The Lone Star Collection

by Renee Mackenzie

  Terri might dance the night away while swigging down the Jack and Dr Pepper. Either way, she wouldn’t be dancing with other girls. You can get away with that at some high school dances because most girls like to dance, and there aren’t always enough boys to go around. But at a dance after a rodeo, a cowgirl either danced with a cowboy or didn’t dance at all.

  I didn’t grow up in a rodeo family, although I did grow up around horses, hence my deep and meaningful hatred of them. Even if I had a shot with someone like Terri, I think that my animosity towards the beasts would probably put a kink in any relationship. There was just something about horses that lesbians loved. Except for me. The two times I came closest to losing my life both involved a horse. One of those incidents directly involved me trying to impress a cute cowgirl. So, forgive me if the adage, get right back on the horse, causes me to tell you to kindly fuck off with the horse you rode in on. Nope, a relationship with a cowgirl was pretty much out of the question. Still, a girl can dream.

  Events turned back to the cowboys, but I couldn’t concentrate. I knew my boss would question the shots I decided to take, but I really didn’t care much. This whole afternoon would result in maybe, at best, two photos and a list of the winners. When a crazed bull passed within a foot of me, I decided that was enough. I climbed the fence and dropped into the lot behind the announcer’s booth.

  I wandered around for a short time, snapping pictures here and there. Talking to vendors who were selling everything from ascots to zippers for chaps. It was amusing to listen to the sales pitches. I could argue that having a framed painting of a cowboy leading his horse to water would not change my life in any positive way, nor would one ever grace my wall. You could lead me to water, but you couldn’t make me drink. I had a cowboy hat somewhere. I think I kept it in a box with all my other cosplay costumes. That’s all it was to me was part of a costume. Nothing to be taken seriously. The shirt I bought today was a feeble attempt to fit in. Even now, I felt foolish walking around in something I wouldn’t normally wear.

  After I made the rounds, I decided it was time for me to get out of there. The movers and shakers of this event would send me a list of the winners so I could add them to tomorrow’s Sunday edition. The article was practically written. All I had to do when I returned to the office was print out the pictures, paste them to the page, and send them off to the printer. Our paper was so small, we still used the cut and paste method. Going all digital would happen sometime in the future, after I was long gone.

  It would be easy for me to find my car and get out of here since the event was ongoing, and I had one of the few non-pickups in the lot. It would be a nightmare trying to leave after the event was over. In the past, I’d sat in traffic for hours on some road that never saw more than ten vehicles on normal days. The sooner I was sitting at the local bar washing the grit out of my mouth with an ice cold Lone Star, the better. The irony is that all the women at the bar would give gasps of delight at the thought of being at a rodeo. There’s no accounting for taste, I guess. Give me a rock and roll concert any time.

  Just outside the arena, a woman was selling hair bows. While the vendor carried a wide variety of colorful ribbons on a stick. Most of those present wore one matching their hat or their shirt or their boots, or all three. Terri did not have one. An almost overwhelming urge came over me to buy her one. It would be a small concession for someone who had their heart set on a belt buckle.

  If I were to buy her a ribbon, she would probably think I was weird, and my intentions would be obvious. God, could I be any creepier? Only mothers, fathers, and sisters got to buy bows for their cowgirls. She couldn’t know that I only wanted to get to know her better.

  As I reluctantly turned away from the vendors and headed to where my car was parked. I caught a glimpse of Terri walking her horse across the field. She stopped in front of a water trough where she used a water hose to wash down the horse. I stopped and moved to where I was close enough to hear her talking to the horse. I hoped my camera equipment helped make me look like I was legit and not some creepy old lady standing there gawking. She was telling the horse she did not blame him for her inability to bring home the buckle.

  In an impulsive moment, I ran over to the vendor selling the hair bows and bought the prettiest purple one she had. Before I could change my mind, I rushed back over to where Terri was rubbing down her horse. From a safe distance, I watched and when she stepped away from the horse, I darted over and clipped the hair bow to the horse’s halter. I know it’s passive aggressive, but that was the way I operated.

