Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  "Corporate law, accounting, and an ag course to round it out," he replied. "Oh, and organic chemistry."

  "Organic chemistry? You're doomed, cowboy," she said. "Organic chemistry has kicked finer asses than yours."

  Luke laughed. "That's what they said about calculus, and I got through that all right. I'm smarter than I look, you know."

  She smirked. "Thank God for that!"

  "Okay, I deserved that. Walked right into it."

  Libby giggled and held her hand out the window, letting the air whoosh through her fingers. Luke smiled and watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was starting to relax. Starting to fit in. Wyoming was going to be good for her.

  And she was going to be good for him.

  ***

  If you look up "Dragon Lady" in the dictionary, you'll find a picture of Alice Wilson. Squatting toad-like be hind the admissions desk, she spent her days breathing fire on the hapless students who needed her services. Libby was fortunate enough to be mistaken for a parent, so the woman made a valiant effort to be pleasant.

  "How can I help you?" she asked with a ghastly sim per that set her jowls to wobbling. She slipped a pair of cat's-eye glasses onto the bridge of her hawkish nose and peered at Libby myopically.

  "I'm here to inquire about a student," Libby said with feigned confidence.

  "And the student is?"

  "Della McCarthy."

  "Social?"

  "Yes, I believe she was fairly social."

  Enunciating her words as one would for a small child, the dragon lady leaned forward and said, "So-shell Seck yoo-ritty Num-ber?"

  Libby gulped. "Can't you just look her up by last name?"

  The dragon lady removed the glasses and fixed her with a baleful glare. "The system requires a social se curity number."

  "I don't know it," Libby admitted.

  "Are you a relation?"

  "N-no," Libby stammered. "I'm a friend. A good friend."

  Mrs. Wilson pushed her keyboard aside with pudgy, bejeweled talons. "Student information is confidential."

  "I just need to know if she's registered here as a student."

  "Strictly confidential," the woman repeated.

  Libby was up against it, and for once she couldn't think of a good lie. Much as she hated to enlist this woman as her ally, she'd have to do it.

  "Look, Mrs. Wilson, I really need to know. It's very important. I'll keep the information in the strict est confidence."

  "Nothing," said Mrs. Wilson, "is more important that student confidentiality."

  Libby grimaced. She was going to have to bring out the big guns. She leaned across the table and looked the dragon lady in the eye.

  "What if I told you it was about murder?" she whispered.

  Mrs. Wilson reared back in her chair, chins wob bling. "Murder?"

  "Yes." Libby plopped down in the orange plastic chair in front of the desk and folded her hands into an at titude of supplication. "Della's missing, and I think she may have been murdered. But the police won't listen. They think she's a runaway or something. If I can prove she registered here as a student, maybe even put down a deposit on her tuition, they'll see she was planning for the future. Maybe then they'll take me seriously. You've got to help me, Mrs. Wilson."

  It worked. The dragon lady was hers. Pulling the key board into position, Mrs. Wilson tapped the keys with scarlet-painted claws.

  "M-C or M-A-C?" she asked.

  "M-C, I think."

  She shot Libby a doubtful look—how good is a friend who can't even spell your last name?—but tapped the name into the computer.

  "Della, you said?"

  "Yes, D-E-L-L-A."

  A look of satisfaction crossed Mrs. Wilson's broad face. "Your hunch is correct, my dear. Miss McCarthy did indeed pay a sizeable portion of her tuition up front."

  "Can you tell if she ever showed up for classes?"

  The excitement was almost too much for Mrs. Wilson. Practically panting, she stabbed at a few more keys.

  "Never. She didn't even come to orientation."

  Libby stood. "Mrs. Wilson, I can't thank you enough," she said earnestly. "You won't regret this. If you see in the paper that this young girl's killer has been discov ered, you'll know you helped bring him to justice."

  Pursing her fleshy lips, Libby's new friend squirmed with pleasure. "All in a day's work, my dear. All in a day's work."

  Chapter 12

  ALL THE WAY HOME, LUKE KEPT HIS HANDS ON THE wheel and his eyes on the road, but he could feel the memory of that kiss simmering in the sun-warmed air of the truck cab. Penny snoozed in Libby's lap while they discussed the university and their ranching ambitions— or, in Libby's case, her farming ambitions. By the time they pulled up at her place, she'd told him all about how she'd played with some Farmer Joe toy as a kid, dream ing of the day she'd have a big red barn of her own.

  It was cute, really. And he had to admire her for doing everything she could to make that childhood dream come true. He'd always wanted to be a rancher, but he'd been born into his dream. She was starting from scratch, all by herself. Not many women he knew would have the guts.

  He eased up the driveway and pulled to a stop as Wild Thing scampered across the yard and dodged be hind the barn. She was truly the ugliest chicken he'd ever seen—scrawny, with mean little eyes and a bunch of feathers missing on her neck so she looked like a flightless white vulture.

  "Wonder what she was up to?" he mused.

