Cowboy Trouble

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Cowboy Trouble Page 5

by Joanne Kennedy


  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  "You'll keep looking for homes for them, right?"

  "Oh, yeah, and they're such a popular breed right now, what with Eddie on TV and all. We'll find homes for them. Honest."

  Libby should have paid attention when the Psycho violins resumed their rhythmic screeching inside her head, but she ignored them. Deep down, she wanted those puppies. Sure, she'd sworn off every kind of pet but chickens, but resolutions were made to be broken. A squadron of feisty puppies would take her mind off her troubles, and she couldn't wait to see Penny's reaction when she brought home her bundles of joy.

  ***

  The bundles of joy made themselves right at home. Against Libby's better judgment, she named them all, but she gave them dumb names so she wouldn't get at tached to them. The noisiest one she called Rooster. The fast one, who chased everything that moved, was called Rabbit. Then there was Rotgut, who had trouble at first keeping anything down. It was probably the excitement of seeing his mom again. The last one she called Roto Rooter, since he opted for a drink from the toilet with so much enthusiasm he fell in.

  Penny didn't care what they called them; she was just glad to see them. After a long spell of crazy running and barking and squirming all over each other, the whole family settled down to rest, panting happily in a patch of sunlight on the lawn. Penny licked each pup from its oversized ears to its adorably curly tail, as if making sure they were all intact, and then settled down to make up for the sleep she'd lost.

  Chapter 6

  LIBBY STILL BLUSHED WHEN SHE THOUGHT ABOUT the jackalope episode, but at least it had given her inspi ration for a story. Taxidermy was obviously big business in Wyoming, and a craftsman whose signature product was tutu-clad muskrats surely had something interesting to say. Sure, Crazy Mike seemed a little nuts—he hadn't earned his nickname for nothing—but lots of creative people were flat-out bonkers. Look at Salvador Dalí. Jackson Pollock.

  Crazy Mike Cresswell might turn out to be just as interesting.

  Of course, he also might turn out to be a psycho killer whose fascination with cutting up dead animals was just a step along the way to slashing up curly-haired journal ists who asked too many questions. That's why Libby was bringing Luke for backup.

  The rancher said he was her closest neighbor, but the sign for the Rawlins Ranch pointed down a long road to nowhere. As far as she could see, the rocky two-track wound into the distant mountains and disappeared into the haze. It was flanked by a wide expanse of prairie on each side, the sagebrush and yucca plants caged by strings of barbed wire stapled to random sticks and boards of every imaginable size and shape. The make shift fence posts leaned this way and that, nary a one standing straight.

  The fence didn't bode well for the ranch to follow. Maybe Luke lived in a tent. Or a lean-to in the moun tains, constructed of more crazy wood scraps. In any case, she was going to find out.

  Her intrepid Ranger bopped along the road, conquer ing puddles and potholes with spring-loaded stoicism. A few pronghorn antelope gleamed white against the brown prairie, and at one point a turkey hen skittered clumsily across the road in front of the truck. The road curved as the land lifted, rising into foothills that shielded the flat from the mountain winds. Tucked under a ridge in the distance was Luke's house.

  It wasn't a tent.

  It was Home, with a capital H—a white clapboard farmhouse, neatly kept and newly painted, with dark green shutters and trim. A covered porch stretched the length of the front, its support posts hung with brimming baskets of impatiens in alternating red and white.

  Libby was struck by a spasm of doubt as she parked the truck. She'd thought it would be fun to see her new neighbor in his natural surroundings, unedited and un prepared. That's why she hadn't called or waited for an invitation. But now she was a little nervous.

  What if he was naked?

  She hopped out of the truck and headed for the house. She could deal with naked. She'd had plenty of practice lately in her ridiculously randy dreams. Apparently, her single status had revved up her libido to the point where she was dreaming about sex acts that had never even oc curred to her when she'd had a boyfriend. She wasn't sure you could even do the things she was dreaming about, but she was pretty sure Luke would be willing to try.

  Then there were the morning after dreams, where the two of them cooked a hearty breakfast together and then stood side by side at the sink, doing the dishes. She washed and he dried. For some bizarre reason, that was even more satisfying than the sex scenes.

  So it would be okay if Luke was naked. What she was really worried about was that he'd reveal some kind of redneck alter ego dressed in tightie-whities and a wife-beater.

  On the porch, a tiny gray-haired lady was swaying to and fro in a wooden porch swing, pumping her short legs like a toddler on the playground. As Libby approached, the woman tipped herself onto the gray-painted floor boards and set her hands on her hips.

  "It's about time you got here," she called out.

  "I know. I'm sorry," Libby stammered as she mounted the steps. The woman was right. She'd been a bad neighbor. Luke had come to welcome her on her very first day, and she'd never made the effort to stop by and introduce herself to his parents. They were older. She should show more respect.

  "Did you bring your scissors?" the woman asked.

  Libby paused. Scissors. Was there some sort of weird Western tradition involving scissors she wasn't aware of? Had Luke said something about scissors?

  She didn't think so.

  "No," she said. "I'm sorry."

