Cowboy Trouble
Page 21
"Where is he now?"
"Skydancer? I don't know, and that's kind of strange. I tried to find out from Della's mom, but all she'd say was that she'd had to sell the horse. She said the buyer didn't want to be identified. Since then, no new Skydancer offspring have showed up. I can't believe someone's not out there marketing that horse."
She sighed. "And I really can't believe Della's gone. It's that stupid sheriff's fault." She stared down at her lap. "He wouldn't take us seriously. Said she'd prob ably gone off with some guy. We had to wait 'til she was missing forty-eight hours before he'd file a report." She laughed mirthlessly. "I really tore into that guy." She smiled ruefully. "I was right and he was wrong. I'll bet he still regrets losing that forty-eight hours. If he'd started looking for her then, he might have found her by now."
Chapter 28
THEY'D COME TO BILLINGS TO FIND OUT ABOUT DELLA, but once Larissa got onto the subject of riding, she was tougher to turn than a runaway racehorse. She seemed to regard Luke as a kindred soul and insisted the three of them stay to dinner so they could compare notes on training methods. Larissa's rich husband had turned out to be as boring as his job in the financial sector, and the conversation had mostly bounced between Larissa and Luke.
"Well, you were a big hit," Libby said to him as they left.
"You jealous?" he asked hopefully.
"More like bored," she said, rolling her eyes. "Horses, horses, horses. The woman never got out of the horse crazy tween stage."
"Sorry," he said. "Me neither, but don't worry. I'm not Larissa-crazy."
"No?"
"No." He smiled down at her and took her hand as they headed for the pickup, but she slipped out of his grip. This was getting too comfortable. He was starting to take her touch for granted, and that meant he thought they were moving beyond friendship to something deeper. It was time to draw the line. Friends might sit comfortably together in close quarters, like a truck cab, especially if they were pressed together by a gigantic smelly dog who took up two thirds of the seat, but they didn't hold hands.
The sky had shifted from baby blue to purplish gray while they ate. The late afternoon sun was low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the cliffs that rimmed the north edge of the city.
Luke climbed behind the steering wheel and ducked his head, peering up at the sky. "Looks nasty," he said. "You might get to see one of those summer hailstorms."
"You think?" She winced as a streak of lightning slashed a jagged white line across the darkening sky. Ivan whimpered and scooched closer to Libby.
"Maybe." He grinned. "You scared of thunderstorms?"
"No," she said. "I like them."
He looked disappointed, and they cruised a while in silence. The road seemed longer heading home, maybe because they were sick and tired of how special Chrissie was. Ivan sighed and laid down on the seat, his massive head and front paws draped over Libby's lap and part of Luke's. They were almost to Kaycee, the midpoint of the trip, when rain started to fall, big fat drops splatting like bugs on the windshield.
"Yup," Luke said. "Here it comes."
"Here what… never mind." Libby watched as a barrage of tiny white snowballs pummeled the truck, bouncing on the hood, pinging off the windshield. In less than a min ute, they'd grown almost to the size of golf balls, and it sounded like someone was throwing rocks at the truck.
Lots of rocks.
"Okay. I'm scared of this," Libby said.
So was Ivan. The dog plastered himself against her, shivers thrumming through his body.
"It's okay, buddy," she said, stroking his head.
Luke slowed the truck to a crawl. "I have to pull off." He was crouched over the wheel, his knuckles white as he steered through the slush of fallen hailstones burying the road.
"There are lights up ahead," Libby said, pointing. Luke tapped the brakes and the truck skewed slightly sideways, sliding onto the shoulder. Squinting through the windshield, he turned off the road into a parking lot, where a red neon arrow pointed to a low, slant-roofed building. "Sleepaway Inn," read the sign above it.
"That's an inn?" Libby said. "Looks more like a barn."
Luke nodded. The building's gray clapboard side was lined with ten salmon-colored doors, each with a corresponding window hung with crooked Venetian blinds. Black animal silhouettes—an antelope, a grizzly bear, an elk—were stenciled on each door in black spray paint, apparently in an effort to add local flavor. Libby thought the building had plenty of flavor without the silhouettes. The silhouettes made it look like a sheep shack that had been tagged with black spray paint by a wildlife-obsessed street gang.
Luke pulled under an overhang in front of the motel office, an A-frame structure at the far end of the build ing. The hammering of the hail suddenly ceased.
"Guess we'll wait it out," he said in the sudden silence.
"Guess so." Libby stroked Ivan's rich red fur, watch ing hailstones bounce on the pavement. It looked like it was raining ping-pong balls. Luke closed his eyes and settled back against the headrest. "Might as well take a nap," he said.
Libby tilted her head back and thunked the gun rack in the back window. "Ow," she said. "Why does every cowboy have to have a gun mounted back there?"
"Tradition," Luke said. "Besides, you never know when you might need it." He shifted sideways, angling himself against his window, and patted his shoulder. "Here. Sit back. I promise I'll be good."