  "I don't know," Libby said. "I get the impression she pokes around when I'm gone. I found beak-marks in the front door once, like she'd been trying to peck her way in, and sometimes there's chicken poop on the doorstep. I think she's plotting a takeover."

  Luke laughed and they lapsed into silence while he tried to figure out how to say good-bye. He had no idea where they stood relationship-wise at this point. She'd discouraged his advances after their Roundup date, but then delivered a scorching kiss in her kitchen this morning. Between the kiss and today's conversa tion, he felt like they really knew each other now—but did that entitle him to another kiss? Or maybe some thing more?

  It was worse than those word problems they threw at you in fourth grade math. Here he was at point A, and he had no idea how to get to point B. Or C. Or D, which was where he really wanted to be. And he had no idea how long it would take them to get there. He could go from zero to sixty in half a second when it came to relationships, but women usually didn't have that kind of horsepower.

  "Well," he said, and cleared his throat. He turned to look at her, trying to read her expression. Then some thing caught his eye out the window behind her and sud denly, point B was the last thing on his mind.

  "Oh, no." He yanked open the driver's side door and jumped out of the truck. "Don't get out. Just stay right there."

  Libby turned and let out a little scream of horror. Her red pickup tilted unsteadily in front of the house on four slashed tires. Someone had scrawled "EVIL BITCH" in deep scratches on the driver's side door, and the hood was dented as though someone had stomped across it in steel-toed boots. The windows were smeared with something that looked suspiciously like dog poop—at least, Luke hoped it was from a dog.

  Her truck. Her precious truck. She'd told him how all her friends in Atlanta had driven sensible city cars, Hondas and Toyotas, but she'd bought the shiny red Ranger be cause it looked like something Farmer Joe would drive— like a Fisher Price version of a pickup truck.

  Now it was practically destroyed. Luke loped back to the car and opened her door. She was crying. He stepped back, squelching the urge to run, trying desperately to think of some comforting phrase that would stem the flood.

  "My truck," she said, her voice quavering. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Who would do that? Who hates me that much?" She caught a sob in her throat, then almost fell out of her seat and into his arms.

  "That guy?" Luke asked, patting her shoulder. "That old boyfriend? Would he…"

  "He doesn't care enough ab
out me to bother," she said. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but Luke could sense an un dertone of deep sorrow. "It has to be someone from here." She was still leaning on him, mumbling into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.

  "Who would do this to you?" Luke was stunned to realize he was shaking—but with rage, not passion. "Because I'll kill them," he said. "I'll kill them. Jesus, Libby." He gripped her shoulders and pushed her away, holding her at arm's length and looking into her eyes. "Who would do this?"

  "There were a couple of toughs in the parking lot at the bar yesterday," she said. Her nose was red, her eyes bleary and swollen. She looked terrible, but for some reason that only made him want to hug her harder. "They tried to pick me up. Nasty looking guys, said they were staying at the Super 8."

  "What did they look like?" He tried to slow his breathing, but a glance at the truck set his mind spinning with rage again. He'd been right to worry about Libby out here on her own. Some kind of ugliness had come to his peaceful neighborhood, and it was threatening the woman he—

  Liked. He really liked her.

  He'd just never liked a woman enough to go all dizzy over her like this. He felt like he'd fallen off a horse— like he was sitting dazed on the ground, wondering what had happened and watching his old life run away like a spooked stallion.

  Weird thing was, he wasn't sorry to see that stallion go. But he'd feel a lot better if he could find whoever did this to Libby's truck and beat the crap out of him.

  "They looked like bikers," she said. "But don't worry, Luke. I'll call the sheriff." She pulled Cash's card out of her purse, and he remembered the sheriff handing it to her at the bar. "It's his job. Don't get yourself in trouble."

  He snorted, eyeing the card. "The sheriff. The sheriff won't do anything." He scanned the side of her ruined truck. "But I guess you'll have to call him. You'll need a police report for insurance." He turned away. "I can't do that for you."

  He scuffed one booted toe in the dirt, wishing for the first time that he was something more than a rancher.

  Wishing he had a shiny badge of his own.

  ***

  Libby flipped her phone open and dialed the number on Cash's card. Maybe the sheriff would come over and sweep her up and put her back together again.

  Not that Luke wasn't doing a good job. He was there, he was supportive, and he was a strong shoulder to cry on—but he wasn't wearing a star. Right now, she needed a superhero, and Cash was the closest thing Lackaduck had to offer. The guy was a little full of himself—heck, he was a lot full of himself—but when she pictured him swooping down in a cape and tights, handcuffing the bad guys and hauling them off to the pokey, the tights looked pretty good.

  Luke was scuffing the toe of one boot in the dusty driveway and faking absorption in the distant mountains as if he knew his own superhero status was on the wane. Libby turned away when Cash answered, cupping one hand around the phone.

  "Libby," the sheriff said. "I was just thinking about you." His tone was silky and self-assured, and she won dered what exactly he'd been thinking. She was tempted to ask, but she had to tell him about her truck.

