"I've got a dog," she lied. "I just didn't bring him yet."
"Well, good. I hope he's a big one for protection."
"Oh, yeah, he's a big one, all right." She searched her mind for a really good name—one that would dis courage even the most depraved serial killer. "Nobody messes with Ivan."
"The Terrible?"
She nodded. "Right."
"Well, I guess you'll be okay then." He tipped the hat back on and started toward the door, then turned. "Be careful, though. A gal went missing from around here a while back."
She thought of Ted Bundy again and her stomach flipped over. "What do you mean, she went missing?"
"She disappeared." Luke's easy smile was gone. "They think she might have been abducted—maybe even murdered, but they never figured out what happened."
Libby sat down on a box of books and tried to ignore the Jaws music thudding through her subconscious. "They never found her?"
"Nope. The sheriff just about lost his mind over it. Now it seems like he's given up." He slapped a streak of dirt off his jeans. "It's been almost three years."
"So somewhere in this town is a kidnapper, or a murderer. It could be anybody." She shook her head. "And you say there isn't any news. Good thing you're not a journalist."
"Well, it was a long time ago. And it was probably a transient, or a tourist. Somebody passing through."
"Wow." She traced a line across the dusty hardwood floor with the toe of her sneaker. "I'll bet I could figure it out."
"You?" He looked doubtfully at her torn jeans and ratty sweatshirt, and she realized she wasn't exactly dressed like a superhero.
"Yeah, me." She sat up a little straighter. "I covered crime stories for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. My boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, I mean—was a police detec tive." She cleared her throat. Despite Bill's betrayal, her voice still went all husky every time she tried to talk about him. "He was a jerk too, but he was good at his job, and he taught me a lot. I don't mean to brag, but I'll bet I know more about tracking down killers than your average small-town sheriff."
Luke shrugged. "Our sheriff doesn't know much about anything. He's kind of a good ol' boy."
Libby pictured a Boss Hogg type, narrow in the mind and big in the belly. "Guess this place really is perfect, then." She stood and tore the tape off one of the boxes. It was full of reference books: Games Criminals Play, Why They Kill, Crime Scene Investigation. "The Holler hired me to write features and local political stuff, but what I really like to do is crime stories." She waved a forensic textbook in the air. "Maybe this case just needs some city smarts."
Luke reached into the box and pulled out a copy of Profiling Today. "Looks like you know what you're talk ing about," he said, flipping through the pages. "Maybe you could find Della."
"Was that her name?"
He nodded. "I could give you some background if you want. We could get together sometime."
The Jaws music was starting up in Libby's head again. Either this guy really was a Bundy brother, or he was dangerous in some other way. She looked at the laugh lines around his eyes and the dimple that flashed when he smiled and decided he probably wasn't a Bundy.
"I'd like to hear more about it," she said. She wasn't about to bounce into a rebound relationship, no matter how fetching that dimple was, but she wanted to know more. Besides, she thought she might enjoy another look at the fine Wyoming scenery—as presented by Wrangler.
Luke brushed the dust off his hands. "Tomorrow?"
"Sure. I'll be home all day." Libby gestured vaguely toward the boxes stacked in the hallway, then waved toward the dilapidated outbuildings. "I've got plenty to do."
"Great." He adjusted the brim of his hat and glanced back at her from the doorway. "Make sure you let that dog of yours know I'm coming, though. Wouldn't want to cross old Ivan."
Chapter 2
WHEN HE PULLED UP THE NEXT DAY IN HIS BATTERED old Mazda, Luke barely caught a glimpse of Libby be fore she ducked into her chicken house.
She was probably trying to hide. Pockmarked with rust and hail damage, his car looked like a junkyard reject. She probably thought the Clampetts had come to call.
He shut down the engine, then struggled to extricate his long legs from under the car's steering wheel. When he finally turned his attention to Libby, stifling his laugh was like trying to swallow a toad.
Despite the hot summer weather, she wore baggy overalls under a long-sleeved shirt, with gloves on her hands and a bandanna tied across her face as if she was on her way to hold up the First National. Her hair was tucked up under a Charlie's Angels baseball cap and safety glasses protected her eyes. The whole ensemble was dusted with a light coating of fiberglass, asbestos, and fossilized chicken poop.
"What the heck are you doing?" he asked.
"Cleaning out the chicken coop." She took off the hat and shook her hair loose, then yanked the bandanna away from her nose and mouth and gestured toward the ramshackle shed behind her. The building—if you could call it that—obviously hadn't seen a chicken in decades. The boards were warped, with rusty nails protruding in all directions, and the ceiling had fallen in, letting old insulation blanket the floorboards like a deep spring snowfall.
"I think the insulation has asbestos in it," she said. "So I figured I'd better cover up."
She shrugged off the shirt and flailed her arms in a futile effort to brush the dust from her overalls. With all that guano and an assortment of feathers sticking to her outfit, she looked like an enormous incontinent chicken preparing for takeoff. Luke stifled a grin.
"What did you think I was doing?" she asked. "Getting ready for the fancy dress ball?" She struck a pose, one hand on her hip, the other behind her head. "I can go as a hazmat worker."
