much respect for her as he did—maybe more. And they’d come to her rescue.

  Brockman ducked and swung the shotgun back up to his shoulder, pointing it first to Shane’s left, then to his right. Shane turned to see two rust buckets barely recognizable as pickups rocketing up the drive, overloaded with heavyset men in wifebeaters who carried with them the heady scent of barbecue.

  As the trucks had skidded to a stop, men leaped from the beds, carrying rakes, pitchforks, and enough hunting rifles to stock a midsized sporting goods store. A few rangy dogs joined them, shepherd mixes for the most part, with a few baying coonhounds in the mix to liven things up with their throaty cries.

  The group coalesced behind Ozzie, who set his hands on his hips, stared around him like a lord surveying his manor, and then fixed a stern eye on Ed Brockman.

  “Where’s Doc Ward?”

  He took a step forward, and Ed cringed.

  “Where is she?” Ozzie roared, and the men behind him waved their weapons menacingly.

  “Not my day to watch her,” Brockman sneered.

  “It is now,” Ozzie said. “And you’d damn well better find her.”

  “I’ll raise the rent,” Brockman said, jutting out his chin. “You don’t get out of here, I’ll make you pay.”

  “We don’t really care.” Ozzie took a step forward. “We want Doc Ward back.”

  The mob behind him cheered, waving their rifles and farm implements. At least, it sounded like cheering to Shane. He suspected it sounded like the cries of slavering wild beasts to Ed Brockman.

  * * *

  Lindsey woke to darkness and the sound of whimpering.

  “Hey, doggies,” she said. “It’s okay.”

  The whimpering stopped the moment she spoke, and she realized it wasn’t the dogs who were crying; it was her. The dogs must have been stunned into silence by whatever had happened.

  But what had happened? She remembered Brockman’s face, flushed with anger. She remembered trying to say the right thing, calm him down. She remembered fear and a flashlight. After that, all she could recall was darkness.

  Brockman. She recalled the evil glitter of his eyes behind the glare of the flashlight, and she quickly checked her clothing. Everything was in place, thank God. The idea of Brockman knocking her unconscious and taking advantage of her was one that would make her more cautious in the future. She should have told someone where she was going. What if Brockman…

  Oh, she couldn’t bear to think of it—his pale, pockmarked face, his clammy hands.

  She should have told Shane.

  But Shane wouldn’t have let her go.

  With those thoughts tumbling through her disordered mind, she nearly screamed aloud when something wet stroked the side of her face. Then she realized it might be a puppy and reached out to find it in the deep, unbroken darkness.

  There was no soft puppy. No sign of anything nearby. She touched her face where it felt damp, and her hand came away slippery with warm, thick blood.

  Stifling another scream, she settled for a whimper. But it didn’t take her long to realize that sitting there with blood dripping down her face wasn’t going to help her through this. She’d gotten good footage, and Ed thought she was still unconscious. She needed to get out while she could.

  Patting her pocket, she wondered why he hadn’t had the sense to steal her phone and its damning images. Maybe he’d meant to kill her and thought he’d succeeded.

  In any case, she still had her best weapon. Pressing the on button, she put in her password and flicked to the phone screen. She was halfway through dialing the Lazy Q when she noticed the top of the screen.

  No Service.

  Dang. Couldn’t anything go right today?

  She’d just go. She could call for help once she was back at her truck, or maybe she’d just run for the Lazy Q. For all she knew, Brockman was waiting at the truck, and this time he might have something more than a flashlight.

  She tried to stand and was hit with a spell of dizziness that made her stagger, then fall.

  Okay. She’d have to wait a while, then. Wait, and pray Ed didn’t come back.

  A faint whimper reminded her that she wasn’t alone. Crawling up and down the aisles of cages, she opened the ones she could reach.

  Surprisingly, the dogs were slow to climb out of their kennels. One, a beagle by the looks of him, tilted his nose to the ceiling and howled.

  Maybe they hadn’t experienced the world outside their four wired walls before. She’d seen a video like that once, where dogs saw grass and sky for the first time and were frightened to leave their crates. It had made her cry, and this was even worse.

  But she didn’t have time for tears. Feeling her way along the floor, she found the concrete steps of the hatchway where she’d entered. She climbed them on her hands and knees, wincing at the tickle of cobwebs and the crunching of dead bugs. Dizziness forced her to rest halfway up, then try again.

  Raising her hands above her head, she shoved at the wooden door.

  It wouldn’t move.

  Ducking her head, she put her shoulder to the door and shoved again. This time, it lifted enough to show a glimmer of light through a crack, but it wouldn’t raise any further.

  Locked.

  She was trapped, with a useless cell phone, a dizzy head, and a whole lot of sad puppies.

  That made her a pretty sad puppy herself.

  Chapter 55

  Lindsey wanted to sit on the grimy steps to the locked hatchway and cry. She wanted to pound her fists on the wood and wail. But she knew better. What was it her grandfather used to tell her? When he’d had a bad fall or didn’t know how to get out of a bad situation one of his stunts had led to, he’d trust his five senses.

  Look. Even though she’d had time to get used to the dark, all she could see was a few dim squares that marked the location of the windows. There was no cracked glass, no open casement.

  Feel. She wasn’t about to explore the cobwebs and bug bodies any further.

  Smell. The ammoniac scent of animal waste was almost overwhelming, along with a dirty-dog odor that reminded her, curiously, of dirty ashtrays.

  Taste. Um, no.

  Hearing. She realized she’d been tapping her foot nervously. When she stopped, she caught the faint hum of distant voices.

  Ah
. That was why Ed had left her lying there. He’d been interrupted. Whoever he was talking to had probably saved her life.

  Crawling along the floor, trying to ignore the whimpering of the poor dogs and the unidentified uglies that crunched under her hands, she moved toward the voices. As she neared what she thought must be the front of the house, she could finally make out what they were saying.

  Brockman was arguing with someone—someone whose low baritone haunted Lindsey’s dreams and filled her restless nights.

  Hope fluttered in her heart like a white dove.

  Shane.

  Had he come looking for her?

  Supporting herself against the wall, she fought the dizziness to get as close to the window as she could. Shane’s voice was so low she couldn’t make out the words, but Ed’s higher-pitched treble was easy to hear.

  “You remember that job I offered you,” he said. “You want it, you need to think hard about where your loyalty lies, cowboy.”

  The hopeful, fluttering dove folded its wings and plummeted to earth. Brockman had offered Shane a job? That solved one mystery. She hadn’t been able to figure out why Shane would suggest she sell Bud’s legacy to a man so despicable. It was all about dollars and cents.

  It also explained why he didn’t want her to bust up the puppy mill.

  Go along to get along. That’s what he’d said.

  Maybe Shane Lockhart wasn’t the man she thought he was. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d turned a frog into a handsome prince with nothing but wishful thinking. Maybe she was seeing what she wanted to see, what she hoped to see, in the dark-eyed cowboy who seemed so strong and supportive. After all, he’d been her grandfather’s right-hand man, which gave him the stamp of approval Rodger had been unable to earn.

  Maybe she hadn’t taken into account the effects of his difficult childhood. Shane must have felt powerless as a child, being moved from place to place without much warning or any thought for his wants or needs. And Lindsey knew that the one thing he wanted for his own son was security. How far would he go to earn that security for Cody?