  "Evil Bitch?" he said when she'd finished. "You make some enemies around here or something?"

  "I guess so." She told him about the two roughnecks in the parking lot. "Luke said they were probably from the pipeline, or maybe the railroad."

  "Probably." His tone sharpened. "Is Luke there with you?"

  "Uh-huh," she said.

  "Have him make sure there's nobody around, okay? Tell him to check the barn and the house."

  "Okay." Libby glanced over at Luke. He was walking around the truck now, and as she watched, he stroked the long side of the "B" in "Bitch" with one finger. She made a cutting motion with her free hand. "You need to come out and dust for fingerprints, right? Check for tire tracks?"

  "Sorry. I can't," Cash said. "I'm actually in the middle of a traffic stop. And then I have to answer a call at the Loaf 'n' Jug. Shoplifter in custody, and I'd better get out there before the salesclerk takes the law into his own hands and beats the crap out of a teenager for heisting a pack of gum." He chuckled. "The thrilling life of a lawman, right?"

  "So you'll come out later?"

  He sighed. "Look, Libby, I'm the only law west of the Lackaduck River these days. I just don't have the resources to collect evidence for something like that. The best thing you can do is stop down at the station and fill out a report. Meanwhile, I'll keep my eyes peeled for those guys."

  "Okay." The sinking feeling in her gut made Libby realize how much she'd been looking forward to her rescue. Some superhero. "So you're not going to do anything then."

  Luke rolled his eyes.

  "Sorry, Libby," Cash said. "I can't."

  "Okay." She crumpled up his business card and started to toss it in the dirt, then thought better of it and shoved it back in her pocket. She didn't want to be a litterbug. "Whatever."

  She clicked the phone shut. Some sheriff. Here she was, with a truckload of property damage staring her in the face along with some pretty clear threats to her safety, and he was too busy at the Loaf 'n' Jug to do anything about it.

  She wondered if there really was a shoplifter. He was probably just stocking up on doughnuts.

  Luke put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a sympathetic squeeze. She wished she could stop shak ing. She wished the fear would go away.

  She was afraid of the bikers, and she was afraid of being so isolated in a town full of crazy taxidermists, missing teenagers, and feral chickens—but most of all, she was afraid of Luke. Because if she had to deal with a few more episodes like this, she was liable to trade her treasured independence for the safety of having a man around the house.

  Chapter 13

  OUT ON THE PRAIRIE, NIGHTTIME WAS QUIET TIME. There WAS no traffic noise, no hum from passersby, just the breeze tickling the sagebrush and a few night birds calling. The silence should have been calming, but after the day's experiences, it just made Libby un easy. And to make matters worse, her canine compan ions were convinced it was their doggy duty to alert her every time a blade of grass moved. She'd started the evening jumping at every sound they made, but after a while she'd realized their barks were meaningless. They yapped and growled at the wind, at random squir rels, and even at birds flying by.

  But when they all leapt to their feet in unison and ran to the front hall, she knew something was out there. Over the cacophony of barks and growls, she heard a tapping, then a full-out pounding against her flimsy front door.

  Her first impulse was to dive under the bed, but she wasn't about to let a couple of ignorant barflies scare her. If she was going to live on her own, she'd have to toughen up. She shrugged into her bathrobe and rum maged through her purse for her mace canister. She'd walked the dark streets of Atlanta many times with it concealed in her fist, cocked and ready. Now she was arming herself in her own home.

  So much for the serenity of country living.

  She grabbed her cell phone too, and beeped over to "last dialed." That put the sheriff's number up on the screen, a finger punch away. Surely he'd tear himself away from Lackaduck's mean streets if he heard her being murdered in real time.

  She paused in the hall and tried to steady her breath ing. It was probably just Luke. He must have forgotten something. But the dogs knew Luke, and yet they were shying at the door, growling low in their throats, then bursting into hysterical tirades of barking.

  She suddenly wished she'd taken his advice and got ten a bigger dog.

  Putting her eye to a gap in the curtains that shielded the hallway's tiny window, she squinted. She couldn't see all of her visitor, but it definitely wasn't Luke. It wasn't the jerks from the parking lot, either. This guy was a lot taller, and quite a bit wider, too. Dirty jeans sagged in the seat, and the hair on his arms was reddish and thick. A tattoo of a chainsaw peeked out from under a ragged sleeve. It was Mike.

  Crazy Mike.

  Libby told hers
elf she'd get some better locks as soon as she could. Standing there with just a rickety old door knob between her and a mentally unstable taxidermist was a bad feeling. If this was a slasher movie, he'd be coming to kill her so he could stuff her and keep her forever. Would he mount her in the attack pose?

  He'd have to. Because if Luke was wrong about Mike's gentle nature, she wasn't going down without a fight.

  "What do you want?" she shouted through the closed door.

  "I want you to stop asking questions, that's what!" Mike shouted in his weirdly high-pitched voice.

  "Questions?" She wondered how she'd offended him. Was this about Della?