RattlingtheCage

by Ann Cory

  Russ peered around before he added, “If I was you, I’d hole up somewhere’s else.”

  Libby breezed by and left a glass of water in her wake. The two men blinked and sat back, beads of sweat dotting their foreheads.

  He hated seeing good, honest folk bullied. Not even a full day in town and he pitied the residents. Satisfied from all the grease, Lawson patted his stomach. “See, I’m one of those curious types. The more you tell me to go, the more I’m itching to stay.” He grabbed a toothpick and worked it between his teeth.

  Russ thumbed his overall straps. “It’s yer funeral.”

  He chuckled. “There will be a funeral around here, boys, but it won’t be mine. I told you I didn’t have friends here, and that’s the truth. But what I do have is an enemy.”

  In unison the farmers quipped, “Who?”

  “Clint Mitchum.”

  Eyes wide, both men drew invisible crosses across their chests. “We won’t say nuthin’, mister. Promise.”

  He managed a sincere smile. “The thought never crossed my mind. I trust you.” After an intentional dramatic pause he said, “Well, fellas, where do I pay, here or…”

  “Alls you gotta do is flag down Libby,” Corbet offered. “She’s a peach.”

  Lawson’s mind shifted to another peach. The one from the bar.

  He caught Libby’s attention and pulled out some bills from his wallet.

  “Anything else I can get you, sugar?” The wrinkles around the woman’s eyes showed her age, and at the same time her smile erased a few.

  “Nope. Best food I’ve had in months. What’s the damage?”

  “Seven dollars.”

  “Here’s ten. Keep the change. I’ll be back.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. Have yerself a good day, honey.”

  Lawson got up and lodged his wallet into his back pocket. He grabbed his hat and another toothpick. “Nice meeting you, fellas. I appreciated the company.”

  “You just ’member what we said ’bout the law,” Russ whispered. “We can’t do nuthin’ to help ya if you’s git thrown in the slammer. Or worse.”

  Again he tipped his head. “Appreciate the sentiment.”

  With his belly full, he sauntered outside. The muggy heat gripped him in a stronghold. Lawson donned his hat and contemplated which direction to go.

  And then he saw the peach.

  Her short skirts and shapely legs were going to be the death of him. He stepped back inside Libby’s and watched from the doorway until she’d passed.

  Feeling foolish for hiding from a woman, he cursed and headed in the opposite direction. At the end of the street, all indecent thoughts of the brunette halted. His adrenaline spiked. Fists tightened. The sharp odor of lies and deceit polluted the air. Evil walked these streets. Evil by the name of Clint Mitchum.

  Lawson forced his shoulders down and his feet to keep moving. What lay ahead had haunted him for too long. The time to face his past drew near.

  Chapter Three

  Montana had left for work early after the trailer’s lack of airflow had strangled her lungs. With full intent to entice the rough-and-tumble stranger who had plagued her sleep, she’d chosen to wear a short black skirt with a lace-trimmed white tank top, sleek black boots and her silver chain with the horseshoe pendant that hung suggestively between her breasts. If he still planned to ignore her, she’d get creative.

  She opened the back door of the bar and scooted inside. A blast of cold from the fan in the back room hit her chest like a windstorm, much to the delight of her scruffy boss.

  “Happy to see me, sweetheart?”

  “Dream on, Chuck,” she said and pointed to her breasts. “Your hands will never touch these babies.”

  He wiped a fake tear. “You’re breaking my heart.”

  “I’d rather break your balls. Now leave me alone. My shift starts soon.”

  “You do realize we could have a better working environment if you showed a little more skin. Don’t you ever want a raise?”

  “Not if it means selling my soul, no.” She knew Chuck didn’t have the money, regardless if she paraded around topless.

  “You don’t have to be such an ice princess.”

  Hand raised, she waggled her finger in his face. “And you don’t have to be such a prick. You’re my boss, so I expect you to behave better.” Satisfied with her lecture, she smiled and asked, “Now, are there any specials today?”

  “Wings. I’m doing up a ton of them, so make sure you hit up everybody with ’em.”

