"Hey, Cash," she called out. "There's a mouse in here." Quantum was jigging in place now, and his eyes rolled nervously as another, larger shadow bolted under his feet. "A rat!" she screeched. "Cash!"
"I know," he said. "I bought this place seven years ago, and you should have seen it. The stalls were knee deep in manure, and there were old grain sacks every where. That's why I got the Bobcat—to clear out the mess." He gestured toward the barnyard, where a tiny white bulldozer with a cab barely big enough to hold a driver was parked in the sunshine.
"Oh, that's the thing you guys use for that square dance thing," Libby exclaimed. She went over and checked out the little machine. "It's cute!"
"It's a great toy, and it cleaned out the barn in no time. I've done everything else I can think of to cut down on the pest population, but this place is still infested with rats and mice like you wouldn't believe. It drives the horses crazy."
"You need Jack Russells," Libby said. "You make fun of my dogs, but they'd have this place cleaned out like that." She snapped her fingers.
"You think?"
"I know," she said, an idea forming in her head. "You should let my little Verminators pay you a visit. They'd get rid of your problem in no time."
"So those little sissy dogs can make themselves use ful, huh?" Cash looked thoughtful. "Maybe you should bring them over sometime." He turned to face her. "I'm going to a law enforcement conference in Rock Springs tomorrow, but maybe Wednesday?"
"I don't know, Cash," she said. He was doing it again—gathering up the reins, pulling them tight, trying to steer her his way. He stepped closer—too close. She was practically backed up against the wall. He set his hands against the wall beside her shoulders.
Damn. She was trapped. And now he was going to kiss her.
Or at least he was going to try. She turned her head and started to duck away under his arm.
"Hey, come on," he said. He grabbed her shoulders and pressed her against the wall, grinding his hips into hers. She felt him twitch against her belly, and a bolt of revulsion and panic shot through her, making her dizzy and sick. She tried to squirm away, but he was too big. Too strong.
"No," she said. She writhed against him, trying to break away, but the motion only seemed to excite him. He crushed her breast under one hand as he moved the other to the waist of her jeans and fumbled with the buckle on her belt.
"No!" Reflexively, she jerked her knee up hard, hitting him in the crotch, and twisted away. Without stopping to see if she'd hurt him, she ran for the door, fastening her jeans with shaking hands and tugging her shirt back into place. She slammed the barn door behind her, then ran across the yard and jumped into her truck, locking the doors as soon as she was safe inside. Resting her head on the steering wheel, she tried to stop shaking, wondering if she'd be able to drive.
The barn door swung open. Cash's silhouette filled the doorway. He was hunched over, obviously in pain, but his clenched fists hung at his sides, ready for action.
"Hey," he called. "Wait a minute!"
Shaking or not, she had to get out of there. Cranking the key in the ignition, she gunned the accelerator and reeled out of the driveway.
Chapter 40
LIBBY KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG THE MINUTE SHE pulled into her driveway. Light beamed from every window, and an eerie silence hung over the house. Ivan wasn't in his usual spot on the front step, and there was no sign of the puppies. Normally, there would be a cho rus of yelps and barks the minute she pulled in.
"Penny?" she called. No answer. Something was definitely wrong.
It had to be Crazy Mike. He was back. He'd killed her dogs, and he was waiting in there for her. She turned off the engine, shut off the headlights, and sat frozen in the truck, wondering what to do next.
She reached into her purse and fished around for her cell phone. She could call her home number and see if anybody answered. She ran her hand through her jumbled belongings—wallet, checkbook, spare keys. No cell phone. She cursed herself silently. She must have left her phone in the house when she'd left for Cash's place earlier that day.
She clicked off the dome light and eased the car door open, sliding out of the seat. Her feet hit the gravel drive way with a crunch that seemed loud enough to wake the whole state. She didn't dare shut the car door—it would explode like a gunshot in the quiet Wyoming night. Stealthily, she crept up to the house, placing each foot carefully, testing her footing before she shifted her weight. Walk like an Indian, she thought. Be quiet, be quiet. She was almost to the house when she felt some thing poke her in the butt.
"No!" She whirled and kicked out, banging her ankle against a rock-hard skull covered with fur. Ivan. Playfully, he jumped up and knocked her down on the grass.
"Shhhh." She grabbed his collar and hugged him hard. "What's up, boy?" she whispered. "Where are the puppies? Who's in there?" The big dog licked her face and flailed at her chest with his paw. So much for canine intelligence. A killer was in there waiting for her, and Ivan wanted to shake hands. He'd probably shown Crazy Mike right to the door.
"Staaay," she hissed, forcing him into a sit. "Wait." Knees bent, she crab-walked over to the side of the house, where a dim radiance fanned out from the living room window. She plastered herself against the side of the house and peered through a break in the curtains.