  I thought about going back and asking her for an interview. Then she would ask me what paper I worked for, and she would expect to see the story in print. I knew the pictures I would publish would be of the cowboy who took home the most prizes, and her picture would go into my bottom right hand desk drawer. Only if she had been severely injured while losing the calf roping event would her picture show up in our tiny weekly rag. That’s just the way events happened in our part of the world. The bigger belt buckle gets the press.

  A couple of hours later I was sitting at the local lesbian dive rinsing the dust out of my mouth with an ice cold Lone Star beer when someone bellied up to the bar. A purple hair bow appeared in my line of vision and I raised my eyes to the mirror behind the bar. My heart revved up to the approximate speed of a racehorse.

  “Want to buy this thirsty cowgirl a beer?” she asked.

  About the Author

  Stacy Reynolds

  Among other things, Stacy Reynolds has been an award-winning journalist, a DJ, and a standup comedian. She graduated from Texas State University in San Marcos, Texas when it was Southwest Texas State University. She has a bachelor’s degree in English and journalism. Stacy is the author of two novels, the Daathar Chronicles and The Sound of Silence. Her latest novel, A Time For Every Purpose, is currently in the editing stage. Stacy lives in San Marcos with her son, daughter-in-law, and youngest granddaughter. Contact Stacy at daathar2@aol.com

  Not Likely

  VK Powell

  Cass Jeeters glanced out the window of the Airbus and pulled for breath as they flew through a dense cloud bank. Her lungs closed. She couldn’t get enough air. Small places didn’t really work for her. The only thing worse than being confined was flying and being sick about it. The plane suddenly pitched forward and just as quickly bottomed out. She grabbed the armrests on both sides. “Jeez, I thought airplanes were supposed to be safe.”

  “They are, rookie. Relax. I can’t believe you’ve never flown before. That’s just weird.” Her colleague and tormenter, Ed Dudley, laughed and handed her a wadded-up airline napkin. “Wipe the sweat off your face so everybody doesn’t think you’re about to puke.”

  “I might be.” She grabbed the tiny square, dabbed her face, and held it over her mouth as the plane lurched again. “How much longer?”

  “Two and a half hours. We just took off.” Ed shook his head. “Maybe your name should be Jitters instead of Jeeters.”

  “Ha-ha, haven’t heard that one before,” she said, not trying to hide her sarcasm.

  “If you’re this squeamish about flying, I’m not sure homicide is the right fit.”

  The airplane pretzel snack wasn’t proving to be a good fit either. Her stomach roiled again, and the service tray in front of her slapped down when the plane took another bumpy dip.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. Please remain seated with your seatbelt securely fastened as we’re experiencing unexpected turbulence.”

  “No shit,” Cass mumbled.

  “You do know homicide detectives see dead people, right?” Ed shoulder bumped Cass and continued to laugh at his lame joke.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. And just so you know, since you’re older than my grandmother and not nearly as smart, there wasn’t a flying requirement in the job description. And another thing, why are two homicide detectives picking up a fraud suspect?”

&n
bsp; “I might’ve had something to do with that.” He grinned. “The fraud guys are still knee-deep in follow-up on this case, and we needed some bonding time if we’re going to be partners.”

  Ed booted up his laptop and shoved it toward her. “Watch this.” He cued up The Killing and handed Cass a set of earbuds. “Good training and it’ll take your mind off wanting to hurl your guts out.”

  He was right about the training part, but nothing took her mind off the turbulent flight for the next two hours. Every time the plane slowed, sped up, changed directions, or the person behind her kneed the seat, she felt nauseous all over again. Dallas could’ve been Australia as far as her nerves were concerned. A bell dinged, and the flight attendant muttered something Cass couldn’t understand over the noise coming through the earbuds.

