Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  "Cut it out, Mike." Cash rose to his full height, set ting one hand casually on his hip, near the butt of his gun. "You want to be rude, go somewhere else."

  Mike ducked his head and hunched his shoulders, cowed. Cash nodded, satisfied, and sat down again, turning his attention back to Libby.

  "This Mike thing is confusing," she said to Luke. "It's a good thing your name isn't Mike. I wouldn't know who to go home with."

  "You can go home with me, honey," Big Mike said.

  Cash narrowed his eyes. She wasn't trying to stir things up, but the woman was like a firecracker with a short fuse, and the whole place could explode any minute. Cash believed in stopping that kind of trouble before it had a chance to start. So far, his tactics had worked. Lackaduck was practically crime free.

  Except for Della McCarthy.

  He pushed Lackaduck's only unsolved mystery out of his head. He didn't like to think about Della. He'd much rather think about this new girl. He'd make sure nothing happened to her, that was for sure.

  Starting now.

  "Knock it off," he said to Big Mike, rising from his barstool.

  His icy tone hushed the whole bar. He hitched up his belt, then noticed that Libby was watching. She quickly lifted her gaze to his face, but it was too late—he'd caught her look ing a lot lower. He swallowed a smile and gave her a stern look, pretending he hadn't noticed her wandering eyes.

  "Don't let these guys give you a hard time," he said. "I'm out of here, but Crystal, you'll call me if anybody gives her trouble, right?"

  "For God's sake, Cash." Crystal laughed. "Don't get your knickers in a knot. This isn't the OK Corral. Just your friends and neighbors hoisting a few beers."

  "Can't be too careful," Cash said.

  He was surprised Crystal didn't know better. She'd been the Roundup's bartender for almost ten years, and she'd broken up her share of fights. Cash had a lot of respect for her, but sometimes she didn't get a handle on things until it was too late. He leaned over the bar to talk to her, lowering his voice.

  "We don't see her kind around here too often." He thumbed toward the line of men at the bar. "Hard telling how they'll react."

  "What 'kind' am I?" Libby asked. She cocked her head and smiled, letting that crazy mass of curls shift to dangle around her face.

  Cash grinned back. "My kind, I hope." He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. "Call me if you have any trouble." He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Or even if you don't."

  She met his eyes and he felt a sudden spark shoot between them, hot and bright, but now wasn't the time to act on it. Turning, he strode out, letting the saloon doors slap behind him like a slow, fading drumroll.

  Chapter 3

  LUKE WATCHED THE DOORS THUMP OUT THEIR SLOW tattoo and grimaced.

  "What a load of self-satisfied horseshit that guy is," he said.

  Libby turned to him and laughed a little too brightly. She seemed like a fairly sensible person, but obviously the sheriff's tough guy act was giving her heart palpitations. Luke had seen it before—the magic spell Cash's bronze star seemed to cast over otherwise intelligent women.

  "Yeah. That was a little much." Her eyes darted around the room, obviously searching for a distraction. She pointed to the tiny horned creature behind the bar. "So what kind of rabbit is that?"

  "That's not a rabbit, miss. That's a jackalope," said one of the Mikes.

  "A what?"

  "A jackalope."

  Luke grinned. Libby obviously didn't know any more about Western wildlife than she did about sheriffs. Well, she'd learn—but he didn't have to make it easy. A little hazing wouldn't do her any harm. Besides, it was almost obligatory to give Eastern greenhorns a hard time.

  He turned toward her, raising his eyebrows, all in nocence. "Haven't you ever seen one? They're pretty rare—endangered, even—but you see them once in a while, out on the plains. And I bet you've heard them singing at night."

  "They sing?"

  "Only at night," he said. "Like coyotes, only prettier."

  "I never saw one before." She eyed the creature speculatively, as if pondering its suitability as a pet, and Luke stifled a chuckle.

  "He's pretty cute," she said. "But isn't it illegal to have an endangered species mounted and stuffed like that? I mean, aren't they protected?"

  "That's made from one of Crazy Mike's jackalopes," said Big Mike. "He's got a whole bunch of 'em out back of his place, in that old shed."

  "You mean he breeds them?" Libby leaned over the bar for a better look at the little animal and the guys exchanged grins behind her back. "I might be interested in buying a couple of those. Are they hard to breed?"

  Crazy Mike piped out a goofy high-pitched giggle. "Not too tough. The hard part's making the jackrabbit stand still for the antelope!"

  The bar erupted in laughter while Libby blushed. She was being a good sport, but suddenly Luke felt like a heel for leading her on. "It's a rabbit, see?" he explained. "With antelope horns stuck on it."

  The rest of the men were high-fiving, rejoicing in the success of the setup. "It's a good thing you don't have one of Mike's dancing muskrats up there," Big Mike said.

  "Dancing muskrats?" Libby looked skeptical. At least she wasn't totally gullible.

  "Yeah," Crazy Mike said. "They look real cute, dancing. I stand 'em up, you know, with their little arms out, and put dolly tutus on 'em. With sparkles. And little tiaras."

