"Nope," he said. "Nothing new."
There. That should put a stop to that nonsense. The
Della McCarthy incident was over, and the community needed to forget—not have some hotshot out-of-town journalist reopen old wounds.
"What else you working on?"
She shrugged. "Nothing you can really help with," she said. "I'm here to talk about Della."
"Well, I'm here to talk about just about anything else," he said. "Sorry if we had a misunderstanding. What's coming up in the paper next week? Maybe I can help with that."
"I doubt it," she said. "I'm doing a piece on Ralph Kittredge and his mutton-busting rodeo clinic this week. He's got fifteen four-to-six-year-olds getting ready for Lackaduck Days. I went out to see them in action this afternoon."
"That must have been a sight."
"Yeah. It sure was."
All this polite conversation seemed senseless, like the dull beginning of a spicy movie. Cash wanted to skip over it and get on to the good stuff, but he forced himself to listen as she babbled on.
"Apparently Ralph goes to a lot of trouble to find sheep that have never been touched by human hands," Libby continued. Cash sorted through his thoughts, casting aside the off-topic erotic ones that insisted on floating to the top, and wondered if she could tell that innocuous words like "touch" and "hands" were taking on new meanings in his fevered brain.
"They're totally wild," Libby continued. "He says it makes for better training for the kids. By the time they hit the rodeo, they're ready for anything."
Wild, Cash thought. Totally wild.
Ready for anything.
Silence settled over them again, and Libby glanced away nervously whenever he met her eyes.
"Have you decided on your entrees?" Josie set their drinks on the table and cocked her head, memo pad at the ready.
"Yeah, I'll have the Macaroni et Fromage, and my date here will have the Loaf de Meat," Cash said.
"Pureed pommes de terre with that, or Pommes Frites?" Josie looked at Libby expectantly.
"Pardon?"
"Mashed potatoes or fries?" the waitress whispered.
"Oh! Pureed pommes, please. And the Beans Vert. That's green beans, right?"
"Right. With bacon. Sheriff?"
"The usual for me, Josie."
"Thanks, Sheriff. Tomatoes Estewed and Petit Peas, then."
She flicked her pad into the pocket of her frilly apron and headed for the kitchen.
"One meatloaf with mashed and beans, one mac 'n' cheese with 'maters and peas, Joe."
"Josie! How many times I gotta tell you!" came a roar from the kitchen. "Use the proppa names for the dishes, girl! You want the customers to think we serve ordinary food here?"
"Sorry, Joe."
Cash chuckled. "Joe decided a couple years ago that nobody was showing enough respect for his culinary art istry. Decided French names were the key to success for all those big-city restaurants, so he changed the menu. Not the food; just the menu."
"I'm not sure it adds any respect for the food, but it's sure entertaining."
"Don't say that to Joe. He takes a lot of pride in his Frenchified cuisine."
The conversation flagged once their meals arrived. Cash was a lifetime member of the Clean Plate Club, and he took that responsibility seriously. Still, he could feel the energy of their jokes and conversation fading away as they finished their meals and stared at each other.
He finally broke the silence.
"You should come to the rodeo next month. I'm in it."
"You're busting broncs?"
"Nope. Bobcat Square Dancing. Luke, too."
Libby shuddered as if she thought he and Luke were actually going to be out there do-si-doing. "Square dancing?"
"With Bobcats. You know, those mini-bulldozers. I have one I use around the ranch. So does Luke. We worked out an act with a couple of other guys where we run them in formation. They spin in unison, then we move in and lift the scoops, then back up, spin again… it's sort of like synchronized driving."
"I'll come," Libby said. "Maybe it'll make a good story."
"Maybe." He felt a resurgence of the tension that had stretched between them when they were alone together in her kitchen—the tight knot in his stomach, the con sciousness of her body under that tight little skirt—and he gave himself a mental slap. Things were moving a little fast. Too fast. He needed to make sure this was a woman he could trust.
Not like the last one.
***
An awkward silence stretched between them again. Libby was seething inside, and not with lust. Cash had lured her here under false pretenses, implying he had information about Della, then turned the whole thing into a date.
She tried to keep the conversation innocuous, talking about sheep, the rodeo, anything to avoid those long, awkward silences. The guy had a weird testosterone aura that simmered with sexual innuendo, and every time she shut up, she worried he'd lunge across the laminated table and take her right there in the red vinyl booth. She was relieved when they finished off their meals and rose to go.
"So," Cash said. "You ready to introduce me to those crazy little dogs?"
They stepped outside and the tension between them tightened to the breaking point. No way was she letting him con his way back into her house. Bad enough she had to get in the truck with him. She tugged at her skirt again, wishing she'd worn pants, or maybe a gunny sack.
"Sorry. I, ah, have to work tomorrow."
"On Saturday?"
"Got an interview."
