The Rowdy Coyote Rumble (Jackrabbit Junction Humorous Mystery Book 4)

by Ann Charles

  “Let me guess, Lyle owed this felon something and now that he tattled on him, the guy will be wanting blood to spill.”

  “Exactly and since they can’t easily get to Lyle, you’re next in line.”

  She sighed. “Why can’t they easily get to Lyle?”

  “Part of the deal he made with the FBI was to be moved into a safe, low-security facility away from potentially violent inmates. He’ll be tucked away with fellow informants.”

  “That no-good, yellow-bellied weasel.” When Ronnie stopped grinding her molars, she said, “Someone needs to tell these blood thirsty assholes that I divorced Lyle. Hurting me will not even make him blink.”

  “You and I know that’s true, but the people who hired him to do their dirty laundry don’t know it. As far as they are concerned, sending Lyle pieces of you would be a fitting payback for him running his mouth.”

  “Fuck me,” she whispered, feeling like she’d been tossed overboard into shark-infested waters. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Well, I could see if you’re eligible for the federal witness protection program, but I don’t think you’ll qualify since you’re divorced from Lyle and no direct threats have been made on your life … yet.”

  “Mississippi, I don’t want to spend my life running from these bastards.”

  “I don’t blame you, but as long as your ex-husband is breathing, you’re at risk.”

  She nodded, wishing she could go back in time and say, “I don’t” at the altar and then drive off into the sunset with the Bandit in his iconic black Firebird.

  “What does this mean for you and me?” she asked.

  He smirked. “If you’re wondering if you have to give my high school letterman jacket back, you can keep it.”

  “Since when did they install a humor chip in you FBI robots?”

  “They didn’t. I’ve gone rogue.”

  “Thank the FBI makers for that.”

  He sobered. “As far as I know, nothing has changed with my assignment. I’m still supposed to keep an eye on you and see what kind of flies you draw.”

  “Flies? How about something nicer sounding, like bees.”

  “So you’re honey then?”

  “Yes, that’s much better than the usual substance that draws flies.”

  “Fine, Ms. Honey. I advise you to keep your head low and your eyes peeled.”

  She nodded, opening the door for him to leave.

  Pausing on his way out, he added, “And let me know if you see anyone who looks suspicious or catch wind of anything threatening.”

  “Define threatening.”

  He grinned. “Someone pointing a firearm at your head.”

  Or someone coming at her with a chainsaw? “You FBI folks are so helpful.”

  “We serve to rankle and rile.” Mississippi left her standing in Butch’s office.

  She was so screwed. If she ever got the chance to wrap her hands around Lyle’s neck, she might end up in prison herself for squeezing the life out of the rat-faced, selfish, philandering prick.

  Hells bells!

  What were Claire and Gramps going to think about this? They wanted her to stay, but the longer she graced their doorstep, the more danger she brought to their world.

  And what about Katie? Pregnant, crazy, and more vulnerable by the day Katie. If anything happened to her or the baby because of Lyle’s big mouth, Ronnie wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

  Then there was Grady. He was going to be positively thrilled to hear that more trouble might be coming to his county thanks to her. Any chance of a future with him was shriveling up before her very eyes. Who wanted a woman who was a homing beacon for goons and hit men?

  She blew out a breath of frustration. The way things were looking it would be easier to fit a coyote through the eye of a needle than make it through this calamity in one piece.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Friday, November 16th

  Claire sat at Ruby’s bar, inspecting her and Chester’s finished product—the rec room.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “The floor is too fancy,” Chester answered from the stool next to her. “And the walls are too green.”

  “There’s only one green wall.” Ocotillo green, according to the paint swatch, which looked great with the bamboo flooring. The other three walls were a neutral sand color. “Besides, I wasn’t asking you, big mouth,” she backhanded his shoulder. She looked over at Mac, who was standing in the kitchen doorway sipping a mug of coffee while checking out their work. “I was asking Ruby’s nephew.”