  "If she saw one of those, she'd be out by the creek on Christmas Eve wondering when The Nutcracker was going to start," Big Mike said.

  The men whooped with laughter. Libby squeezed out a good-natured chuckle, but it sounded more like a death rattle. All this probably wasn't helping her credibility as a journalist. Luke changed the subject to bail her out.

  "So I was telling Libby about that missing girl," he said. "Since she's a journalist, she's pretty interested."

  "Della McCarthy," said Crystal. Her voice cracked on the last syllable. She always got broken up about Della. "She was just seventeen years old. Maybe eighteen. Still tried to get a drink out of me, though." She smiled sadly and shook her head.

  "Crystal was the last one to see her alive," piped Crazy Mike.

  "I was the last one to see her at all," said Crystal. "They never found her, dead or alive." Her hand quiv ered as she poured another beer for one of the Mikes.

  "What happened to her?" Libby asked.

  "That's the question." Crystal set the beer in front of Big Mike and shook her head. "Nobody knows. Only thing we know is nobody's seen her since she left here. It's sad." She pulled a white rag out of her back pocket and wiped up a glass ring. "Now she's officially a miss ing person. Probably got her picture on a milk carton somewhere. Nobody knows if she got herself killed somehow or just ran off."

  Libby's shoulders slumped. "Just ran off," she mut tered. She stared off across the bar, her eyes glistening as if she could see some painful episode from her past etched in the smoky air. Luke touched her shoulder and she twitched toward him as if he'd woken her from a dream.

  "Hey," he said. "You okay?"

  "Fine." Libby tossed her curls and pasted on a smile, but her eyes still shone. She was a pro when it came to playing the brave little buckaroo, but Luke wondered again what she was running away from.

  "Come on," he said, easing off his stool. "Let's put a quarter in the jukebox. A little country twang'll cheer you right up." He scanned the title list, running through the litany of lost love and heartbreak. "Just don't listen to the lyrics, okay?"

  ***

  An hour later, Luke pulled the Mazda to a halt in Libby's driveway. With the silvery moonlight washing over his face, he looked like the hero of some old-time Western movie, ready to rescue the prairie-skirted dame in dis tress. He was cute, she thought. Really cute. She felt like a seventh-grader on her first date—all excited, but scared to death too.

  When he stepped halfway out of the car, looking hopeful, she panicked.

 
"Better stay in the car." She hopped out and slammed her door, then trotted around to his side of the car. "Ivan's grouchy at night."

  "Funny he's not barking," Luke mused, glancing at the house.

  "Oh, he's a sneak-attack kind of dog," she said. "Everything's quiet and then whammo! Gotcha!" She clapped her hands and Luke jumped. He glanced around nervously and pulled his leg back into the car.

  "Well," he said, looking down at his lap. "See ya."

  "Okay." Libby skipped up onto the porch and gave him a vague little wave. "'Night. Thanks."

  She watched Luke's taillights fade as he careened out of the driveway, tires spewing dust and gravel. If she hadn't seen his crazy driving before, she'd have thought he was mad.

  She flicked a switch and the fluorescent light over the sink shimmered as it hummed to life, saturating the kitchen with harsh white light. The place looked so empty and stark she almost regretted letting Luke go.

  Almost.

  She should really get a dog, she thought. A dog would welcome her when she got home. A dog would always be glad to see her.

  At least until it died, or ran off.

  Kicking off her shoes, she sat down at the table and flipped her laptop open, chafing at the slow dial-up ser vice that was her only choice out here in the boondocks. Googling "Della McCarthy" brought up a site featuring the missing girl's picture.

  "Have You Seen This Girl?" a banner shouted over a studio photo of an attractive teenager. Her dark hair curled around her face in unruly tendrils, and her eyes stared straight at the camera. She wasn't smiling; she looked calm and serious, as if she was thinking about the future. A short biography preceded a plea for her return, written by her mother.

  "If you have seen our daughter, please call us. If you know where she is, please call us. Help us find her and all is forgiven. Please end this agony of not knowing."

  At the bottom of the page, a banner read: "Della: Forever Loved."

  Libby studied Della's picture, noting the firm set of her jaw, the glint of humor in her eyes. Was she a run away, hiding in some small town, shacked up with some itinerant rodeo rider? Not likely. The girl in the photo graph had the same solid, confident look Luke did—the look of someone who belonged, who'd found their place in the world. Someone like that wouldn't run away.

  She wouldn't need to.

  Libby stood and stretched, then grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and wandered out onto the porch, step ping cautiously across the splintery boards in her bare feet. Leaning against the rickety railing, she gazed out across the prairie.

  No lights. No cars. No people.

  She remembered the view from her apartment bal cony in Atlanta—the once-genteel tenements falling into disrepair; the all-night diner feeding the city's lost souls and ladies of the evening; the dive bar issu ing its endless stream of stumbling drunks. The city's nonstop soundtrack of honking car horns and random shouts had been annoying, but at least it was human. Out here, all she could hear was the insistent screeching of some unknown insect and a whisper of wind rattling the sagebrush.