  She crinkled her nose. Her boss didn’t know a thing about cooking. “I’ll think about it.”

  Chuck hauled his body out of the chair, his eyes focused on her chest. “Just do it.”

  Disgusted, she crossed her arms. Only one man deserved the honor of staring at her breasts today.

  After Chuck wandered into the kitchen, she primped her hair and streaked gloss along her lips. When the clock struck noon she meandered through the bar, enjoying the momentary peace, and then unlocked the door. The usual lineup of locals poured in to waste their time and get hammered.

  “Wings are the special today, boys,” she shouted. “Chuck made ’em so don’t expect too much.”

  She popped a stick of gum in her mouth and hit a switch on the wall. The television set crackled to life. All heads swiveled toward it and the quiet disappeared.

  “Hey, legs, I’d like some of them wings.”

  She glowered at Bigsby. “Legs? I have a name. If you want those chicken wings, you’d best pay me some respect.”

  “If you want a tip, you’ll do as you’re told,” he retorted. “Got me, sweetheart?”

  Montana extended her middle finger. A collection of cheers resounded along with a couple lewd comments. God she hated her job.

  On her way to the kitchen she shouldered away a tear. Restlessness mingled with her ever present despair. Nothing but a ghost kept her tied down to a dead-end job and a broken-down trailer. A ghost of a woman she remembered little about. But if she found a way to leave, she’d take it. Her dreams of dancing lay in the compassion of a man who had slapped her in the face with his rugged good looks and self-serving angst. She’d need to pull herself together enough to snare the guy into taking her away. Otherwise she didn’t have a hope to escape.

  * * * * *

  From the other side of the street, Lawson watched the deputy toss his still-lit cigarette to the ground and disappear inside the jail. He waited, in case Mitchum appeared.

  Heat beat down on his back. Sweat stung his eyes.

  The building looked bigger than he remembered with a fresh coat of paint. He wondered whose money paid for that. Impatience tugged at him. The impulse to walk inside and put three bullets into the son of a bitch’s chest gnawed hard. He’d love to watch Mitchum’s eyes roll back into his skull.

  Lawson pushed down the fury. It would wait. He wanted to see what had become of the rest of the place.

  Pity for the townspeople grew as he passed rows of rundown buildings. Russ and Corbet weren’t lying about it being a nothing town. Broken windows, torn shingles, smashed-in doors and scattered garbage filled his view. The grungy odor mixed with the heat and made his throat constrict. He didn’t understand how people lived this way.

  His grandmother once described Cage Crossing as a blend of Victorian splendor and western prairie. Now, a neglected ghost town seemed more appropriate.

  Between an old dress shop and an abandoned paper store stood the bank. Like the jail, it appeared renovated. He’d enjoy leveling the place.

  At the far end of the street, Lawson sucked in his breath. His steps slowed. The hairs on his neck bristled. A large black depression, void of vegetation and life, was all that remained of the house his grandfather had built. The house he’d played in as a boy.

  He stopped. He vaguely remembered the two-story spread with its steep roof pitches, dormers, turrets and gable trim. Many afternoons were spent sipping lemonade on the steps of the wraparound porch ad
orned with turned posts and decorative railings. His body swayed. The sweet scent of strawberries shocked his senses. Memories returned of tummy aches from eating bucketfuls of fresh berries that he’d helped pick. And the strawberry-rhubarb pies his mother baked.

  Lawson knelt and circled his fingers through the dirt. Big reeds of bluestem, up to eight feet tall, once grew along the backside of the house, while purple rising stars and orange butterfly weed ran along the front walkway. Each summer, his grandpa taught him how to recognize birds by their song. He still recognized the call of meadowlarks and chestnut-collared longspurs.

  “I’m here, gramps,” he said. “I’m back to finish what they started.”

  A lump swelled in his throat. He stood and extended his hand toward the ghost house. Swiping air, he whispered, “You’ll never be forgotten.”

  His arm dropped. Lawson blinked. He didn’t have time for tears. Head bowed, he released a hiss of breath and made his way back. As he passed the jail, the pfft of a match being struck sounded sharp to his ears. He raised his head in time to see the deputy approach.