"Well, okay," he said. He was pretty sure she was joking, but he wasn't taking any chances. He knew bet ter than to question what a woman chose to wear. "I'm glad you're ready to go," he said. "I thought I'd take you out on the town."
"I'm kidding." Libby slapped at the dirt on her overalls and one strap slid off her shoulder, revealing a barely-there tank top silkscreened with the legend "NSFW: Not Suitable for Work." Luke felt a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Besides," she said, "I've got too much to do."
"Come on, Cinderella, give it a break." He reached out and flipped the strap back into place, then stepped back, squelching the zing of pleasure that zipped through his fingers at the heat of her bare skin. "You won't even have to clean up much. I was just going to take you to the Roundup."
"The Roundup?"
"The Roundup Bar. It's out on Hat Trick Road, just past the grain elevator. It's got a good jukebox, fine brews on tap—even shuffleboard."
"Shuffleboard?"
"Well, I wasn't sure the jukebox would be enough to lure you away from Lackaduck Farm," he said. "I didn't know what might work for you. You're not like the other girls." He smiled. "You get excited about farming."
"But not shuffleboard."
"Well, let's go in and you can clean up to go." He started toward the house, then paused. "Or should I stay out here? Is Ivan in there?"
"Ivan?" Libby gave him a blank look, as if she'd completely forgotten she had a dog. "Oh, Ivan," she finally said. "My dog. Right. He's… um… you're right, you'd better stay out here."
"Okay. Hurry up, though. It's Two-for-One Happy Hour."
"What should I wear?"
Luke assessed her ensemble from top to bottom, grin ning. "Well, you should definitely stick with that top," he said.
He watched a faint flush rise from underneath the overalls, coloring her chest and cheeks. Nice. He'd have to embarrass her more often.
"Just tidy up a little," he advised. "It's hardly a formal place, but you'll scare them walking in like that. And besides, you're shedding." He reached out and brushed an ancient downy feather from her arm.
"Are we taking that?" She gestured toward his car.
He folded his arms across his chest and clenched his
jaw. The car was a piece of crap, but no one else was allowed to say so.
"Yes," he said. "We are."
"I thought cowboys drove pickup trucks."
She was right—they did. But it was going to be a while before his Dodge was back in action.
"Rolled it. Don't ask." He hung his head and eyed her hopefully from under his white straw Stetson. He'd dressed for Roundup success in a brightly striped shirt— a clean one—and even pressed his Wranglers.
She looked him up and down, and he thought her eyes lingered a little on the clean shirt.
"Okay," she said. "I'll go. Give me a minute to change."
***
They say you should never get into a car with a strange man. Luke Rawlins wasn't all that strange. In fact, he seemed like a nice, normal guy. Still, Libby never should have gotten into that car. There was no doubt the man was a genuine Wyoming cowboy, but he drove like a New Yorker.
"No wonder you rolled your truck," she chided as he squealed around a curve.
"That was the squirrel's fault. Little buggers need to stay out of the road." Luke swatted the turn signal lever and slammed on the brakes, careening into the bar's parking lot with a dramatic spray of gravel.
Once she saw the parking lot, Libby realized his crazy driving was probably a form of manly overcompensa tion for his wimpy little car. Massive four-wheelers dominated the scene, looming over the tiny Mazda like a flock of eagles surrounding a half-plucked chicken. She realized she'd probably look just as out of place once they got inside. She'd changed into a short denim skirt and piled her hair on top of her head in a trendy up-do that hopefully concealed her hat-hair, but the Roundup looked like an abandoned barn.
Maybe she should have stuck with the overalls.
The place looked like a barn on the inside too. Rough-hewn beams and rustic log furnishings gave it a big dose of manly cowboy atmosphere, but what re ally stood out was the taxidermy. A tattered duck was frozen in flight over the pool table, while a snarling cougar prowled the rafters over restrooms designated "Bulls" and "Heifers." Various animal heads peered from the rough, wood-paneled walls, including a bug eyed pronghorn and a massive moose head decorated with multicolored Christmas lights and a cigar. Perched behind the counter was a perky little rabbit sporting tiny horns.
Stepping into the dark saloon from the bright Western sunshine, it was hard to see the men seated at the bar. Libby squinted to make out a row of cowboy hats and baseball caps above frosty mugs clutched in calloused hands. One fellow had an artistic depiction of a chain saw tattooed on his biceps. Another sported a P.E.T.A. cap: "People Eating Tasty Animals." An attractive dark haired woman presided over the beer taps.
"Hey, Luke. Long time, no see," she said.
"Hey, Crystal." Luke guided Libby up to the bar with one warm hand resting gently on the small of her back, radiating a subtle but palpable heat to all the most sensi tive parts of her anatomy. "This is my new neighbor, Libby Brown. She bought the old Lackaduck ranch," he said. "Libby, this is Crystal Hayes. She knows everybody and everything in Lackaduck. You want information, just stop by the Roundup."
