Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  Luke's dad said a quick and quiet grace, and they lit into their food. Libby was worried about keeping the conversation going, but Luke's mom had evidently mistaken her for the beleaguered heroine on one of the network soap operas, and peppered her with questions about her evil twin, her billion-dollar fashion empire, and her husband's secret life as head of another house hold across town.

  "I'm done with all that now," Libby said, waving one hand. "I divorced the bastard. Killed off the twin, too."

  "Oh, I was hoping you'd do that!" Mrs. Rawlins seemed delighted with the solution. "They had it com ing. I always said so."

  Libby regaled her with grisly details of the twin mur der while Luke and his father looked on, bemused.

  "So now I'm on the run," Libby said. "You won't tell anyone I was here, will you?"

  Luke's mom made a zipping gesture across her mouth and threw away an imaginary key. "Your secret's safe with me." She stacked her husband's plate on her own and pushed back her chair. Rising shakily to her feet, she carried the dishes to the counter. Luke's dad followed his wife with his eyes, tracking her across the kitchen like a wary watchdog. He'd pushed his chair back from the table when she stood, and he was obviously poised and ready in case she wandered into danger.

  It was nice, Libby thought. He let her do what she wanted—just looked out for her while she did it. Some men would have let her illness limit her life, but Luke's dad just stood guard, alert and ready. She looked around the kitchen, at the golden light casting a warm halo over the table, at the homespun rag rugs scattered on the floor, at Luke, pushing back his chair to help his mother. It looked like home—but more important, it felt like it.

  "Let me help." She stacked her plate and Luke's together, along with a serving dish, and carried the clat tering pile to the sink.

  "Well, aren't you smart," Luke's mom said. "Helping like that." She patted Libby on the head like a child.

  "Looks like you went from business tycoon to eight year-old in sixty seconds," Luke teased as Libby returned to the table for another load. "How'd that happen?"

  She shrugged. "Hey, after that good dinner, I'll be whoever your mom wants me to be."

  Deafness obviously wasn't one of Mrs. Rawlins's issues. She turned from the sink with a hopeful smile. "Daughter-in-law?"

  Libby stammered, glancing from her smile to Luke's.

  "Not yet, Mom," he said.

  "Oh, son." His mother sighed and turned to Libby. "You just keep on being nice to him," she said. "He'll come around."

  Libby opened her mouth to explain, but all that came out was a sickly croaking sound.

  "I know," Mrs. Rawlins said. "I get mad at him too." She plugged the drain and cranked the faucet all the way to hot, then squirted in a dollop of dish soap. Libby leaned over and surreptitiously adjusted the temperature down from third-degree burn.

  "Look. Bubbles." Luke's mother was squeezing the Palmolive bottle, wafting tiny multicolored bubbles into the air. "Pop!" she said, poking one with her finger. She grinned at Libby. "Go on. Pop one. It feels good."

  Libby poked one drifting sphere out of existence, then another, and the two of them giggled as they performed an impromptu dance in front of the sink, bursting every bubble with index fingers raised disco-style.

  "You two," Luke said, shaking his head in mock dis gust. "Like a couple of kids."

  "I always wanted to be a young mom," his mother said, and the giggles started again. Somehow they managed to get the dishes rinsed and slotted into the dishwasher, Libby furtively rearranging Mrs. Rawlins's haphazard placement as they worked.

  As they finished, she glanced over at Luke and real ized there was a new source of third-degree burns in the room. He was watching her with an intensity that just about smoked her shirt off. Catching her eye, he smiled, warming the look an extra ten degrees.

  "I should go," Libby said. She turned to Luke's mother, then to his father. "Thanks so much for having me. I had a great time."

  She glanced out the window. Night was falling, and the world had gone gray and white except for the warm yellow halo thrown by the lights from the house. She glanced around the kitchen, wishing she could stay.

  Luke's place was so warm, so homey. Her own place, off across the plains, seemed sadly empty by comparison. Sure, it was full of dogs and chickens, and she'd added a lot of personal touches that made it her own—but home wasn't pets, or furniture, or pictures on the wall.

  Home was people.

  ***

  Luke walked Libby out the door, glancing back at his parents sitting at the kitchen table. It had been a good night, a really nice dinner. Lately, those had been more and more rare. The ranch felt empty, somehow, since his mother's memories had flown the coop and she was no longer the guiding force of the household.

  But with Libby there, it felt like home again—warm

  and happy and safe. And she seemed to enjoy herself, too. He'd never seen her smile so much. Maybe she was ready to stop running away. Maybe she'd finally found what she'd been running toward.

  Maybe it was him.

  He hoped so. He'd had women for dinner before. They'd been… kind. He'd been relieved when they pretended not to notice his mother's brain blips—but Libby had joined right in with the lunacy and somehow made it seem nor mal. No, better than normal. She'd managed to remind him that his mom was still her sprightly self—that her spirit and good nature still illuminated the whole house.

  "Thanks," he said as he walked her out to her truck.

  She gave him a puzzled look. "No, thank you," she said. "I had a great time."