  “Something I can help you with, mister? Folks don’t like it when strangers wander around these parts. Makes ’em nervous.”

  He sized up the deputy. Young punk with a toy gun and zero ambition. Harmless. If he wanted to intimidate, his plan failed. Two punches and he’d roll like tumbleweed.

  Lawson formed a half-smile. “Folks don’t like it, or you don’t?”

  The deputy lit his cigarette and waved the match flameless. “Pardon?”

  “I’ll be on my way.”

  “How long you in town for?”

  “Three days tops.”

  Deputy Gutless rippled his lips as if he wanted to speak but didn’t know any words. After a couple deep drags, he tossed his cigarette and went back inside the jail, ending his mini-interrogation.

  Again he waited for a sign of Mitchum, but one didn’t come. The sun bore down on him as if it had an agenda. Lawson removed his hat and mopped his forehead with his sleeve. All the dirt he’d kicked around had dried his throat right out. He wanted a drink. He needed to think. And he longed for another glimpse of the sweet little peach. A short stop in the bar sounded like a plan.

  Chapter Four

  Montana plodded around in her heels stocking napkins, toothpicks and coasters, in between serving drinks. The boys had bet on a wrestling match and were hollering so loudly her head throbbed. She tossed some change from her tips into the jukebox, but the music didn’t help.

  Behind her, a voice slurred, “Hey, missy, we’ve got us s-ssome empty bowls over here. Get us s-ssome peanuts.”

  She speared the unkempt featherweight Martin a defiant glance over her shoulder. “It’s Montana.”

  “I don’t want to go to Montana,” he rasped and broke out into a half-coughing, half-laughing fit. His buddies patted him on the shoulder and burst into laughter along with him.

  What she wouldn’t give to grab Martin by his emaciated neck and crush his bones. Display her anger the way tall and sexy had, without a care who got hurt. Maybe then she’d get respect. Instead she snatched the empty bowl from his skeletal fingers. “I’ll get your damn peanuts, but if you aren’t careful, I’ll stop pouring your beer.”

  That sobered him up.

  “Hey, now that ain’t right. You can’t tell me when to quit drinking.”

  “Actually, Martin, I can. I have the right to refuse any of you losers a drink when I see fit.”

  “Same goes with your tip there, missy,” Bigsby belted out.

  Why did everyone threaten her livelihood? “Aw, you fellas are too good to me.”

  Montana tuned out the rest of their immature banter and made a beeline for the bar. She knew better than to pick fights with the lot of them. If she wanted respect it would require taking off her shirt and rubbing her breasts in their unshaved faces, an idea they could keep in their intoxicated fantasies. Her mother’s reputation didn’t help. She’d heard the stories of her dancing topless on the tables for mere quarters, not caring how many nicotine-stained fingers spread her thighs. What a shadow to live in.

  From under the bar she grabbed a bag of peanuts and snagged a pitcher of beer. Halfway back to Martin’s table, a strange quiet captured her attention. Looking around, she saw every bleary eye facing front with mouths frozen in mid-conversation. Montana glanced over her shoulder to see what had prompted the change, and caught her breath. In all his rugged glory, the gorgeous stranger demanded attention. He had hers in a heartbeat. This time, Mister Succulent wore snug black jeans with a button-down shirt that hugged his sturdy physique. She swallowed hard, aware of the arousal between her thighs.

  Ignoring the stony-faced leers, he took a seat at an empty table at the front. Noise resumed and she tossed Martin’s bowl of peanuts at him. Now came the hard part. How to act.

  Part of her wanted nothing more than to be close to this guy, but at the same time she feared him. He was different, and represented a dangerous territory she longed to explore. But what if he rejected her? Her throat tightened at the prospect of hearing his voice. Get a grip, she ordered herself. Treat him like every other male in the bar. It wouldn’t be easy, but she’d give it a go.

  Montana took a deep breath and approached him, all the while heat fanning her face.

  “Evening. What can I get for you?” Much to her dismay her voice cracked. To compensate, she gave him a hard look as if she meant business, but in the veil of his stare, it didn’t last.