  Mac’s focus shifted to her. “What? I’ve been demoted to being ‘Ruby’s nephew’ now?” The corners of his hazel eyes creased, his smile teasing. “Yet to hear you this morning, I was the sexiest, most amazing man alive.”

  What did he mean “hear” her? She’d tried to be quiet about her appreciation for his rousing demonstration on how much he’d missed her this last week, but he knew her buttons and was really good at pushing them.

  “Get in line, Sweet Buns,” Chester said snickering. “You’re still wet behind the ears when it comes to knowing how to romance a girl.”

  “Guess I’ll have to keep practicing.” Mac leaned against the wall. “You up for it, Slugger?”

  “It’s more important that you’re up for it,” Chester beat her to the punchline. “I hear you got offered some big promotion.”

  Claire looked away. While she’d kept her thoughts on Mac’s promotion positive when sharing the news with Chester, she didn’t trust the old man not to speak his mind with Mac like he had with her. The last thing Mac needed to hear was how her leaving this place was trouble in the making for the two of them.

  “Yep.” Mac took another drink of coffee. “The rec room looks great. Ruby’s going to be thrilled.” His optimism was a relief. “I’m surprised you two didn’t find anything stashed away in the walls or floor when you tore the room apart.”

  “Damn, we forgot to check under the floor boards,” Claire told Chester. “I knew we were skipping something important.”

  “Screw Joe and his hidden treasures, girlie. They bring you nothing but more fretting and headaches.”

  He had a point. She stood up and stretched. “I need to clean up the last of our paint mess out back and get things ready for Ruby and Gramps to come home.”

  Home. She realized she’d used that word too late, noticing the frown Mac gave her.

  “You want some help?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Did you bring the claim paperwork for Humdigger mine with you?”

  “Yeah, it’s down in the basement office. Why?”

  “I’d like to look it over when I’m done.” When his frown deepened, she explained, “I’m a curious cat, you know that.”

  “Which life are you on again, kitty?” Chester asked.

  “The one where I take you out with me when I go.”

  “Can I make a last request before that time comes?” At her nod, he said, “Make sure you include a couple of strippers, too. If I’m going to be underground, I want to be under some pretty girls while I’m down there.”

  “You don’t get to pick and choose the party guests. This isn’t ancient Egypt and you’re not King Tutan-Chester.” She grabbed her gloves and headed for the back door. “I’ll find you when I’m finished outside, Mac.”

  Two hours later, the sun had hit its high point for the day and was on its way back down the western side. Claire washed her hands in the kitchen sink and then made herself a sandwich. Grabbing a Coke from the fridge, she went in search of Mac.

  She found him down in the basement office.

  “Hey, Slugger,” he said, glancing up at her from where he sat at Joe’s desk, papers spread out across the top of it. He leaned back, running his hand up and down the back of her thigh as she stood next to him. “You want help moving the furniture back in the rec room?”

  “Yes, but not now.” She pointed her sandwich at the papers. “What’s
all this? The Humdigger claim documents?”

  “Some of it. The rest is some work I brought along.”

  “What work? Stuff for your new position?

  “Sort of.”

  She bent over the claim information, scanning through the copies. The text looked like it was typewritten rather than printed from a computer. It listed specifics like area on a quad map by township, section, and range. The various owners of the stake before Joe were listed; the name of the mine had not changed since it had first been claimed. Her gaze drifted to the bottom, screeching to a stop on Joe’s signature.

  She swallowed the bite of ham and Swiss she’d been chewing. “That’s not right,” she said, tapping on the signature.

  “What do you mean it’s not right?”

  “That’s not Joe’s writing.’

  “Since when are you an expert on Joe’s penmanship?”

  “Since I went through all sorts of signed documents while I was sitting in that very chair.” She leaned over Mac and opened the file drawer on the lower right, pulling out a couple of folders. After fingering past the second one, she found some hospital paperwork with his signature. “See, compare this one from Cholla County General to the Humdigger mine claim.”