The moon cast deep blue shadows over the dilapi dated vehicles scattered around the parking lot. Cash opened the truck door for Libby and took her elbow. He started to boost her into the cab, then tugged her off balance. Stumbling off the running board, she slammed into his chest and he clutched her biceps, pinning her against the side of the truck. His breath was coming in ragged gasps as he lowered his face to hers. She twisted her head away as a beam of light slashed across them.
"Oops. Sorry." Josie was standing in a shaft of light cast by the diner's open kitchen door, a cigarette poised at her lips. "Smoke break. Did I interrupt something?" She giggled.
"Josie," Cash pulled away and released Libby. She scrambled into the truck. "Dammit, I really wish you'd quit smoking." He stalked around to the driver's side and leaned against the door for a moment while Libby climbed in and fastened her seat belt. She struggled to catch her breath, wishing she hadn't let him drive, wish ing her farm was within walking distance, wishing she was anywhere but there in Cash's truck.
***
"Cash, I wasn't ready for that," she said, while the sher iff settled in behind the wheel. She was pressed against the far door, clutching the door handle. "I told you, I'm not looking for a relationship. This was supposed to be a meeting, not a date."
He scanned her outfit, his gaze resting pointedly on her breasts and legs. "Could have fooled me." He jammed the clutch to the floor and turned the key. "That's a hell of an outfit to wear to a meeting. But whatever you say. Sorry if I jumped the gun."
Maybe he was right. She'd told herself she was dressing professionally, but her skirt was too short, and her blouse stretched over her breasts in a way that could be interpreted as provocative. She should have known better.
The rest of the drive to her house passed in silence, Cash glancing her way occasionally as if trying to read her thoughts. When he pulled into her driveway, he threw the truck into park and shifted in his seat, angling toward her. She opened her door and the dome light flashed on as she slid to the ground.
"You sure you don't want me to come in?" he asked. "I could check around, make sure those guys didn't come back."
"I'm sure, Cash."
"All right." He smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. "All work and no play's no good, you know. Why don't you come over to my place sometime? I could cook something. Show you my horses."
She hopped out of the truck and slammed the door—a little too hard. Maybe that w
ould give him the message.
"No, thanks," she said. "But I'm sure I'll see you around."
Chapter 17
LUKE WAS STARTING TO THINK LIBBY HAD A SECRET penchant for playing dress-up like a four-year-old. Not long ago, he'd found her working on the chicken coop dressed like some kind of freaky rural astronaut. Today, she was dressed as a Halloween hobo.
Maybe she'd come up with something really good one of these days. A Vegas showgirl outfit, or one of those French maid get-ups.
She was kneeling in the weed-choked flower beds by the front door when he pulled up, elbow-deep in dirt, yanking up Creeping Jenny by the handful. He wondered if the woman ever did anything civilized, like sip tea or paint her nails. Probably not. But he was pretty sure she wouldn't squeal every time she saw horseshit, either. She seemed to be taking to ranch life just fine.
She must have locked the puppies in the barn, be cause she'd let the chicks out of their brood box and they were clustered around her, scratching and pecking at the turned-up dirt just like real, grown-up chickens. They seemed ridiculously tame. He wondered how she'd get anything done once she had her full quotient of poultry following her around like a feathered entourage.
He pulled the truck to a stop and watched her work. The wires trailing from her ears to her shirt pocket, along with the rhythmic bobbing of her head, indicated she was listening to an iPod. A bandanna covered her hair, and she wore ragged denim shorts and a T-shirt tied up under her breasts to expose a long stretch of flat belly. It all might have worked for him if her face hadn't been streaked with dirt where she'd wiped the consider able sweat from her brow. Her knees were dirty too. She looked kind of cute, though. And when she turned to face him, she looked really, really pissed off.
"Hello?" She stamped a mud-caked foot and scowled. The chicks rushed peeping and squawking into their box.
"A phone call, maybe?" she said. "Like, are you de cent and can I come over?"
"Oh, come on, Libby." Her temper only added to her charm. He liked his women spunky. "That would spoil the fun. Whatcha doin'?"
"Finding my way to China via dandelion root," she grouched. "I'm almost there."
"Well, knock off for a beer, babe. I brought you a present." The grin widened. He couldn't wait for her to see what he'd brought.
Couldn't wait.
Libby looked over at the truck and her face went dead white. Luke couldn't blame her. The being lounging in the bed of his pickup could only be described as a behemoth.
"That's Ivan," Luke announced. "Ivan the Truly Terrible."
The beast in the truck lolled its enormous head over the side, grinning. It was just a dog, really—but what a dog. It was a dog like the Terminator is a human being. Like Rambo is a soldier. Like Pat Robertson is religious.
It was a Beast, with a capital "B." And Luke knew it was just what Libby needed.
"Is it yours?" Her voice was an incredulous squeak.
