by Ann Charles
Dear Reader,
I have a confession to make—this book is not fiction. Well not entirely anyway. You see, I have two sisters, both older than me, and as I wrote many of the scenes in this story the line between fiction and non-fiction often blurred.
My oldest sister has always been our leader and caretaker. She taught me how to read and made sure I was prepared for kindergarten. I often credit my good grades in school to the early boost she gave me. These days she’s still taking care of me, acting as my publicist, playing part-time bookkeeper, helping to find new readers, and buying fun clothes for me to wear at book signings.
My “middle” sister was born a jester, always making wisecracks and entertaining us. She taught me some very important life lessons, including how to lose with grace (she was the World’s Best Cheater when we were kids), and how to be humble (which came with me losing every game I played with her). Her best lessons were about how to laugh at my screw-ups and to find humor in even the crappiest situations. I credit her for my having a sense of humor, which you will find on the pages of my books.
With four decades of sisterhood under my belt, elements from my real life sister experiences kept slipping into my story world. I didn’t realize how much had leaked in until I read through the book during the editing process and giggled during many scenes. I could easily picture the three of us in Jackrabbit Junction getting into trouble along with the crazy Morgan sisters.
I hope you enjoy The Rowdy Coyote Rumble and the wacky messes Ronnie, Claire, and Kate get into down in the desert. When you finish, raise a glass at The Shaft to my two funny and loving sisters along with me. They deserve a lifetime of free drinks for putting up with my “spoiled” hiney all of these years!
www.anncharles.com
To Laura and Shelly, my rabble-rousing sisters.
You both have given me so much love and laughter over the years. I’m glad you’ve been there to lean on.
When I write about the Morgan girls, you two are often on my mind, inspiring me to dig deeper and make their escapades even crazier.
Thank you for providing great inspiration for my stories. Here’s to many more years of sharing life’s adventures.
I love you more every year!
Also by Ann Charles
Jackrabbit Junction Mystery Series:
Dance of the Winnebagos (Book 1)
Jackrabbit Junction Jitters (Book 2)
The Great Jackalope Stampede (Book 3)
Dig Site Mystery Series:
Look What the Wind Blew In (Book 1)
Deadwood Mystery Series:
Nearly Departed in Deadwood (Book 1)
Optical Delusions in Deadwood (Book 2)
Dead Case in Deadwood (Book 3)
Better Off Dead in Deadwood (Book 4)
An Ex to Grind in Deadwood (Book 5)
Meanwhile, Back in Deadwood (Book 6)
Short Stories from the Deadwood Mystery Series:
Deadwood Shorts: Seeing Trouble
Deadwood Shorts: Boot Points
Deadwood Shorts: Cold Flame
A Short Story from the upcoming Goldwash Mystery Series:
The Old Man’s Back in Town
Coming Next from Ann Charles:
Title TBA
(Deadwood Mystery Series: Book 7)
Title TBA
(Dig Site Mystery Series: Book 2)
Jackrabbit Cast
**KEY: Character (Book # in which they appear)—Description**
Claire Alice Morgan (1,2,3,4)—Main heroine of the series, Mac’s girlfriend, Harley’s granddaughter
Harley “Gramps” Ford (1,2,3,4)—Claire’s maternal grandfather, Ruby’s husband
Henry Ford (1,2,3,4)—Harley’s beagle/dog
MacDonald “Mac” Garner (1,2,3,4)—Main hero of the series, Claire’s boyfriend
Ruby (Wayne) Martino-Ford (1,2,3,4)—Mac’s aunt, owner of the Dancing Winnebagos R.V. Park, Harley’s new wife
Jessica Wayne (1,2,3,4)—Ruby’s teenage daughter, Harley’s stepdaughter
Chester Thomas (1,2,3,4)—Harley’s old Army vet buddy
Manuel “Manny” Carrera (1,2,3,4)—Harley’s old Army vet buddy
Joe Martino (1,2,3,4)—Deceased; Ruby’s first husband, previous owner of the Dancing Winnebagos R.V. Park
Deborah Ford-Morgan (2,3,4)—Claire’s mother, Harley’s daughter