  Mac set the hospital paper next to the claim and leaned down, his gaze playing ping-pong between the two. “It’s similar, but I can see why you say it’s different.”

  “Why would there be two different signatures?”

  “Two slightly different signatures,” he corrected.

  “Quit splitting hairs. Do you think Sophy is onto something here?”

  “No, I think Sophy is plum nuts. There could be several explanations for this difference.” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her down onto his lap.

  She shifted so she could look at him, careful not to bump his shoulder or ribs. “Oh, yeah? Give me three.”

  “Maybe he was in a rush on one of them and got sloppy.” He plucked her sandwich from her hand and took a bite.

  “Okay, that’s one.” She reached for the sandwich, but he held it out of reach, swallowing.

  “Or he could have injured his hand and had to sign with the other one.” He tapped his cheek for a kiss.

  He had another good point there. “Two.” She leaned over to pay up and he turned at the last second, planting a kiss on her mouth.

  Handing the sandwich back, he added, “Or maybe Ruby forged the hospital paperwork for him because of his stroke.”

  “Yeah, but this signature on the hospital papers matches all of the others I’ve seen throughout his files. The one you have on that old claim is not just sloppy different. Look at the different style he’s using for the J and the O at the end.” She took a bite, chewing as she stared down at the papers.

  “Haven’t we had this argument before?”

  Yes, actually, they had. “And I won that argument, too.”

  “You’re premature on the final ruling here today, Slugger.”

  “I’m telling you this is different.” She stuffed the last of the sandwich in her mouth.

  “If this is different, what does that mean in your brain?”

  She finished her bite before answering. “Maybe this is what has Sophy thinking Joe is still alive. She would probably know his signature after years of marriage. Maybe she saw the Humdigger claim papers online or somewhere else and she knows something else we don’t about Joe that made her come to the conclusion that he’s still alive … somehow.” Although how Joe could be alive without Ruby knowing it made Claire scratch her head.

  “What else could Sophy know?”

  Mac’s question was rhetorical, but she answered anyway. “I don’t know, but that woman is no backwoods idiot. Something has her gnashing her teeth again.” Having been on the receiving end of Sophy’s wicked bite before, Claire wanted to stay well out of the bitch’s leash range in case Sophy lunged again.

  Mac looked at her, his brow scrunched. Then he shrugged. “One thing I do know is I need to go back in that mine.”

  “You mean WE need to go back in that mine.”

  He slid his hand up inside the back of the “Dolly Parton for President” jersey she’d found in Ruby’s closet, the calluses on his fingertips lightly scratching over her skin. “Fine, we’ll go together, but you need to let me lead while we’re in there.”

  “I always enjoy it when you lead,” she flirted, wrapping her arms around his neck, leaning against him. “When do you want to go?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  She nuzzled his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin. He always smelled like the sundrenched desert. If she got homesick while they traveled for his job, she could carry one of his shirts around with her and sniff it off and on all day like a sad puppy.

  “How about we go now?” she asked.

  “No.” His fingers strummed her ribs. “Not in the light of day.”

  “Ahh, covert and secretive. I like this new darker side of you.” She moved her lips up close to his ear and whispered, “It’s hot.”

  He chuckled. “You would, ya jailbird.”

  Pushing back upright, she stared down at him in all seriousness. “How about we go late tonight after things slow down at The Shaft?”

  “That’ll work. I can pack up some of my gear and pick you up.”

  “Should I mention anything to Butch?”

  “I hate to bother him after he drove all of the way to the prison to help out, but we’ll need him to pave the way with old Dick Webber so we don’t end up full of bullet holes. Maybe he can call Webber and let him know we’ll be passing through.”

  “Good idea. I’ll mention it to him when I head over there in a bit.” She looked back at Joe’s signature on the claim paperwork, wondering what booby-traps there’d be in store for them tonight. “Are you bringing your gas detector?”

  “Yeah, along with Ruby’s shotgun.”

  She grimaced at him. “You think that’s necessary, huh?”