  If someone had kidnapped Della, she could be anywhere out there—buried in a shallow grave, or held prisoner in some abandoned outbuilding. Heck, the same thing could happen to Libby herself. Hardly anyone knew where she was, and if she disappeared, the locals would just figure she'd moved on. It was strange to feel you could be lifted out of the world, murdered or abducted, and no one would even notice you were gone.

  She shivered and wished again she'd let Luke stay, or at least kissed him, touched him, made some human connection before she'd let him go.

  Chapter 4

  WHY ON EARTH HAD SHE TOLD LUKE RAWLINS SHE HAD a dog?

  The question woke Libby at sunrise, bringing with it the chilling realization that her neighbor was going to think she was some kind of psycho fibber if the fabled Ivan didn't put in an appearance at their next meeting. The only solution was to get herself a dog, and she'd sworn off dogs, men, and anything else that could break her heart.

  It was chickens or nothing.

  Still, it was awfully quiet around here. She thrashed her way out of the covers and stared at the sea of sage strewn prairie that filled the bedroom window, remem bering her morbid musings from the night before. The dawn sky was solid silver, empty and expressionless, and not a single light winked in the distance.

  She was very, very alone.

  She shook off her self-pity and got busy, spending the morning scrubbing her kitchen cabinets and ar ranging her mismatched dinnerware on the paper-lined shelves. The busywork let her mind wander freely, and it kept wandering down the driveway after her handsome neighbor. She wondered if he'd been disappointed last night when she didn't invite him in.

  She wondered what his house was like, and whether he was awake yet.

  She wondered what he looked like naked.

  She'd better get that dog, she decided. Losing Bill had left a great big hole in her heart, and if she didn't find herself some puppy love, she'd end up filling it with her friendly neighborhood cowboy. She'd have to kiss her self-esteem good-bye if her firm resolution to stick to the single life lasted all of a day and a half.

  ***

  The Lackaduck animal shelter was filled with lonesome souls who had lost their happy homes. Some of them peed on the carpet. Others barked too much. There was a leg humper, a cat chaser, a habitual runaway, and a boyfriend biter. Glenda Parsons, the shelter manager, was eager to introduce Libby to every one of them.

  "What exactly are you looking for?" she asked, resting a red-booted foot on a stepstool. Her blond hair, stick-straight and dry from the Wyoming wind, was tied back in a bandanna, and slim-fit Wranglers hugged her angular hips. "Did you have a particular breed in mind?"

  Libby shrugged. "Not really," she said. "Something for protection."

  Glenda pointed out a few likely prospects—a German shepherd with an endearing floppy ear, a husky with a white-tipped wagging tail, and a massive black Lab mix who looked like he should be guarding the gates of hell until he gazed up at you with his appealing brown eyes and begged you to love him.

  They were all like that.

  "These are too nice," Libby said. "I'm not looking for a pet. Just a guard dog. Long as it's got four legs and a sharp set of teeth, I'm good."

  Glenda gave her a sharp look. "They're dogs," she said. "They're nice. Sounds like you're looking for an alligator."

  Libby laughed. "That would probably be about right."

  "Let me guess." Glenda squinted up at Libby's face. "Did you lose a pet recently?"

  Libby nodded and swallowed, remembering Lucky.

  Glenda laid a hand on Libby's arm and looked into her eyes with heartfelt sincerity. "Don't be scared," she said. "Sure, it's tough when they head off to that big doggie park in the sky. But you've got to get back on and ride the horse what throw'd you, you know?"

  "I've got to… what?"

  Glenda sighed. "You know. When a bronc throws a rodeo rider, he has to climb back on again. Conquer his fear. That's what you need to do—open yourself up to love."

  "Wow," Libby said. "You should be one of those life coaches."

  "Right. Sure. But it's not about me." Glenda made an impatient little gesture, shooing Libby down the aisle. "Now get out there and find yourself a soul mate. You'll know the right one when you see him. Just fol low your instincts."

  Libby walked past cage after cage, struggling to resist the pleading eyes besieging her from every side. Every dog there deserved a home, but none of them produced the spark of recognition she was looking for. Not one was her lover from a past life, or the rein carnation of her great-uncle George. They all looked her in the eye, but none of them looked any deeper than that.

  Except Penny.

  "Some idiot dropped this one off on our doorstep a month ago," Glenda said. "Her and four puppies." She sighed. "Poor thing bred true. See those ears?"

  They were hard to miss. The dog's head was dwarfed by what appeared to be a pair of enormo
us triangular radar dishes.

  "Jack Russells aren't supposed to have stand-up ears," Glenda explained. "They're supposed to flip forward."

  Libby ran her hands over her hair, smoothing down the renegade cowlick that always stuck up at the crown.

  "And look at her tail. It should be straight, or docked—not curly like that. And the puppies look just like her. The breeder couldn't sell 'em, so they dumped the whole lot on us."