  "I had a better one," he said. "You… you fit right in."

  "Thanks."

  They grinned inanely at each other for a beat too long, frozen in the halo of the porch light. One of the moths flitting around the bulb looped downward, hitting Libby's cheek. She flinched and Luke brought a hand to her face, brushing away the powder from the moth's wing.

  "They're bad this year," he murmured. "The moths." He stroked her cheek again, slower this time. She looked up at him, lips parted, so tempting she had to be trying.

  She might as well beg for a kiss out loud as look at him like that.

  He bent to touch her lips just as she hiked herself up on her toes, and they met in the middle with more force than either had intended. The crush of her lips on his sent lust raging through him like flames on a fuse, burning up his inhibitions, smoking out the feelings he'd been struggling to smother at the dinner table. Out here in the dark, he felt bold and reckless and hungry. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, feel ing the length of her body press into his with what felt like a need equal to his own.

  Was he right? Was she feeling it too? He pulled away, just for an instant, and searched her eyes. He found what he was looking for: heat and passion, and a gaze focused on something deep inside him.

  Deep inside. Other women never looked that far. They saw his clothes, his house, his horses, and they figured he was a cowboy. Then they saw his truck and decided he wasn't quite the cowboy they were looking for. But Libby seemed to look past the hat and the boots and even the truck to the real him—and that forged a connection between them that went way beyond mere attraction.

  Way beyond.

  He kissed her again, softer this time, holding back to give her all the eloquence he could muster, showing her how gentle he could be, how tender his feelings were for her. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. He loved touching her, holding her. He wanted to let his hands wander and explore, stroke her skin, quicken her breath, but it wasn't about that anymore. It was about something more—something far deeper than the sexual spark they'd shared in the barn.

  It was about holding her close. Keeping her safe.

  ***

  Libby moaned and wrapped her arms around Luke's neck. She'd wanted this since she'd caught him looking at her in the kitchen with that hard, hot look in his eyes. She trusted Luke as much as she could trust anyone, but in that moment, despite t
he cozy domestic surroundings, he'd seemed dangerous—and she'd decided a little dan ger might be a good thing.

  She'd spent the rest of the night sneaking surrepti tious glances at the way his denim jacket stretched across his shoulders, the way his thighs flexed under his jeans when he rose from the chair. By the time he walked her out the door, she felt flushed and hot, nervous as a high strung mare. She wanted Luke to kiss her for real. She wanted his hands on her body, his tongue in her mouth, his… everything.

  And she'd almost gotten what she wanted—but now he'd gone all careful on her. He was holding her like he was afraid she'd break, his hands clasped carefully around her waist while his tongue teased and danced in her mouth, driving her crazy, making her desperate for more, harder, deeper. She pressed her body against him, needing the pressure of his chest against her breasts, the warmth of his skin against hers.

  He made a hoarse, strangled sound as his hands moved down and cupped her denim-clad butt, pressing her close so she could feel what she was doing to him. He was definitely dangerous now.

  His lips left hers and she felt the scrape of his five o'clock shadow on her cheek. His warm breath teased her ear as he blew out a shaky breath. Ducking his head, he pressed his forehead against hers and looked into her eyes.

  "I want to go home with you. I know I can't, I know it's too soon, but I want to."

  She nodded, her heart skipping and fluttering, her breath coming in gasps. "I know."

  "I know you're not sure, and I know you're not look ing for this. But if you don't want something to happen, you might not want to kiss me like that."

  She nodded, biting her lower lip.

  "Do you want something to happen?"

  She did. She wanted everything to happen, all at once, right there on the porch—but she didn't want to deal with the consequences of a night with Luke. She wasn't ready to risk her heart.

  Not yet.

  She looked up at him, her lower lip trembling, and tried to answer, but no sound came out.

  "I know." He pulled her into him so her head tucked under his chin. "I know." He rocked from side to side and she settled into him, closing her eyes, breathing in his scent.

  He gave her a final squeeze and pulled away. "You sure you'll be okay tonight? All alone over there?" He took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders.

  "I'll be fine," she said. "I have Ivan."

  He nodded. "You do," he said. "And just so you know, you have me too."

  Chapter 21

  LIBBY WOKE GRADUALLY, KEEPING HER EYES CLOSED against the faint glow of morning lighting her bedroom. She'd dreamed of Luke all night, and now her senses were filled with the scent of him. His jacket was coarse against her skin, a button pressing into her neck.

  Had she done more than dream?

  She jerked upright and scrambled to the side of the bed. Looking back, she saw his jacket draped over her pillow. She glanced around the room, nervous, as if someone might have seen her sleeping with his jacket clutched close like a child's teddy bear.

  No wonder she'd had such sweet dreams.

  Dreams would have to wait, though. And so would Luke.

  Delicious as that kiss had been, she'd regained her senses now that he was a safe distance away. His pres ence seemed to go to her head, making her forget who she was—how she was. She picked the wrong men. Always. And she was probably doing it again.