She was right. Someone was in there. She could just see the end of the sofa and one side of the coffee table. An empty beer bottle stood on the table, and Penny lay on the floor. She looked dead, or maybe drugged, her head lolling, her feet in the air. There was a puppy be side her, lying on his side. The intruder lay on the sofa, but all Libby could see from her vantage point was a pair of cowboy boots, caked with mud, crossed on the armrest. Damn. He was going to ruin her furniture be fore he killed her.
She crouched beside the house and thought. She needed a plan. She couldn't go back for Cash now. She'd have to shut the door to the pickup and start the engine, and that would alert her uninvited guest to her presence. He'd be gone before she got back, and they'd lose him again. Cash would be furious.
There was a can of mace in her glove compartment. The boots hadn't moved, so her quarry was probably asleep. Either that, or he was watching and listening. She'd have to be careful. Hopefully, she could sneak in the back door and disable him before he realized she was there.
Getting back to the car seemed to take hours. The mace canister was right where she always kept it. Shoving it in her back pocket, she bent almost double and ran around to the back of the house.
She was worried about jingling her keys, but she didn't need them. The door was unlocked, and swung inward without a sound. She held the mace in front of her at arm's length, imitating the FBI agents she'd seen in movies, swinging from wall to wall with smooth, sud den moves. She needed to get through the kitchen. That would get her around to the back of the sofa, so she could take her quarry by surprise.
The kitchen was a mess. Someone had helped them selves to popcorn, of all things. A torn microwave pop corn bag lay on the counter, spewing unpopped kernels. Three empty beer bottles sat in the sink. The cookie jar where she kept the dogs' treats was open and half empty. That explained how he'd silenced her puppies. Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of Penny and her babies, how excited they must have been to see some one, anyone; how they'd probably sat up and begged on their hind legs for poisoned milk bones.
They should have been begging for their lives, she thought grimly.
A noise behind her made her spin, aiming the mace toward a skittering, scratching sound. It was Rooster, running into the kitchen. She almost cried out, but she caught herself and grabbed him, lifting him against her chest. He trembled, then heaved the contents of his stomach all over her good shirt. Popcorn. And beer. Ever since the arsenic incident, he threw up even more than Rotgut. The poison probably never had a chance to enter his system. Clutching the puppy to her chest, she edged into the doorway, peering into the living room.
There was someone on th
e sofa, but it wasn't Crazy Mike.
Chapter 41
IT WAS LUKE.
A half-finished bowl of popcorn was propped be tween his legs, and his head was thrown back on a pile of pillows. A faint snore rose from his open mouth, and he had a sleeping puppy cradled in one arm.
He sure didn't look like a serial killer. Libby dodged back into the kitchen to collect her thoughts.
Should she tell him the game was up, or play dumb? If she played dumb, he'd probably try to kiss her again. Incredibly, despite all she'd learned from Brandy, she felt a wave of anticipation at the thought. She had to remind herself that this wasn't the boy next door anymore. This was the Killer Cowboy, subject of her upcoming bestseller. A single man over thirty who lived with his mother. He had known the missing girl and kept their relationship a secret. He had collected news stories about the crime the way some guys collect baseball cards, and he'd recognized Brandy's number just hours before the girl got a mysteri ous threatening phone call—a phone call that concerned an interview only he knew was going to happen. He'd defended Crazy Mike passionately even though local law enforcement was certain the taxidermist was guilty.
Of course, local law enforcement was Cash McIntyre, and he had his own issues—but still, there was prob ably enough circumstantial evidence on Luke to merit a search warrant. Maybe even an arrest.
So why couldn't she believe he was guilty?
Because.
Because somewhere deep inside her, the sight of him ignited a spark of love that stubbornly, stupidly refused to die. If Luke really was the Killer Cowboy, she wasn't the intrepid reporter who uncovered his dastardly deeds. She was his next victim, lured to her doom by his good looks and charm.
Unless she killed him first, for making a muddy mess of the only decent piece of furniture she owned. In her scrambled mental state, the fact that his muddy boots had soiled the fragile upholstery of her antique sofa sud denly enraged her beyond reason.
Swearing, she threw the mace container at him. It bounced off his chest, releasing a puff of spray, and hit the floor. Penny raised her head groggily, blinking, an noyed at this interruption to her beauty sleep.
***
"Hey!" Luke spluttered, coughing. The mace hadn't hit him full in the face, but the chemical traces in the air were enough to make him choke. His eyes watering, he peered over the back of the sofa and saw Libby standing in the doorway.
"Nice," he said, still coughing. "You sure know how to wake a guy up." He squinted at his watch. "It's late," he said accusingly.
"I know. What are you doing here?" she asked.
Uh-oh. He knew that tone. It meant he was in trouble.
It wasn't fair. She was the one who should be in trouble. He understood she'd had to go to Cheyenne with the sheriff, but did that really take all day and half the night? She'd said she might be late for the puppies' dinnertime, but it was nearly nine.
"I was watching your dogs," he said. "You told me to."
"I told you to check on them and feed them," she said, "I didn't tell you to stay here, and I certainly didn't tell you to mess up my kitchen, eat my food, drink my beer, and get mud all over my furniture."