Crystal nodded a brisk hello. "Nice to meetcha." She turned and gestured toward the bar. "These guys are the Mikes. That's Big Mike, Mean Mike, and Crazy Mike. The guy at the end is the sheriff."
The sheriff stood to shake hands, and Libby threw Luke a dirty look. This guy was no Bubba. He was tall, at least six-five, and looked like a California surfer, with blond hair and pale blue eyes set in an angular face bronzed by the Wyoming sun. Luke was nice to look at, but where Luke was spare and wiry, this guy was solid muscle, with Gold's Gym biceps and broad shoulders that tapered down to narrow hips. The whole package was wrapped in a brown sheriff's uniform, topped off by a shiny, star-shaped badge that reminded her of a bow on a really nice birthday present. If looks counted for anything, Lackaduck's sheriff would catch every criminal in the county.
"Cash McIntyre," he said. "Nice to meet you."
Libby looked up into his eyes and smiled. She was almost six feet tall, and men big enough to make her feel delicate and feminine were few and far between.
"Libby Brown," she mumbled. Staring slack-jawed at the badge on his chest, she searched her mind for something intelligent to say. "Yeah," she finally said. "Nice."
"How 'bout a drink, hon?" Crystal interrupted.
Libby came back to earth as the bartender slapped a cardboard coaster in front of an empty barstool be side Luke.
"What's on tap?" Libby dropped the sheriff's hand and turned away so she couldn't see him anymore. It was the only way she could regain consciousness.
"Coors, Coors Light, Bud, Bud Light," Crystal rattled off.
"Coors," Libby said. She laid a five on the bar.
"Let me." Cash pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and started counting out bills.
"No. Me," Luke said. His eyes narrowed into a Dirty Harry squint and he drew his wallet like a gunfighter. He and Cash traded a look, and Cash went back to his seat. Libby didn't want any fistfights starting, but it sure felt good to be popular.
"How 'bout you, Luke?" Crystal asked. She flashed a warning glare at both men. It was clear she didn't toler ate fights in her barroom.
"I'll have a Smirnoff Ice."
Libby turned to him in disbelief. "You can't order one of those sissy drinks in a place like this!"
Every head swiveled toward Luke. No doubt he'd been branded a pansy forever in the minds of his drink ing buddies.
Wait 'til they saw what he was driving.
"Coors for me too, then. Light," Luke decided.
Libby snorted.
"What—is light beer for sissies too?"
She was glad he was still smiling after her clumsy teasing and the encounter with the sheriff. She gave Luke five points for being good-natured. Trouble was, Cash got ten points just for standing up.
"Yup," said a deep voice from further down the bar. "Light beer's for sissies, all right."
"Big Mike, don't you make trouble," Crystal said. "Some folks just don't want to get a beer gut like yours. Luke's watching his girlish figure."
"Thanks, Crystal." Luke turned to Libby and winked. "I'm trying to convince Libby, here, that I'm a Western tough guy, and you call me girlish."
"Aw, she knows better," Crystal said. "She's seen your driving, right?"
"I sure have." Libby shuddered. "He drives like an Easterner."
"You from back East, hon?" asked one of the Mikes.
"Atlanta," Libby said. "I was a crime reporter for the Journal-Constitution." She'd been on the crime beat for less than a year, but she'd covered some major stories— stories of murder, greed, and robbery. In Lackaduck, she'd be covering stories about cows, horses, and the Future Farmers of America. Maybe she'd get lucky and somebody would rob a liquor store or something.
She eyed the sheriff hopefully. Maybe he'd give her the inside track on that missing girl.
***
The sheriff slid his beer down the bar, edging a little closer to the new arrival.
"Crime reporting? Back East? That must have kept you busy." He couldn't picture this woman surviving in a city like Atlanta. She wasn't small—more what you might call statuesque—but surely those long legs and all that crazy hair drew the wrong kind of attention on the street.
"I can't imagine living back East," he said, thinking out loud. "All the crime, the gangs… I could never live there."
"That's why I'm here." The woman surveyed the bar like she was soaking up the Wild West atmosphere. Cash grinned. Eastern girls who liked that Western stuff always went for the sheriff. They thought he was like Matt Dillon, or something.
Actually, he was a lot like Matt Dillon. But this girl was no Miss Kitty, all fluttery and feminine. She was her own woman, he could tell. Independent. Fiery.
Hot.
Too bad she was with Luke.
"I'm trying to forget about the city and become a real Westerner, like Luke," she said, resting one hand on the rancher
's arm. "He's teaching me to think like a cowboy."
Cash snorted. That was the only problem with women from away. They actually thought cowboys were roman tic. Though how mucking stalls and tormenting baby cows with hot irons was attractive, Cash could never figure out.
"Cowboys think?" he asked.
Luke shot him another nasty look while Crazy Mike's falsetto voice piped up from down the bar.
"He'll just teach you how to think like a sissy."
The guy sounded like a cross between Mike Tyson and a Bee Gee, but Cash knew that gentle voice was deceiving. Mike was a big guy, almost as big as Cash himself, and he wasn't quite right in the head. It was a dangerous combination.
Cowboy Trouble Page 2