  As her sleep-induced fog cleared—or was it Luke induced?—she remembered Rooster and made a quick call to the vet clinic. Twenty minutes and a quick shower later, she was in the pickup and on her way to collect her remarkably resilient puppy.

  "He's a tough little guy," Ron said. "Seems to have made a full recovery."

  He wasn't kidding. Apparently, Rooster's brush with death had given him a new joie de vivre. By evening, he'd bitten Rotgut's ear, eaten most of a fuzzy pink bunny slipper, and rolled in something so revoltingly fragrant that even his own mother wouldn't get near him. He'd also given new meaning to the phrase "the dog ate my homework" by gnawing the yellow legal pad to shreds, destroying Libby's notes for two pending stories.

  By five o'clock, Libby didn't feel the least bit guilty shutting him and the rest of the puppies in the barn and heading out on a reconnaissance mission. Her direct questioning of suspects hadn't gotten her anywhere, so it was time to get sneaky. She remembered Mike's reluctance to let her visit his workshop and decided to check it out without an invitation. If the guy really was a psycho serial killer, he'd probably have trophies hidden in there.

  She hoped her suspicions were wrong. She didn't re ally want to find a mason jar full of disembodied ears, or a box of moldering fingers.

  Cruising past the Roundup, she checked attendance. Sure enough, Mike's white Ford Fairlane was one of the cars in the lineup outside the bar. Cash's black Explorer was there too, along with a lot of other trucks she didn't recognize. Crystal said Crazy Mike usually stayed at the bar until almost closing time, so Libby had plenty of time to play secret agent.

  She cruised down County Road 47, which was barely a road at all—just a gravel-strewn trail that sloped down into a narrow valley where the Lackaduck River wound through a crooked row of half-starved cottonwoods. After driving back and forth half a dozen times, she finally discovered a short break in the tangle of trees that proved to be the entrance to Mike's driveway.

  She bounced down the dirt two-track, weeds scraping the bottom and sides of her Ranger as she maneuvered carefully around jagged rocks and treacherous potholes. Rounding a curve, she splashed through some standing water and a view of the house rose up ahead.

  The house looked utterly abandoned, its clapboards gray and warped. It was clear someone had cared about the place at one time, but what was once a flower gar den sported only a few shabby blooms, and the carefully placed shrubbery had run amok in the front and side yards. An enormous dying cottonwood loomed over the house, one thick branch arched across the roof like a heavily muscled arm poised to strike.

  Libby turned around and headed back to a turnout she'd spotted just before the driveway. She could leave the pickup there, then trek back to the house. If Mike came home early for some reason, she didn't want him to find her truck parked out front.

  Hopping out of the Ranger, she almost slid down a steep bank at the edge of the turnout. The marshy ground at the bottom was scattered with rusted cans, old tires, and broken bottles. She spotted a broken rack of antlers nearby, and what looked like a cat skeleton fur ther down. Shuddering, she headed back up the crooked driveway, listening to the crickets trilling in the night air. Dead leaves rustled as nocturnal creatures scurried about their secret business in the woods.

  When she reached the house, she thrashed through the tangle of shrubbery to the backyard. Mike's work shop was a small log building about twice the size of her chicken house, with a rough wooden door that creaked in protest as she swung it open. Pawing the wall, she found a light switch and flicked it on.

  Scores of glassy eyes glinted in the harsh fluorescent light, each pair set in the mounted corpse of a dead ani mal. There were mule deer heads of every conceivable age and condition, bug-eyed pronghorns, and assorted birds, along with a few of Mike's novelty projects— a prairie dog jazz band, a frog wearing an oversized sombrero, and a grinning armadillo drinking a beer. Diagrams of animals in various stages of dissection were tacked up beside a yellowed calendar that proclaimed the virtues of the New Method Fur Dressing Company. The month of July featured a photograph of a blonde woman grinning with predatory pride as she held up the lifeless head of a deer. The seventeenth, a Thursday, was circled with a red crayon heart.

  A tarnished metal tray on the counter held glass eye balls of every imaginable color and size. Sharp knives and scalpels lay beside a cordless power drill, along with several dusty brown glass bottles bearing yellowing labels with grisly skulls-and-crossbones stamped over faded print. A cheap revolving office chair in front of the counter was draped with a shaggy animal skin that was stained an
d spotted with blood and bile.

  Libby knelt on the floor to explore the rusty file cabi nets that supported the counter. The first drawer held pic tures of animals, hundreds of them, cut from magazines and filed neatly in alphabetical order. The second held eight-track tapes of country music—the Statler Brothers, Tammy Wynette, and Conway Twitty. No doubt Crazy Mike spent his evenings cutting up small animals, grooving to the tunes of the Grand Ole Opry. The next drawer was Mike's junk drawer, and was filled with a mad jumble of string, rubber bands, and paper clips.

  Libby lifted her head, listening. Had she heard a noise outside? The crunch of gravel, maybe, or a twig snap ping? She sat motionless, straining her ears, but all she heard was the trickle of the distant river and a bird call ing in the distance.