Kathryn “Kate” Morgan (2,3,4)—Claire’s younger sister, Deborah’s youngest daughter, Butch’s girlfriend
Veronica “Ronnie” Morgan (3,4)—Claire’s oldest sister, Deborah’s oldest daughter
Natalie Beals (3)—Claire’s cousin from back in South Dakota, Harley’s granddaughter
Grandma Ford (1,2,3)—Deceased; Claire’s grandmother, Harley’s first wife
Valentine “Butch” Carter (1,2,3,4)—Owner of The Shaft, the only bar in Jackrabbit Junction, Kate’s boyfriend
Grady Harrison (1,2,3,4)—Sheriff of Cholla County
Mindy Lou Harrison (3)—Sheriff Harrison’s niece
Aunt Millie (3,4)—Sheriff Harrison’s aunt, leader of the library gang
Ruth and Greta (3,4)—Members of Aunt Millie’s library gang
Steve Horner (3,4)—Jessica’s biological father, Ruby’s ex-lover
Lyle Jefferson (3,4)—Ronnie’s ex-husband
Arlene (3,4)—Waitress at The Shaft, friend of Kate’s
Gary (2,3)—Bartender at The Shaft
Deputy Ernie “Dipshit” (1,2,3,4)—One of the Sheriff’s deputies
Chapter One
Sunday, November 4th
Jackrabbit Junction, Arizona
Will Rogers once said, “If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop digging.”
Unfortunately for Claire Morgan, she wasn’t the one holding the shovel. With her two sisters both digging away, one fueled by paranoia, the other by temporary insanity, Hell couldn’t be more than a few shovelfuls away.
But until the flames of Hell started burning her toes, Claire had a campground to prep for the flocks of snowbirds heading south. A few white-haired birdies had already rolled into the Dancing Winnebagos R.V. Park and set up for the season, motivating her to get her ass in gear. But first, her grandfather wanted to talk to her about something …
Claire slid onto a barstool at The Shaft, the one and only watering hole in the dusty two-bit town of Jackrabbit Junction, Arizona.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said over the sound of Glen Campbell singing about how great Southern nights were. She preferred the cool desert evenings topped with a blanket of stars herself.
From the next stool over, her grandfather grunted in reply. He pushed a foam-topped mug of beer toward her. “I saved you a drink.”
“Thanks.” Claire took a swig, grimacing at the bitterness. Too hoppy for her taste, but she was never one to turn down free beer. Wiping off a foam mustache on the collar of the jean jacket she wore over her Tijuana Toads T-shirt, she glanced around the bar. “Where’s Kate?”
She searched for her younger sister’s blonde head over the sea of cowboy hats and baseball caps bobbing and wobbling under the dim lights. She found Kate in the corner, delivering a pitcher of beer to a table surrounded by dirt-crusted men in orange road-crew garb. Several of them flirted openly, trying to peek down her sister’s black blouse while she refilled their glasses.
Kate had been a hit with the guys since she’d blossomed back in junior high. She was a graceful willow whereas Claire was more of a sturdy oak with knobs. To top it off, Kate had the kind of blonde hair about which men wrote silly poems that
mentioned “straw” and “sunshine.”
In Claire’s opinion, straw smelled musty and too much sunshine caused melanoma. But she loved her younger sister enough to go to jail for her … more than once. Way more than once, actually, and that was what had Claire feeling anxious tonight.
“She’s doing her job,” Gramps answered. “Why? What’s got your eye twitching like that?”
Claire leaned closer to Gramps. Even though her sister was too far away to hear what she was about to say, she didn’t want to take any chances. “Kate’s flywheel is off balance.”
Gramps’s skin scrunched all the way up his bald head. “Her flywheel?” He set his beer down. “I thought she got her Volvo back from the garage last month all spit-shined and dent-free again.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Claire leaned in again, changing her tactic. “Her nail gun is misfiring.” She spoke his language this time.