  “Show’s over, rookie. Time for touchdown.” Ed’s grin said she wasn’t going to like what was about to happen.

  Her ears ached, and the sounds inside the cabin dulled into inaudible gibberish. When the plane wheels hit the ground with a jolt, she grabbed the barf bag and breathed quickly in and out, and it seemed to help.

  “You made it. At least I won’t have to tell the rest of the squad you tossed your cookies on your first flight. Now, let’s get settled and enjoy our short stay in Dallas.”

  Cass took a few minutes to calm her stomach while the other passengers filed off. “Please tell me we’re not doing a turnaround. I’m not sure I could handle this twice in the same day.”

  Ed slapped her on the back as they walked from the jet way into the terminal. “You’re in luck. We just have to go by the jail and check on our prisoner, then we can go to the hotel for a good night’s sleep…unless you’re up for partying in Big D.” He looked at her expectantly.

  Cass hefted her overnight bag onto her shoulder and pressed a hand over her stomach. “Afraid not. Flying stomach plus alcohol, not good.”

  His wide grin told her she’d made the right decision. “Then would you mind handling the paperwork at the jail? I’ve got a couple of service pals I’d like to catch up with while I’m here.”

  “No problem.”

  He handed her a file. “This is everything you need to confirm our prisoner and the documents necessary for transport in the morning.” He started toward the exit but turned back. “We’re staying at the Hyatt Regency near the airport and detention center. Reservation is in your name. I’ll knock on your door at 0700. And thanks, rookie. You’re all right.”

  He weaved his way through the crowd toward the exit, his lanky frame clearly visible until he disappeared through the outer doors. Cass collapsed on the nearest seat, finally able to breathe deeply without being critiqued by the senior detective. If she’d known flying was required, she might not have applied for the homicide squad. After a few minutes of being on terra firma, she scanned the file for the hotel address and hailed a taxi.

  A quick check-in and long, soaking bath made her feel almost human again, except for the feeling she might tip over every time she moved quickly. She decided the best cure was work, so she called another cab and a few minutes later stepped out in front of the Lew Sterrett Justice Center. She put on her best small-town cop visiting the big city combined with helpless female act with one of the deputies and was escorted through the sprawling facility until she reached the tower containing their fugitive.

  “You here to pick her up?” A bored-looking deputy behind the desk asked, giving her jeans and polo shirt the once over.

  “Tomorrow morning. I’m delivering the paperwork for her release, just to make sure everything is in order.” She hated to press her luck, but she needed to see for herself that they had the right person. The old Polaroid used to initially identify the woman had been grainy, but the witness had picked her out of the photographic lineup. Hopefully, these folks had fingerprinted her for verification. “And I’d like to lay eyes on her.”

  The deputy gave her a considerably less promising stare. “Lay eyes on her? She’s already booked in and identified by photos your bunch sent us. What’s to see until tomorrow when you check her out of here?”

  “I’m sure you fingerprinted her.” Her attempt to be tactful sounded a bit sharp, so she tried to recover while he alternately shuffled through a stack of paperwork and punched angrily on computer keys. “I mean, of course you did, right?”

  His weary eyes grew larger. “Yeah, but it didn’t do any good. System’s been down for two days. Lab’s trying to check some of the files by hand, but that takes time. Sorry. Guess you really want to see her now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  After the ID check, logging her in, and the sliding of huge metal doors into the secure area, the deputy escorted Cass to a long, narrow visitors’ room with rows of stools secured to the floor on both sides of a Plexiglass divider.

  She took a seat on the visitors’ side and waited for almost forty-five minutes until a door at the end of the room opened, and a woman wearing a jumpsuit, which at one time was probably white but now appeared dingy gray, was guided in by a female deputy.

  “I’ll be right over here,” the deputy said, as if the woman could go anywhere else.