She knew he'd be good. He'd be very, very good. That was the problem. She gave him a long look.
"I mean I'll behave," he said. He blinked, looking up at her from under heavy lids. He practically radiated sincerity, which made her all the more suspicious—but her back ached from the long ride and her eyes were burning from staring into the storm. Shifting to one side, she rested her head against his chest.
"Ow," he said. "My arm." He wriggled it out from under her and draped it over her waist. "Sorry," he said. "There's nowhere else to put it."
Ivan struggled to turn around. It was actually a fairly roomy cab, but having Ivan inside made it feel tiny. He finally made himself comfortable by sprawling across Libby's lap, pinning Luke's arm beneath him.
That would put a stop to any monkey business, she thought. Pinned under the dog, his arm would probably fall asleep. He'd be helpless.
Hmm. Helpless.
She shook that thought away and stroked Ivan's furry head. The dog might be scared of thunderstorms, but he could still protect her when it came to the important stuff.
She closed her eyes and laid her head on Luke's shirt front, riding the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing slowed. She shouldn't be here with Luke, shouldn't be resting her head against him, not even with the dog to protect her. It was too much like cuddling, and for her, cuddling was gateway sex.
It always led to the hard stuff.
But she needed sleep, dammit. In a matter of seconds, she wouldn't even be conscious—so it wasn't like she could enjoy the cuddling. Besides, stuff that happened in your sleep didn't count, which was a good thing con sidering those dreams she'd been having. All the things she stopped Luke from doing in their waking life went unchecked in her dreams, and moved along to their in evitable conclusion.
She was just drifting into one of her favorite sce narios, the dream enhanced by Luke's nearness, when something rapped on Luke's window and Ivan lurched upright, letting out a loud bark. A wizened face was pressed against the glass. Luke opened one eye and peered at it, his mouth still slack from sleep.
"Can't sleep here," the face mouthed.
Luke sat up and cranked down the window. An old man stood beside the car, scowling. "Can't sleep here," he repeated.
"We're just waiting out the storm," Luke said. He rubbed the arm that had been pinned under the dog. When he let go of it, it flopped onto Libby's lap.
"Sorry," he said. "It fell asleep." He picked up the dead arm with his left hand and set it in his own lap. Ivan looked down at it and barked.
The old man turned
and hobbled back into the office without a word. Luke sighed and rolled up the window. He lifted the arm up and propped it on the back of the seat, and Libby slumped against him again. They were just drifting off to sleep when a gnarled fist hit the win dow right beside Luke's head. Luke's arm flopped off the back of the seat and thumped Libby in the ribs.
"Sorry," he said again, rolling down the window. "It's like a zombie arm."
"Jackalope room," the old man said, holding up a plastic key fob decorated with a jackalope silhouette. "Down at the end. That'll be thirty dollars."
"No," Libby said. "No way. Not the Jackalope room." She practically had post-traumatic shock when it came to jackalopes.
The old guy dug in his pocket and pulled out a key. He grinned slyly. "Bunny room, then. Might be more appropriate for you young folks."
"We're not bunnies," Libby said. "We're nothing like bunnies. And we're not staying. Just let us sit here 'til the storm's over, okay?"
The hotel proprietor pointed toward the sign. "See what that there says?" he asked shrilly. "Sleepaway Inn. Not 'Sleepaway Out In the Parking Lot.' 'Sleepaway Inn.'" He set his fists on his hips and stared Luke down, bushy brows lowering over his rheumy eyes. "This here's a business, not a campsite by the side of the road."
"It's hard to tell," Luke muttered, but he pulled a wad of cash out of his back pocket and handed the guy a ten and a twenty. Cranking the key in the ignition, he backed the truck out from under the awning, leaving their host clutching the money, a pile of hailstones gathering at his feet.
As soon as they moved out from under the protec tion of the roof, the hammering started up again. The wind had picked up, and the snowballs were being hurled against the truck windows with shattering force. Ivan shoved his nose between Libby and the seat. Then he tried to wriggle his whole body in be hind her.
"No," she said. He nudged her again and she slid forward, her knees hitting the dashboard. Shifting side ways, she looked out at the hail. "The poor dog. And your poor truck," she said.
"I know." Luke made a tragic face. "And it was in mint condition when we started out."
She laughed.
"Maybe we should try the Bunny room," he said.
"Let's call it the Rodent room." Libby figured they should probably remove the inevitable associations con jured up by bunnies. She knew what bunnies did, and a motel room was the perfect place to emulate them. Rodents did the same thing, she supposed, but at least they lacked the Playboy connotations.
"Seriously, we might be safer there," he said.
Safer from what, Libby wondered. She'd be safer from the hail, sure, but she could feel other dangers sim mering in the cab of the truck.
"Maybe we should get two rooms," she said.