  He caught her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “If you’re going to be there with me, I’m not taking any chances.”

  * * *

  Something was out there in the darkness.

  Something that had Mac’s neck hairs standing at attention.

  He peered into the night, but without the full moon to bathe the world in silver light, he was stuck using his ears instead of his eyes. Breath held, he listened for a few more seconds, hearing nothing besides the normal sounds of the desert—whistling wind, rattling greasewood and sage, the occasional yip of a coyote. He sniffed, smelling nothing in the cold fresh air. Adjusting his pack, he shifted the shotgun to his right hand as a precaution.

  “Okay. Let’s go,” he whispered to Claire, who’d waited in silence after he’d shushed her for the second time in the last ten minutes since they’d left his pickup.

  “You should let me lead,” Claire whispered back, stepping around him, starting up the animal trail they’d used to descend from the mine the last time they had been there.

  He caught her by the elbow, pulling her up short. “No way, Slugger.”

  “Then give me your pack. You don’t need to have it yanking on your shoulder as you climb.”

  He appreciated her thoughtfulness, but there was no way she was going first. “My shoulder is fine.”

  “What about your ribs? Your pack is going to bump into them all of the way up.”

  His ribs were still a little sore, but she didn’t need to know that. “I’m good. I’ll probably have to take it slower than usual on the climb, but I’ll still beat you to the top, no contest.” He chuckled at her growl.

  “Keep it up, big talker,” she poked him in the gut, making him grunt in between his snickers, “and I’ll bruise another one of your ribs.”

  Mac took a couple of steps up the trail and then froze.

  There it was again, a creaking sound, coming from further back down the trail. Without a word, he grabbed Claire and tucked her behind him, shining his light around below, l
ighting up the mesquite, greasewood, and desert willows.

  Something small and furry dashed under a bush when his light hit it. That would explain the sound of bushes rattling but not the creaking sound he kept hearing.

  His flashlight beam glinted off something metal at the same time a crusty voice shouted, “Hold it right there, trespassers.”

  “Shit,” Claire whispered, yanking him back a step.

  “Unless you want to spend the night picking shotgun pellets out of yer hide,” the voice below called out, twigs snapping as their visitor stepped out into the open, “you’d better get those hands in the air and tell me who you are.”

  Claire huddled deeper into his back, practically crawling up inside of his flannel jacket.

  A bright light shined in Mac’s eyes. Squinting, he raised his hands slowly, keeping his fingers clear of the shotgun trigger so their visitor didn’t decide to shoot in self-defense. “My name is Mac Garner.”

  “Garner, huh? What’s yer business here?”

  “My aunt, Ruby Martino, owns the mine up this hill.”

  He heard a grunt from the other end of the flashlight. “Who’s that hiding behind you?”

  “Claire Morgan,” he said.

  “Morgan, you say? Let me see her face.” The beam of light moved to Claire, who’d popped her head around his shoulder. “Are you one of them Morgan sisters I heard one of the Sheriff’s deputies complaining about last week?”

  “Probably,” Claire admitted.

  “Step out into the light, girl.”

  Claire did, but Mac held tightly to her forearm, ready to tuck her behind him again if things went sour. She shielded her eyes from the beam of light when it moved from Mac to her.

  “I know you,” the voice said.

  “You do?” Claire shot Mac a worried frown.

  “You were at my house a couple days back.”

  “I was?”

  “Sure enough. You were giving that half-wit Dory Hamilton trouble about some phone call.”

  “That was your house?”

  “Yep.” The flashlight beam lowered. The creaking sound came closer, along with footfalls on the gravel. An old man wearing a dusty, sweat-stained cowboy hat and a long white beard stepped into Mac’s beam of light, squinting up at them. “The name’s Webber. Dick Webber.” He rested the Remington 12-gauge pump-action shotgun Butch had warned Mac about on his shoulder, barrels aimed at the stars. “You two must be the folks Butch called me about earlier tonight.”