  Cass watched the prisoner walk toward her, and in spite of telling herself to behave like a professional, she couldn’t keep from staring at the least likely-looking criminal she’d ever seen. Cass shook her head and blamed the unsettling plane ride for her discomfort and absurd thought.

  The woman appeared to be at least three to four inches taller than Cass with gray-streaked hair swept back from an angular face and sharp gray eyes. The sleeves of the loose-fitting uniform were cuffed just below the elbows, obviously as far as the fabric would stretch across her muscled arms. She took measured strides, probably difficult in socks and scuffs, and when she arrived at the station Cass occupied, she straddled the low stool, propped her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hands. Her gray eyes roamed over Cass once, twice, and on the third pass, Cass interrupted by nodding toward the phone on the wall.

  She waited for the woman to pick up before saying, “I’m Cass Jeeters.”

  “Are you okay, Cass Jeeters?”

  The unexpected question and the woman’s husky voice, verging on sexy, even coming through the scratchy phone connection, caught her off guard. “Yeah, why?”

  “Not to sound unkind, but you look a little unwell. Have you been sick?”

  “No.”

  “Afraid of tight spaces? Because this place will bring out your inner claustrophobia pretty quick.”

  Confined places were definitely not her favorites, but she wasn’t about to admit that to a suspect. “No, I’m good.”

  “Stomach issues, maybe? I know a foolproof remedy.”

  Cass shook her head.

  “Migraine? I can help with just about anything. My grandmother had these great old—”

  “I’m fine—”

  “Sorry. Of course. None of my business,” the woman said, raising her hands in surrender. She studied Cass a little too closely before brushing a strand of hair off her forehead with long, strong fingers. Cass almost swooned. “How rude of me. I should’ve introduced myself. I’m Amanda Greenwood, but I suppose you already know that since you’re here to visit. And I have to say, you’re the best-looking thing I’ve seen since the debacle that landed me in this God-forsaken place.”

  “Really?” The woman’s comment was so surprising Cass blurted the first thing that came to mind, which was not at all appropriate.

  “Totally hot. If we didn’t have this huge barrier between us, I could convince you.”

  Cass’s cheeks flushed, and she covered her embarrassment by shuffling through the file Ed had given her with her free hand and reminding herself she was here on official business. She felt the continued warmth of Amanda’s eyes before she looked up and met her stare again.

  A flash of understanding suddenly sparked in Amanda’s eyes. “You’re a police officer.” Not a question.

  “A detective from Greensbor
o, North Carolina, but don’t hold my profession against me, and I promise not to judge you because you’re…here.” She waved her hand around the small cubicle-sized space they occupied. What a stupid thing to say, but something about this woman unsettled her.

  “Well, thanks for that, since I’m innocent.” Her playful tone had vanished along with the fiery look, and Cass nodded. “And you’re taking me back?”

  Cass hated answering. Though unprofessional, she’d enjoyed the easy banter and Amanda’s honesty. “Yes, and if you’re innocent, you’ll get your day in court.”

  “Seriously?” Amanda straightened on the stool and cocked her head to the side. “Is that something you’re taught in cop school, because it sounded like a recording.”

  “It happens to be the truth.”

  Amanda ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head like Cass had absolutely no idea. “Do you really believe that?”

  Did she? How many times had she or one of her coworkers formed a working hypothesis about a crime or a suspect based on available evidence, ignored the bits that didn’t fit their version, and pursued the scenario to conclusion, never looking back? “That’s the way the system works.”

  “If that’s the case, detective, I’m totally screwed and not in the pleasurable way I was imagining earlier.”

  Cass felt a pang of heaviness settle in her chest. “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you been listening? I’m innocent. You have read the report, case file, whatever you guys call it, right?”

  For a second Cass felt like a complete incompetent. She hadn’t read the file, instead taking the word of her coworkers that they’d gotten it right. She’d hoped not to cause any waves with her new squad members until she had at least a few call outs and cases under her belt.