"We won't be here long. These storms usually blow over fast," Luke said. "We can watch a little TV or something. We paid for it, and it's better than sitting out here. My legs are getting cramped."
He backed the truck up, then turned it parallel to the building, ignoring the white painted parking lines and bumping the left tires up onto the sidewalk so there were only a few feet of open air between the truck and the door to the room. The hammering of the hail faded under the shelter of the slanted eave. Keeping his head down, he hopped out of the truck and poked the key into the knob under the rabbit silhouette.
"Wait there," he said as Libby scooted into the driv er's seat. Dashing into the room, he came back with a pillow. "Hold this over your head."
She felt ridiculous, but a couple of hailstones thumped the pillow as she ran inside and she was glad they hadn't rapped her on the skull. "Ivan, come," she called, turn ing around. The dog flattened himself on the seat, doing his best bearskin rug imitation. She ran back into the hail, balancing the pillow on her head with one hand, grabbed his collar, and pulled.
There was a slight ripping sound, but no movement. His claws were digging into the upholstery.
"Ivan's scared," she said. "Can you get him to come inside?"
Luke tried the collar too. No dice. It was like the ani mal was nailed down.
Leaning into the car, Luke scooped his hands under Ivan's belly and hoisted him out of the seat. He grunted as he staggered inside and deposited 140 pounds of cow ering canine on the carpet just inside the room.
"Stay," he said.
Ivan furrowed his brow and collapsed on the rug.
"He's a big sissy," Libby said.
"I'll take him for a day or two when we get home," Luke said. "He needs bomb-proofing."
"Bomb-proofing?"
"We do it with horses—subject them to the things that scare them a little at a time, until they get used to it and lose their fear," he said.
"Sounds good," Libby said. "Maybe you could throw golf balls at him."
Luke paced through the room, opening drawers in the laminated bureau, sliding open the closet door. "Score," he said, pulling out a pair of extra pillows and a blanket. "All the comforts of home." He plumped up the pillows and set them on top of the two already on the bed, then set the folded blanket on top. Toeing off his boots, he grabbed the TV remote and lounged against the make shift backrest.
"Come on." He patted the bed beside him. "What do you want to watch?"
"I don't care," Libby said. If she was sharing a bed with Luke, it wouldn't matter what was on TV. She wouldn't know what she was watching anyway. She'd be too conscious of his body beside her. She'd be too busy remembering how much she'd wanted him that night in the truck, how hard and urgently her own body had responded.
"Tell me when you want me to stop," he said, flicking through the channels. He wasn't watching the screen; he was watching her. And despite the innocence of what he was actually doing, his expression said very clearly he was thinking of something else.
Stop, she thought. Stop looking at me like that. Stop making me want to jump your bones. Just stop.
Chapter 29
SHE PERCHED STIFFLY ON THE SIDE OF THE BED, concentrating on the television, watching the screen flip from football to Law & Order to a black-and-white Western.
"There," she said. "Stop there."
"Randolph Scott," Luke said. "My hero." He settled back against the stacked pillows and laced his fingers behind his head. Libby looked down at the long length of his body and edged a little closer. At least he had those wandering hands under control.
She faked rapt involvement in Randolph Scott's ef forts to clean up the outlaw element in his frontier town, but she wasn't catching much of the dialogue. She was far too aware of Luke stretched out beside her.
She was tired, though. She closed her eyes, just for a minute, turning away from Luke so her hands couldn't reach out for him in her sleep. The dialogue from the television gradually devolved into incomprehensible mush as the world drifted away.
She woke to near-darkness. Luke had turned the tele vision off, and the only light was coming from the bathroom, where he'd turned on the light and pulled the door nearly closed. She could hear rain battering the tin roof over their heads; not hail, but an awful lot of rain. Luke must have decided to stay.
Evidently, he'd also decided to keep her warm. His body was curled around hers, and his arm clasped her waist. His breath warmed the back of her neck, riffling the fine hairs spilling from her sloppy French twist. She turned over slowly, being careful not to wake him. His face was relaxed in sleep, those surprisingly tender lips slightly parted, his lashes dark against his cheek, his face innocent as a child's except for the stubble shadowing his jaw. She lifted a finger and tentatively stroked it across his jawline, feeling the roughness of his beard. His eyes flicked open.
"Hey," he said. His sleepy smile was sweet and se ductive. She pulled her hand back, hesitating.
"It's okay," he said. He brought his hand up and mir rored her touch, but slower, stroking her cheek, then moving down the side of her neck, leaving a trail of flickering nerve endings in his wake.
"I was watching you sleep earlier," he whispered. "You're beautiful, you know that?"
She shuttered her lashes, avoiding his eyes.
"Hey, you know what?" he asked.
She was almost afraid to ask. "What?"
"This motel is in the Twilight Zone."
She giggled a little too loud, relieved to return to a safe subject. "I thought maybe it was in a fairy tale. I think that old guy is the troll under the bridge."