Gramps had retired a few years ago, selling off his contracting business up in the Black Hills of South Dakota before heading down to the land of sunshine, dust, and huge creepy insects. He knew cars, but he knew construction better.
“Nail gun? You mean one of those doohickeys you girls use to paint your toenails at the salon?”
Claire wrinkled her upper lip. “When was the last time I visited a salon?”
“How should I know? I’m not your beauty consultant.”
“Gramps, I’m a handywoman, not a hand model.” She snorted into her beer. “Beauty consultant. You’ve been playing cards with your daughter too much.”
“Speaking of your mother,” he started.
Claire set her beer down on the bar with a clunk. “What I’m trying to say is that Kate’s ‘shooting the moon alone’ with a handful of nines and tens.” Since the old grump ate, slept, and breathed Bid Euchre along with his Army cronies, he should be able to figure out that euphemism.
Gramps stared at her, his light blue eyes shadowed under his crinkled brow. “What’s wrong with you tonight, child? Did you hit yourself in the head with a hammer again fixing that back fence?”
“You’re being a real buzzkill,” she pointed at her half-full glass, “and I haven’t even finished my first beer yet.”
“Just speak plain old English.”
“Fine. Kate’s gone loca.”
“That’s not plain English.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Is this about that mess you two got into on Halloween up in Deadwood?”
“How’d you hear about that?”
As far as Claire knew, only three people had any inside information about her field trip to the Deadwood cop shop: her, Kate, and Mac whom Claire had called to put money in her bank account in case she had needed to bail out Kate “the Bruiser.” Thankfully, Mac hadn’t asked too many questions that night on the phone. After seven months of sharing Claire’s bed, he’d learned that sometimes it was better to give her the money and save the questions for when hard liquor was plentiful.
Gramps shrugged. “Jackrabbit Junction is a small town.”
It dawned on Claire who had done the snitching. She should have figured Kate would panic and call the third musketeer. “Yeah, and Ronnie has a big-ass mouth.” Her older sister always had been a first rate tattletale when it had come to keeping secrets from their grandfather.
“Ronnie was only concerned you might need some cash to get sprung from cellblock C.”
“Cellblock C?”
“You know,” Gramps smirked at her, “where they keep the other clowns who are dumb enough to tag team up on a bartender.”
“Kate should’ve known better than to call Ronnie,” Claire muttered. “She’d have been better off calling Butch.”
“I thought they weren’t snogging anymore.”
Claire gaped at her grandfather. “Did you just use the word snogging?”
“What? I thought that’s what you kids call sex these days.”
“No, snogging is mostly just kissing.” She chuckled. “You’ve been hanging around your stepdaughter too much.”
Gramps’s fifteen year younger new wife came with a “plus one,” as in a sixteen-year-old daughter who was going on twenty. Poor Gramps hadn’t had a moment’s peace since he said “I do.”
“That teenager won’t leave my side lately,” he told Claire. “She’s more dogged than a shadow and won’t shut up to save her damned life,” he grumbled into his beer before tipping back another mouthful. “I’ll tell you what else. That rotten, no-good father of hers has only managed to make things worse since he dragged his sorry ass down here and started trying to bribe her to come live with him. We all know that he only wants her for the money that comes with custody of her. If this was the Old West, I’d have him dance to my six gun all of the way to the state line, and then shoot ‘em up for another ten miles for good measure.”
“That scum needs a kick in the pants,” Claire agreed.
“I’ve got the perfect steel-toed boots for the job.” Gramps scowled. “So are Katie and Butch dating anymore or not?”
“Well, the official answer is ‘not’ if you ask Kate.”
“But unofficially?”
“Unofficially, she’s being a hard-headed nincompoop and insists she will not force him into a relationship that exists only because she’s carrying his baby.”
“That’s a different tack than what your mother took when she got pregnant with Ronnie.”
“And look where that got Mom and Dad.” A lot of yelling and screaming throughout the years, along with plenty of bitterness and misery, finally ending in a nasty divorce.
“Speaking of your mother and her—” he started again.