  The woman sighed. "Well, you can use mine. They're in there on the counter." She gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. Libby looked from her to the door, con fused. "Well, go, girl." The woman waved toward the door again. "Get 'em."

  Libby let herself in and looked around. The kitchen was cozy and old-fashioned, with yellow checked wall paper and cupboards painted in shiny white enamel. It looked homey and very clean—just the way a farm kitchen should.

  There was a pair of scissors on the counter near the stove. They were sewing scissors, antiques, embossed to resemble a long-legged stork with sharp, tapering blades for a beak. Libby picked them up and returned to the porch, wondering what she was supposed to do next.

  The woman she assumed was Luke's mother leaned forward on the porch swing and fluffed her hair. "I want it a little shorter on the sides," she said. "And let's try bangs this time. I've always wanted to try bangs." She closed her eyes and smiled, her chin raised expectantly.

  "You want me to cut your hair?" Libby asked.

  "That's what you came for, right?" The woman nod ded briskly. "There's no reason for me to go all the way downtown when I've got you right here."

  Libby held the scissors suspended in midair by the woman's right ear, wondering what to do. She didn't want to be rude. But she didn't want to mess with Luke's mother's hair, either. The last time she'd cut anyone's hair, it was her own. She'd been ten, and she'd decided she wanted to look like Jennifer Aniston. She'd ended up looking more like Captain Kangaroo.

  "Hey. Put those scissors down," a male voice be hind her said in a steely monotone. "Real slow. No sudden moves."

  It didn't sound like Luke. Libby set the scissors on the porch railing and turned slowly, hands in the air. An elderly man was standing in the doorway, resting the bar rel of a revolver on the top rail of an aluminum walker.

  "Now, back up," he said. "Keep those hands where I can see 'em."

  ***

  Luke heard his father's voice, loud and commanding, booming from the front porch. He looked up from his newspaper. "Dad?" he said. "What's up?"

  "There's some woman on the porch threatening your mother with the sewing scissors," his dad said. "I got her covered, but you better get out here."

  "What…" Luke stepped out onto the porch and his eyes widened in horror. Libby Brown was standing next to his mother's porch swing, her hands in the air. Her eyes widened too, and he felt a brief s
pasm of em barrassment. He'd given rein to his inner redneck this morning and was putting it on display by wandering around the house with no shirt on. Just jeans—seriously, nothing else—and he suddenly realized they were hang ing dangerously low on his hips. One false move and they'd be down around his ankles. He yanked them up by the belt loops and crossed his arms over his chest. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of. He might not have the bulk of a bodybuilder, but years of ranch work had left him lean, muscled, and tan. And judg ing from Libby's expression, she appreciated that body type. Even at gunpoint.

  "Dad, that's Libby," he said. "Our new neighbor. Put the gun down."

  "She was threatening your mother," his father said. Luke was relieved to see his dad's hand relax, letting the gun barrel point down at the floorboards instead of at Libby's heart. "With the scissors."

  "She wanted me to cut her hair," Libby said. "She asked for bangs. I was just trying to help."

  "Oh, Mom." Luke knelt down beside his mother and took her hand. "That's Libby. The new neighbor I told you about. She's not Stephanie."

  "Definitely not," Libby said. "Who's Stephanie?"

  "My sister," he said. "She's a hairdresser in Rock Springs."

  "Oh," Libby said. "Your mom…"

  He nodded. Nobody needed to say Alzheimer's. It was pretty obvious.

  Libby glanced over at the man with the gun. "And your dad…"

  "Oh, I'm fine," Luke's dad said. "Sorry about the gun. I just get a little protective where Ella's concerned. And it sure looked like you were about to skewer her in the eyeball with those scissors."

  "Um, so this is my dad," Luke said, flashing Libby an apologetic smile. "Dad, this is Libby. She bought the old Lackaduck ranch."

  "Nice to meet you," Libby said. Luke was impressed. She'd recovered her manners pretty fast, considering his dad was still holding the gun. At least he wasn't point ing it right at her vitals anymore. His own right foot, however, was in imminent danger.

  "So what's up?" Luke asked.

  "I was wondering if you'd meet me at the Roundup later," Libby said. "I'm interviewing Crazy Mike. I'm a little nervous, and he's a friend of yours, right?"

  "Mike Cresswell? Oh, yeah," Luke said. "We're old friends."

  "Sorry I showed up unannounced," she said, watch ing his father shuffle back into the house.

  "Don't be. I'm glad you got to meet my folks." Luke stood and left his mother's side to take Libby's elbow. He urged her down the porch steps as his mother se renely resumed her rocking. "Sorry about Mom," he whispered. "She has a few scenarios that seem to repeat themselves on some kind of memory tape-loop. Having my sister cut her hair is one of them."

  "It's okay," Libby said when they reached her truck. "I felt bad I couldn't do it for her." There was an awk ward silence while she bit her lower lip, glanced at the house, then back up at Luke.

  "Did your dad have an accident?" she finally asked.

  "He was in Nam," Luke said. "Brought home a bunch of shrapnel."

  "So, wow," Libby said. "You must have to do all the work around the place yourself." She took in the flow ers in their hanging baskets and the porch swing padded with patchwork pillows. "It's pretty," she said. "You do a good job."

