Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  She'd have to ask Cash about his run-ins with Crazy Mike. She knew he'd found the little dog dead in the woods, and she knew he'd had to calm Mike down on a couple of occasions at the Roundup. But maybe there was more.

  And if Crazy Mike was responsible for Della's disap pearance, maybe there was a lot more. Guilt and fear can scramble a sane mind; no doubt they could really do a number on somebody like Crazy Mike.

  She glanced around the barnyard. Crazy Mike could be holed up in any one of the rickety outbuildings. He could be crouching behind the stack of hay bales beside the barn. He could be ducked down beside the rusty trac tor that was permanently parked by the paddock.

  He could be anywhere. Waiting. Watching her.

  She heaved a sigh of relief when the cruiser finally pulled into the driveway. Maybe Cash had good news.

  "Find him?" she called.

  Cash hauled himself out of the cruiser and slumped against it, resting his arms on the roof. "Nope," he said. His uniform, usually so crisp and neat, was wrinkled and dirty. Stubble stood out on his chin and cheeks, and dark pouches hung under his red-rimmed eyes. He looked battered and exhausted.

  "We've been out all night," he said, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "No sign of him anywhere."

  "Where could he have gone?" she asked.

  "You have to remember who he is, Libby. His dad was obsessed with hunting and woodcraft, and he taught Crazy Mike everything he knew. That boy's done nothing but tramp the land for most of his life. He knows how to stalk every kind of animal without being detected, and trust me, most animals are a lot more at tuned to a man's presence in the wild than any of my deputies could hope to be."

  "So he's out there somewhere."

  "Yup. We checked out his house, and there's no sign he's been back. We did find some interesting things in his workshop, though."

  "The nail polish, and the hairbrush? The little purse?"

  His eyes widened. "How do you know about those?"

  Libby gave herself a mental slap and fooled with the wire on a hay bale to avoid his gaze. "My chickens… I need to get this henhouse ready." Her back was to the sheriff, but she could feel his hard look.

  "How do you know about the stuff in his work shop, Libby?"

  She turned and faced him. "I was in there. I checked it out."

  "When?"

  "Remember the day Rooster was poisoned? The night you came out to the farm?"

  "Yeah. You were here with Luke. I definitely remem ber. Oh, shit. I thought you'd been out in the woods. You had leaves and twigs in your hair. I figured you guys had been getting it on in the great outdoors."

  "Well, we weren't. I told you we weren't. I was out at Mike's place. I was looking for evidence, and I found it."

  "Libby, that's crazy. I know you don't like to hear this, but you're taking risks you don't need to take."

  "I'm taking risks I choose to take, Cash," she said. "You told me you'd pick up Mike if the toxicology tests were positive for arsenic, and then you never did. I had to take matters into my own hands. I know it was dangerous, but it was worth it." She couldn't resist a triumphant grin. "Found it a week before you did."

  "And did what with it? Libby, what you did wasn't detective work. It was breaking and entering." He paced the length of the chicken house, his hands knotted behind his back. "Did you touch anything?" he asked. "Because I've got three men over there now dusting for fingerprints, and it won't be a good thing if yours turn up all over that stuff." He slumped against the wall. "I finally got a good reason to get a search warrant for that place, and it turns out you've been there and fouled up the evidence. You need to stop interfering in this investigation."

  "Whatever, Cash," she said coldly. "I'm sorry if you feel I'm interfering."

  "Why are you mad at me? Can't you see my point of view?" He turned away and resumed his pacing. "The ev idence in that drawer could go a long way toward solving Della's disappearance. There's nothing more important to me than proving Crazy Mike killed Della—nothing. I've been trying to tie things together for over two years, and now I've finally got what I need and it turns out you knew about it all along." He stopped in front of her and spread his hands. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I just… couldn't." She stared intently at her left foot as she traced elaborate patterns in the dust of the drive way. The truth was, she'd realized she couldn't take her information to the sheriff. She had taken unnecessary risks, with her safety and with the evidence. Her anger deflated like a punctured balloon.

  "Okay," he said. "You realize this could be a problem, right? I mean, a good defense attorney could argue that you planted the evidence to set Mike up."

  "Cash, I'm sorry." She took a deep breath. She hated apologizing. Now Cash would have the upper hand. "I guess I didn't think things through well enough to real ize I might screw up your case."

  "It's okay." He nodded, but his eyes were stern. "But you really need to leave this to me. You're a journalist, not a detective. You're free to follow along and write about the investigation, but it's not your job to go looking for clues yourself, okay? You just let me lead the way."

  He looked down at her, and for a minute she was afraid he was going to poke her "pretty little nose" again. He didn't, but his tone of voice was so condescending she wanted to poke his—with her fist.

  "I'll tell you what," he said. "I'll still let you come along when I go see Brandy tomorrow, okay?"

  She clenched her teeth and took a deep breath. The guy was an ass. She knew that. She'd known it from the first time she'd met him. She ought to just back off, let him go to Cheyenne on his own. Chances were, Brandy didn't have any information to offer anyway.