“I see Kate’s point, but she’s not giving Butch a chance to change her mind about him.” Claire lowered her voice as her sister headed in their direction. “On top of it all, she’s totally crazy now thanks to those pregnancy hormones.”
“Katie seems fine to me. She’s a little tired, that’s all.”
Crazy Kate joined them at the bar, her blonde hair escaping her chignon and dancing around her face like she’d recently jammed a bobby pin in a light socket. She turned their way after giving the bartender a drink order, several ink smudges crisscrossing her face. “Do you two see that silver-haired biker over there in the red stocking cap and white handlebar mustache?”
Claire glanced in the direction of Kate’s nod, zeroing in on the man in question. While he was built like a steel safe, block shouldered and square jawed, he seemed harmless enough, laughing with another biker who was probably traveling with him. “What about him?”
“Two words—polar bear.”
“Polar bear, huh?” Claire repeated, giving Gramps a see-what-I-mean stare.
“Yep. Dark brown eyes, big paw-like hands, and a Coca-Cola tattoo. Definitely fits.”
“That was only a marketing campaign for the beverage company. You realize that, right?” Claire asked the normally intelligent, rational Kate who was loading her tray with drinks.
“He may seem like your everyday friendly biker, but he’s looking for trouble.” She hoisted the drink tray, shooting Claire a determined look. “Before the night is over, I’m gonna teach him a lesson about messing with the Morgan sisters.”
“Kate,” Claire warned.
“You got my back again, right?” Kate didn’t wait for Claire’s answer. She waded back into the flotsam and jetsam floating around on The Shaft’s dance floor, leaving Claire in a cloud of her sweet and fruity smelling perfume.
Ah, hell. Claire didn’t want to go to jail again. That would be twice in a week. A new record.
“See that right there,” Claire pointed her thumb behind her in the general direction Kate had gone. “That is batshit crazy. We need an intervention or a séance or some kind of exorcism before her head spins completely off.”
“She’s pregnant,” Gramps said, as if that gave Kate a total right of way to the Insanity Express Lane.
“I know, but that’s a baby inside of her, not
some demon spawn. I can’t believe I’m the only one worried about this.”
“I need to hit the latrine.” Gramps pushed back from the bar. “Don’t go getting into any fights while I’m gone.”
“If I do, it’s Kate’s fault.”
Gramps hobbled off toward the bathroom, his mending leg no longer requiring a crutch but still slowing him down.
Claire stared up at the bull horns nailed to the wall above the liquor lining the shelves behind the bar. When Butch got home from his trip to that classic car auction in El Paso, he’d better throw a lasso on his woman and get her under control or Claire was going to …
“What’re you doing?” Her older sister, Ronnie, interrupted her plans for locking crazy Kate away in the back of Gramps’s Winnebago for the next seven to eight full moons.
“What am I doing?” Claire pointed at her glass. “I’m drinking a beer with Gramps.”
She looked Ronnie up and down, noticing there were no beer or food stains on her sister’s pink tunic and white capris, nor an order pad tucked away anywhere. Ronnie’s shoulder-length brown locks curled around her face making her look cool and classy compared to Kate, who appeared to have been dragged behind a horse for a half mile at some point tonight.
“Why aren’t you helping Kate wait tables?” Claire asked, irritation mounting. She was tired of always feeling like rumpled sheets around her sleek, perfectly creased older sister. “She’s pregnant for crissake.”
“Only eight weeks pregnant, not eight months.”
Claire scoffed. “Some fine sister you are.”
There was a distinct tightening of Ronnie’s glossed lips. “I don’t see you getting off your butt to help her.”
“I’m here by appointment,” Claire said. “Besides, I helped her open the place this morning.”
“Well, not that it’s any of your business, Miss Pissy, but I’ve been helping her, too, for most of the evening. Then I got a call from Butch and needed to take it in his office.”
“Butch called you?”
“I believe that’s what I said. Are your ears stuffed with tumbleweeds? Or did you clock yourself in the head with a hammer again?”