"No way, hon. He's all yours!"
"No," she said. "Absolutely not. I've got too much dog already. The Terrors are all the dog I need. They're wearing me out, and eating me out of house and home."
"Yeah, and if your house gets broken into, they'll show the burglar where you keep the silver so he'll stay and play ball. They're nice critters, Libby, but they're next to useless as protection."
The Beast stood calmly in the truck bed, gently sway ing from side to side as he wagged his enormous tail. A fine line of spittle trailed from one side of his mouth. His tongue lolled out the other side.
"What kind of dog is that?"
Luke shrugged. "I got him at the shelter. Near as I can tell, he's a mixed breed—half grizzly bear, half pony." He flourished his hands toward the truck like a sideshow barker. "And all yours!"
"No, Luke. No way. I can't handle a dog that big."
"He's easy to handle. Watch. Ivan, come."
Ivan vaulted over the side of the truck and came to what could only be described as a screeching halt at Luke's side. Lowering his enormous bottom into a ponderous "sit," the beast grinned up into Luke's face with an adoring, slobbery smile. He had moves like a fine-tuned cutting horse—and was about the same size.
"Good boy. Down. Stay." Luke gave Libby a trium phant smile as the dog prostrated himself on the lawn. "Can we come in?"
She looked at the dog, then up at Luke.
"You can come in," she said. "But not the dog."
"Okay. He's down. He's staying. Let's go in the house, and you'll see he's no trouble at all."
The screen door slammed as Libby opened the fridge and pulled out two beers. Luke folded himself into one of her tiny dinette chairs.
"You need this dog, Libby."
He had to convince her. He couldn't relax knowing she was all alone out here. He couldn't be here every night to protect her from the cretins at the bar who'd vandalized her truck, or from the loopy antics of his old friend Mike.
Not yet.
She obviously wasn't ready for any kind of per manent arrangement. In fact, if he kept showing up unannounced, she might think she needed the dog to protect herself from him—especially since she was so dead-set on staying single. But no worries. He'd kept the dog around the ranch for a day or two, running it through a few obedience exercises. It was putty in his hands.
If only he had that kind of skill with women.
"Come on, Libby," he said. "You need this dog."
She set her jaw and glared at him. This was a woman who didn't like being told what she needed. But he could match her for stubbornness any day of the week. He generally got his way when it mattered to him—and this did. She was in danger out here, and the dog would keep her safe.
"I'm fine, Luke, and it's not your job to look after me," she said. "I look after myself just fine."
"Libby, you've been here two weeks. In that time, you've had to call the sheriff twice—once because somebody vandalized your truck, and once because Mike was out here threatening you. It's not safe out here for a woman alone." He leaned toward her, willing her to give in. "You need this dog."
***
Libby splayed her hands. "I can't, Luke. I've got the Terrors, and they'll bark if anyone gets close. That's good enough for me. Too good, actually. I've got more dog than I need already."
"Yeah, well, one big one'll be a whole lot more ef fective than all those little guys. What are you going to do—hide in the chicken coop if those bikers come gunning for you?"
"No," she said. "I'll hide in the cellar."
"Look at him." Luke gestured out the kitchen win dow. "He's just what you need."
Ivan was still lying on the lawn, his eyes fixed on the door. Anyone would have to admit he was a hand some animal. There was some Labrador retriever in there, and maybe some German shepherd, along with something very large. If grizzly bears could breed with dogs, that would have been Libby's first guess. The dog's color only added to the mystery—he was a deep, rich red, with four white feet and a white mark on his chest that looked, appropriately, like a question mark. His ears gave no clue to his breed; one hung down in a neat triangle, while the other cocked out from his head at a crazy angle that made him look like the Flying Nun on a bender.
It was the ears that finally got to her. The ears, and the big soulful eyes.
"He's your dog, Luke," she said, weakly.
"Okay. But he lives here."
"Deal."
Libby sighed. Her simple, uncomplicated life was taking on a Grand Central Station kind of feeling. But after Crazy Mike's visit, knowing Ivan was on the job would be a comfort. Maybe she'd get some sleep.
Apparently, Luke had the same idea, because he left as soon as he finished his beer. She locked the door be hind him and turned out the porch light. There was a soft whine, and the sound of a big paw scratching at the front door.
"What?" she said, opening the door. Ivan trotted past her and through the kitchen, then laid down in front of her bedroom door, dignified and immovable as a library lion. "All right," she said. "You ca
n stay."
Penny was perched on the bed, her ears laid back, her teeth bared at her new housemate.
"It's okay, girl," Libby said. "I might have let him in the house, but I'm not going to let him sleep in the bed or anything. He's just here for protection."
She glanced out the window, where Luke's headlights were disappearing at the end of the driveway.
"And that goes for the dog, too."
Chapter 18
Cowboy Trouble Page 12