  But what if she did? Libby had found more evidence in two weeks than Cash had found in two years. If he went on his own, Cash might miss something important.

  She'd have to go. She'd put up with him one last time.

  "Okay," she said. "Tomorrow."

  Chapter 34

  POWERED BY SHERIFF-INSPIRED FURY, IT TOOK LIBBY less than an hour to finish her chicken coop revamp. She swept the worn floorboards, then hosed them down and let them dry in the sun. She tossed forkfuls of bright new straw under the roosts. It was hardly good agrarian economy to use that much straw for a few chickens, but it made the place look more like a Fisher Price farm. She spread a few handfuls of feed in the yard, then released the chicks into their pen and sat down in the open doorway of Lackaduck's finest henhouse.

  She hadn't talked to Mary in over a week. Flipping her cell phone open, she dialed and got an answer on the second ring.

  "Libby! I was just thinking about you. Did you get to visit Della's friends?"

  "One of them. Luke and I went up to Billings to visit Larissa on Wednesday."

  "Did she help?"

  "Not really. She mostly wanted to talk about Skydancer."

  Mrs. McCarthy sighed. "Still horse crazy."

  "Whatever happened to that horse, Mary? Larissa said nobody's seen any Skydancer offspring in years."

  "I don't know."

  "You sold him, right? Who bought him?"

  "I don't know. The buyer used an agent, so I never found out who it was."

  "An agent?"

  "It's apparently not uncommon among the top breed ers to use a confidential agent to purchase stock. If one breeder wants a particular horse, he doesn't want anyone else to know what he's up to. I guess the name of the customer could be used to jack the price up by starting a bidding war. It's a competitive profession."

  "Why didn't you send the horse to auction? Or ad vertise him?"

  "He'd lost condition so badly without Della to ex ercise him. We couldn't bear to part with him at first. Selling him felt like giving up on our daughter, so he just stayed out there in the barn. He'd gotten really difficult to care for. My husband used to go out there and feed him, even try to brush him a little, but he was bitten several times. Kicked, too. Finally, one day, the horse knocked him down and just about stomped him to death in the stal
l. Sometimes I think that's what led to John's stroke. Then this agent showed up, and he offered us a really good price. We decided to take it." She caught her breath. "The day they took Skydancer away was the first time I faced the fact that Della was really and truly gone."

  Libby paused, giving Mary time to collect herself, unable to imagine the grief she'd suffered.

  "Mary, who was the agent? I'd like to follow up on this, find out who ended up with the horse."

  "Honestly, Libby, I don't know."

  "The man paid you a lot of money. There must be a record of his name somewhere."

  "He paid us in cash. We never reported it, and we didn't keep any records. The taxes would have taken so much of it, and John was already sick by then."

  There it was—another dead end. "It probably doesn't matter," Libby said. "Maybe something happened to the horse—he had an accident or got sick."

  She looked up at the sound of an approaching vehicle. It was Luke's piebald truck, bouncing up her driveway, rattling and clanging at every pothole. He pulled up across from the chicken house and stepped out. He'd changed his clothes and showered, but he must have rushed the job, because his hair was still tousled, as if he'd toweled it dry and called it good.

  Tousled suited him.

  "Thanks, Mary. I've got to go," she said. "I'll be in touch." She clicked the phone shut.

  "Is your mom okay?"

  "She's fine." Luke didn't seem willing to elaborate. They sat in silence a while, watching the chickens scratch in the grass. Luke kept taking deep breaths, as if he was about to say something, but nothing came out.

  "What?" Libby finally said.

  He squeezed his eyes shut tight, as if he was in pain, then opened them and met hers. "I lied to you, Libby. I'm sorry."

  Oh, great. Here it came. Just in case ignoring her hadn't done the trick, he was going to put his feelings— or lack of them—into words. Confirmation that once again, she'd fallen for the wrong man.

  "I told you that night at the Sleepaway wouldn't matter," he said, staring off across the yard. "I told you it wouldn't count." He took a deep breath. "I told you we'd never have to talk about it, or think about it, again. I promised, and I try to keep my promises. I really do."

  She nodded, her face impassive.

  "But I think about it all the time," he said. He plucked a blade of grass and shredded it, his hands shaking. "I can't think about anything else. I'm trying, but I can't. That Twilight Zone thing? It's not working." He sighed, staring down at his boots. "That night at the Sleepaway wasn't in another dimension. It was real." He lowered his voice. "It was just about the realest thing that ever happened to me."

  She lowered her eyes, looking down at the shredded blade of grass he'd tossed on the ground. That night had meant something to him too. He'd felt the connection between them, sensed the treasure they'd found. He'd only turned away because he'd told her he would.

  Because he'd promised.

  And he'd kept his promise—as long as he could stand to.