"I was waiting up for you. I wanted to make sure you got home okay."
"What are you now, my dad?"
"No." Hardly. The way he felt about her would be totally inappropriate if he were her dad. "But if I was, I'd be awfully upset with you. It's late."
"I—I was busy."
"Where? Doing what?"
"At—at Cash's house."
He swallowed a half dozen questions—What were you doing there? Did anything happen between the two of you? Why didn't you hurry home to me? But he didn't ask any of them. She trusted him, and he'd have to trust her. But it still hurt to think of her spending time with Cash McIntyre.
He sat up, setting the puppy on a pillow, and began brushing dried mud off the sofa with tense, vicious mo tions. "It's a good thing I stayed," he said. "Your dogs do have to go out once in a while, you know. Ivan's out there now. You would have come home to a worse mess than mud on the sofa, Libby."
"Hey, things got—complicated. I couldn't help it."
He squinted at her. His eyes were still unfocused and sleepy, but even through his blurred vision, she looked unhappy, and there was something on the front of her shirt. It looked like she'd been puked on, but he wasn't about to say anything about it. You couldn't tell a woman her shirt looked like vomit. With his luck, some decorative chunky substance had come into fashion while he wasn't looking, and she'd be all insulted.
"Is everything okay?" he asked. "You look upset."
"I'm fine," she said, but she wouldn't meet his eyes.
"Things go all right with the sheriff?" he asked.
"Fine," she said.
"Whatever." She obviously wasn't about to tell him what had happened, but judging from her tone, things weren't looking good for the sheriff.
Good.
He picked up the sleeping puppy and cradled it against his chest. "We watched an old movie and had popcorn. Did you know your dogs like beer?" He nudged Penny with his foot and she popped up onto her back legs to beg, then swayed and fell over. She'd been doing that all night. "Penny drinks it right out of the bottle. It's cute." A piece of mystery matter fell off the front of her shirt, hitting the floor with a damp plop. Definitely vomit. "Hey, what happened to your shirt?"
"Rooster happened," Libby said. "He can't eat pop corn, Luke. And he can't drink beer, for heaven's sake. He spits up everything." She waved the little dog in his face. Rooster burped.
"Yikes." Luke mumbled. "Not on me, buddy. Save that for your mom."
Libby scooped up the beer bottles and headed for the kitchen. "Men," she said. "Idiots."
"Does that include the sheriff?" Luke tried to wipe the sarcastic edge from his voice, but it was obvious how he felt. "What did you guys do all day, anyway?"
"Like I told you, we went to see your friend Brandy," Libby said snidely. "You were right. She's quite a gal."
"Yeah, she is," he said. "A little wild, but she's got a good heart. Not my type, though."
"Really?"
"Really."
"So." She narrowed her eyes like a CIA interrogator. "Was Della your type?"
"Della?" Where had that come from? He scratched his head. "No. Why would you ask me that?"
"Oh, no reason," she said. "We just unearthed some interesting information today, that's all." She fixed her eyes on him. "Like the fact that you had a relationship with Della."
That woke him up.
"I didn't have a relationship with Della," he said, jumping up and following her into the kitchen.
"That's not what I heard." She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the counter. "I heard she was over at your place all the time. Helping you with your sick cattle, supposedly. I'm sure that was a lot of fun."
"Oh, it was a blast, Libby." Luke set the popcorn bowl on the counter and rolled his eyes. "There's noth ing like having an oversexed teenager throw herself at you every time you turn around. I never responded, Libby. Not in any way. Hell, I finally had to call Ron Stangerson and tell him to keep her away from me. The girl had a problem, that's all."
***
Libby wanted to believe Luke. And his description of Della was right in line with what she'd heard from ev eryone else. Josie had told her about the hookups with the rodeo cowboys, and the vet had even mentioned a customer who complained about Della's advances. Ap parently, Luke was that customer.
"So why didn't you tell me about it?" she asked. "Why did you keep it a secret?"
She stood back and folded her arms, tapping her foot while she waited for his answer. Not that it mattered. There was no answer in the world that would make this okay. No good reason for him to leave out the crucial detail that oh, yeah, he'd actually spent a lot of time with the missing girl. Alone. In his barn. Just him and the over sexed teenager, communing with the horses and cows.
She'd been a fool
to believe in Luke Rawlins. Even if he wasn't a murderer, he was a liar, just like Bill Cooperman. Whenever she'd complained about her boss, Bill had been basking in recollections of their sneaky little get-togethers; and while she was searching clues to Della's disappearance, Luke was probably lost in memories of holding hands with the girl over the de worming guns.
"I don't know," Luke said, scuffing the floor with the toe of his boot like a guilty schoolboy. "I didn't want to say anything bad about her, you know?" He lifted his eyes to Libby's. "She's missing. Something bad hap pened to her. No matter how much of a tease she was, it wasn't her fault."
"Of course not."
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