  She seemed surprised, like the whole thing was some kind of revelation. She'd probably thought he was some mama's boy, living in his parent's basement watching Star Trek reruns or something.

  Good thing he'd gotten that straightened out. For all he knew, she'd thought he was keeping Della McCarthy prisoner in a pit somewhere.

  Chapter 7

  CRAZY MIKE WAS ALREADY SETTLED AT A TABLE WHEN Libby and Luke walked into the Roundup, and his choice of lunchtime companions confirmed Libby's suspicions that the guy was, well—crazy. A stuffed and mounted muskrat, decked out as promised in a pink tutu, pirou etted daintily on the chair beside him. On the table, a group of bullfrogs shouldered bats and lifted tiny base ball mitts as if to catch a storm of fly balls. They were dressed, too, in tiny pinstriped Yankees uniforms.

  "This is Sadie," he said, when he noticed Libby's eyes fixed on the muskrat. "I brought her to show to Crystal. The frogs too. Sadie's a looker, huh?"

  "She sure is," Libby said, wondering just what his relationship was with these creatures. Seeing him seated at the table in the company of half a dozen dead animals made her realize just how peculiar the man was. Sure, the animals were mounted with incredible skill—but they were still dead.

  She was glad she'd brought Luke.

  So was Mike. "Luke," he said, his face splitting into a broad grin. "Hey, how are ya, buddy?"

  "I'm good." The two of them performed a complicated handshake, moving through half a dozen different grips and ending with a high five. "So you're a big deal now," Luke said. "Libby wants to do a story on you."

  "A story? On me? Like what would I do? Can I be the good guy? The one that rescues the girl?"

  "Not that kind of story, Mike," Libby cautioned.

  "Yeah, I could save the day—you know, like I was a superhero or something. Or I could be a detective. Like in Mickey Spillane. I like those stories, Libby. Let's do that. With dames and stuff." His hands clenched and unclenched with excitement.

  She hated to burst his bubble. "No, Mike, you don't have to be any of those things. I want to do a story about you. You and your work."

  "Me?" His bushy eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

  "Yeah. You're an interesting guy, Mike. An artist, making all those little creatures."

  "I guess so," he said slowly, furrowing his brow. "I never thought of it like that."

  "We'll put your picture on the front page too," she told him. "I could come to your workshop tomorrow and take some pictures."

  "No." He ducked his head, hunching his heavy shoulders.

  "No?"

  Mike stood abruptly. His voice was flat. The excite ment was gone as quickly as it had built up.

  "No," he repeated. "My workshop's not nice. Nobody wants to see it."

  Libby sighed. That's a man for you, she thought. He just didn't want to have to clean.

  "But Mike, I should take your picture there. In your natural surroundings."

  "This is my natural surrounding." He patted the table. "The Roundup. Take my picture here."

  "But I need to see where you work, Mike. Can't I come to your workshop?"

  "No. Do it here."

  She gave up. She'd lose the story altogether if she kept insisting on a visit. Maybe it was just as well. She was a little nervous about being alone with Mike and his tools.

  "Okay," she said. "We'll do it here."

  Happy again, Mike beamed as Libby fished a notepad out of her bag. "I'll answer all your questions," he said. He folded his hands and lowered his brow in concentra tion like he was preparing for a CIA interrogation. "Ask me anything."

  "Okay." She cleared her throat. "So, first, I wondered how you decide what to do with a given animal." She ges tured toward the muskrat. "Like Sadie. How did you decide to make her a dancer?" She nibbled the end of her pencil while Mike pondered the question with all the seriousness of a Supreme Court nominee at a confirmation hearing.

  "I just knew she was a dancer," he finally said. "I saw it in her eyes, you know?"

  "Before or after you shot her?"

  Luke snorted, stifling a laugh, and Libby winced. She hadn't meant to put it that bluntly, but it didn't seem to bother Mike. In fact, he seemed very much at ease. Maybe it was Luke, or maybe these creatures were his true friends. That would be sad, but hey, some of the folks she'd interviewed in Atlanta didn't even have dead animals for friends.

  Of course, they were mostly drug runners, thieves, and politicians, but still…

  "I decide after," Mike said. "I look at them, you know, and they tell me stuff. They, like, talk to me. Not like people. Not with words. I have to do the voices, but they tell me what to say."

  Libby glanced over at Luke. He nodded encourage ment, so she plunged onward.

  "What do you mean
, you have to do the voices?" she asked.

  "Like this." Mike picked up a frog and made it dance back and forth on the table. "There's no crying in base ball!" the frog said in an eerie imitation of Tom Hanks.

  "That's the team manager in A League of Their Own," Luke said.

  "Right." Mike grinned. "So I knew he had to be a ball player." He frowned, looking down at the frogs. "That movie had Madonna in it, but I couldn't find a Madonna frog."

  "Okay." For once, Libby didn't have a follow-up question ready. Not one she wanted to ask, anyway. She wasn't sure what qualifications defined a "Madonna frog," and she didn't want to find out. She tapped her pen on the tablet, thinking.

 

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