  "I know I promised I'd never mention it again. But I feel like I'm lying to you, pretending it didn't matter. I have to tell you the truth." He sighed. "I'm an idiot," he said. "I thought we could just be together once—just get over each other, you know? But it made it worse. Or, not worse. I mean better. It made it real." He took a deep breath. "Libby, I'm sorry. I'm in love with you. I can't help it."

  "I can't help it either," she said. She turned and faced him. "And I don't want to."

  "You can't… you…"

  She'd sworn she'd never say those words to a man again. She'd sworn she'd never make herself that vulner able. But Luke was giving her everything, all of himself, without holding back, and he deserved the truth.

  "I love you too," she said.

  He gasped and pulled her into his arms, curling his fingers in her hair, kissing her with a passion he must have been holding inside for the past two days, holding her as if he was scared she'd bolt if he let her loose. This was the real Luke, uncut and unedited, giving her every thing he had to offer. A matching heat spread through her body like a spark running up a fuse, and she kissed him back with equal fervor, telling him with her lips and her body what she'd never been bold enough to put into words. His hands moved down her back and he eased her into the fragrant straw.

  Good thing she'd just cleaned the chicken house.

  "Now you'll have straw in your hair," he murmured. His lips moved down her neck as he fumbled with the buttons on her shirt. She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer.

  "Libby," he murmured. She felt a delicious sense of helplessness as her back arched against his body. She was tired of fighting. So tired. For once in her life, sur render was coming easy.

  Trust was coming easy.

  "Can we go inside?" she whispered.

  He nodded and she struggled to stand, but he swept her up in his arms and carried her Rhett Butler-style across the yard and into the house.

  "Frankly, Scarlett," he said as he swung her through the doorway, "I give a damn." He grinned. "Matter of fact, I give a whole lot of damns."

  They were almost to the sofa when a barrage of barks sounded from behind the house. Luke set her down on the cushions and paused, listening.

  "What was that?"

  "Who knows?" Libby grabbed his hand. "And who cares? They bark at everything. Don't worry about it."

  "It could be Mike." He pulled his hand away. "I'd better check."

  He strode out the front door. Libby followed him partway, but her legs were so wobbly she had to sit down on the front steps. Good thing she didn't have nearby neighbors. Her shirt was half-unbuttoned, and she had no doubt her hair had progressed beyond tousled to tangled.

  Wild Thing strutted out of the shrubbery and crossed the lawn, her head jutting comically with every mincing step. Spotting Libby, she let out a shocked squawk and ran behind the henhouse, useless wings flapping noisily.

  Libby ran her fingers through her hair and came up with a handful of straw.

  "So I'm a little bit of a mess," she said to the chicken. "What else is new?"

  Chapter 35

  LUKE HEADED BACK AROUND THE HOUSE, HOPING Libby's mood hadn't changed. The dogs had been bark ing at a tumbleweed; there was no Crazy Mike lurking in the sagebrush, no truck vandal plotting nefarious deeds in the outhouse.

  She was waiting for him on the front step, with straw in her hair and her shirt half-undone. Luke thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful. If he'd been willing to share, he'd have taken her picture and pasted it up on a billboard, just to show the world what he'd found.

  But Libby probably wouldn't be too crazy about that idea.

  "Come here," he said, reaching a hand down to help her up. Wordlessly, he led her through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the bedroom. It was late afternoon, and the sun slanting through the windows tinted every thing with warm sunset colors, bringing out hints of pink and gold in the tender skin that sloped into Libby's half bared cleavage, tempting him to touch. She sat on the side of the bed and he slid her shirt from her shoulders, kissing each fresh swath of her skin as it was uncov ered, inch by inch. When he finally peeled the shirt away altogether, he pushed her back onto the frilly pillows she kept at the head of the bed. She looked even more beautiful in that golden light than she had on the steps— if that was even possible.

  "This is right," he said. "This is how I wanted it to be." He brushed his lips over hers and smoothed his fingers over her skin, stroking carefully, almost experi mentally, dipping into the hollow of her throat, tracing the curve of her hip, teasing the tips of her breasts. She sighed and surged under his hands like a warm tide rising to meet him. When he palmed her breasts, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, giving herself up to him, and he moved his palms in careful circles, feeling her nipples rise and tighten. He undid the clasp between her breasts and lifted the filmy fabric away, then resumed his ministrations, alternating light, teasing touches with firmer ones that sooth
ed and slowed the tingling needs he'd created.

  He ran his finger across her belly, tracing the waist line of her shorts. His hand slipped easily under the denim, under the elastic of her panties, and he watched her face as his fingers neared her center, then moved away, then slipped downward again. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted as if she was shutting out every thing but the feel of him, and she looked so lovely he felt an actual pain in his heart, a yearning so strong it actually ached.

  ***

  Libby closed her eyes and set herself adrift. Even in the most passionate throes of lovemaking, she'd always an chored herself to some solid reality. Even at the Sleep away Inn, there'd been a part of her held carefully in reserve. She'd always believed that giving all of herself would somehow diminish her, weaken her.