  His gaze stole over her like a rough caress. The kind of caress she’d expect from him with his manly hands and impeccable strength. The kind of caress she longed for.

  “I’ll have a beer and something hot to eat.”

  The husky timbre of his voice vibrated deep in her core. Hot to eat? Montana shuddered at the thought of his face buried between her legs. Now there was something hot to eat. Her mind relished the thought of his sandpaper stubble tickling against her delicate skin, cock erect and ready to burst from the seam of his pants. She nearly spilled the pitcher of beer in her hands just thinking about his hard body slamming into hers.

  Despite the vivid imagery, she gathered her composure. “Sure. I think I can manage that.”

  His eyes never left hers. “What’s good?”

  If he played his cards right, she could be very, very good.

  “The wings. They’re our special.”

  “I’ll have some of those. Extra spicy.”

  She shifted her weight, feeling the dampness along her panties. “Fries on the side?”

  He ran his gaze along her body in a way that made her melt. “Sure. I like those long, thick and extra greasy.”

  Taking an order had never been such a turn-on before, but his words were wrapped in seduction. She had to tear herself from his penetrating gaze now or she’d go crazy with need. “You got it. Be right back with your order.”

  Montana hurried into the back, her heart thundering. Did he smell her desire? She knew better than to show her weakness to a complete stranger, but damn if he didn’t turn her into a bundle of nerves. Pleasurable nerves at that. His eyes stripped her bare. But did he like what lay beneath? She wanted to be whatever he wanted and needed, if only for a night. Because once she had him, she’d find a way to keep him.

  * * * * *

  Lawson dragged a hand over his whiskered face. His rapid heartbeat drowned out the chatter from inside the bar. He came for a drink, but the gorgeous brunette stirred up a hunger that he knew even food couldn’t quell.

  She returned from the back with his order, hips swaying to the rhythm of his pulse.

  “Enjoy.”

  He tipped his chin to the plate of wings smothered in sauce. At this point, nothing would satisfy his hunger like her sexy thighs around his waist.

  Grumbling, he bit into the chicken. Tangy heat nipped his tongue and his eyes watered. He clamped the beer mug and brought it to his mouth in haste, welcoming the cool liquid down his throat. Through a haze of tears h
e caught the dark-haired beauty flash him a wicked grin. His body seized. Lawson clutched the mug with his other hand before it took a nosedive.

  What the hell?

  He set his beer down and directed himself to keep focus on why he’d come back to Rattler City, and not on the woman. He’d seen and been with plenty. Miss Miles of Legs didn’t mean anything. Sure, her tight shirt and nothing of a skirt showed off a knockout bod, and her perfect little hips… He snatched a chicken wing and chewed as if it might fly away. He could do this. Eat. Drink. Get the hell out of there. Good plan, good plan.

  Distracted by the flickering television, he glanced over and caught some asshole grab Miss Legs and thrust her onto his lap. Tension ripped through his shoulders. He hated men who disrespected women.

  His eyes sought hers—green, beautiful and flecked with fear.

  Lawson turned back to his plate, desperate to ignore his instinct. She worked in the bar. She probably dealt with the same idiots every day and knew how to handle the situation. He almost convinced himself to remain uninvolved. But the fear in her eyes made it impossible.

  He propelled himself to his feet. The table wobbled and his chair upended. Muscles taut, jaw clenched, he strode forward.

  “Take your hands off the lady,” he snarled.

  The asshole’s gray, watery eyes darted around the room before settling on him. “Suppose I’m giving her a chance to earn a big fat tip,” he cracked and gestured at his lap.

  Lawson struggled to keep his wits about him. “I get that you want to appear tough, seeing as how your friends all have their eyes on you. I’d do the same in your situation if some stranger got up in my face.” He waited a beat and then drew his face right up close. “But I’m not someone you want to tangle with.”

  The man squirmed. Lawson could only imagine what thoughts swirled in his inebriated mind.

  “I don’t know who you think you are…”

  Lawson’s hand shot out and enclosed around the drunken man’s throat. “If I thought it important, I’d have introduced myself. Now, let the lady go and I won’t leave an imprint of my fist in your face.”