“I’m good with a rope.” She spun her arm as if twirling a lasso. “Ever heard of hog-tying?”
“That sounds like an unusual seduction technique.” He sank deeper in his creaky, webbed chair, not liking where his mind was going.
Emily poked his thigh. “Hey, what was the dialogue you wanted to run by me?”
“Forget dialogue. The story is all wrong.” He stared at her, at eyes that sparkled and a smile that told him he was taking everything too seriously. “In my mind, Merciless Mike Moody was a ruthless, greedy, heartless killer. And yet there’s a woman buried a few feet away from his hideout.”
“Don’t be sexist. Letty could’ve been his accomplice. There were women in the Old West who broke stereotypes.”
Jonah scoffed. “He’d bury a partner? Buy her a gravestone? My Mike Moody would never do any such thing.”
“Your Mike Moody?” It was her turn to scoff. “Okay. Fine. What if she was a woman of ill repute he brought up there and murdered? The Lodgepole Inn used to cater to that clientele.”
Jonah turned to face her, to face all that stubbornness with some of his own. “Murderers don’t bury their victims. And if they did, they wouldn’t mark their graves with expensive headstones.”
She took a moment to process his words. “How do you know Letty wasn’t a relation of Jeb’s? After all, the rest of the graves up there are Clarks. Jeb picked that place as a family cemetery for a reason.”
“Most homesteaders buried their dead in their backyard.” Although given the number of graves up there that was clearly not the case.
“And you know this tidbit about backyard cemeteries how?” Emily raised a hand. “Don’t tell me. You’ve seen it in the movies. That’s like saying everything you read on the internet is true.”
Jonah didn’t know what to say.
She laughed. Like everything else about her it was loud and full.
She made him want to smile. She should be making Bo want to smile. He pulled his feet toward the chair legs, preparing to stand. “I should go.” Go hide in the bunkhouse and get his head on straight. Who cared what his father thought? He’d write the Western story anyway. Shane wouldn’t accept anything less. And who cared that Emily wanted Bo? Jonah wasn’t looking to settle down.
“But...” Emily sat up. “We haven’t solved anything about Letty.”
It was probably the only thing she could have said to make him stay.
The wind kicked up, rustling the pines and making the fire dance.
“All right. Last question.” He sighed. “If you were writing this script, who would Letty be?”
“She died, city boy. You’re overthinking this tragedy.” Emily grinned, not sad about her tragic ending at all. “Think about it. Knowing what a pain in the butt Mike Moody was, she probably came after him with a gun. It was probably him or her.”
As usual, she’d thrown Jonah a curve. “And then Mike buried her, but only because he respected the fact that she’d challenged him.” He let the idea gel for a moment. “I don’t like it.”
Em tossed her hands. “Can we talk about your cousin?” The real reason for her rushing him around the issue of Letty became clear. She caught his wrist, the same way he’d caught hers the other night, only her gaze held a hint of alarm. “Do you think I have a chance?”
No.
Don’t tell her that!
“Let’s have breakfast tomorrow morning,” he blurted instead.
Emily rolled her eyes. “Pancakes and eggs won’t help me.”
“They will. At the Bent Nickel with Bo,” he improvised. “And this time, try not to go all fangirl on him.”
“I wasn’t that bad today.” She bit her lip. “Was I?”
“No.” Jonah loosened her hold on him. “You were worse.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
EXTERIOR. MIKE’S CAMP. Dawn reveals Letty sitting at Mike’s campfire, a shotgun in her lap. A big black horse is tethered nearby.
JONAH LAY IN the bunkhouse staring at the rose wallpaper, trying to work out the weaknesses in his plot.
Moonlight streamed through the window, nearly bright as day.
Mike Moody had lived in a cave. He’d buried his loot in it. There was nothing about that hole in the mountainside that was feminine. If Mike had been married to Letty, he might have abandoned her, leaving her back east while he sought his fortune out west. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that Letty had come looking for her husband with a grudge to bear and a loaded firearm.
Jonah grinned. Emily had looked so pleased to have come up with the idea.
He turned on his side, contemplating his characters.
He could ignore the wrinkle of Letty. She could’ve been a woman who died on top of that mountain, a woman found by Old Jeb and given a name, like the archeologists who found that T-Rex in Montana and had named her Sue. She could have been no one. She could have been anyone.
Except she’d been buried outside Mike’s hidden cave with a marker on her resting place.
It was most likely a random tragedy, the way Emily said.
Except Jonah had written enough story lines in his time to know better. That woman had meant something to someone. Grave markers didn’t come cheap in those days. And the person with the most gold to spare in this scenario was Mike Moody.
There was a knock on the bunkhouse door. One knock. And then Bo barged in carrying a sleeping bag. He turned on the light and took in the one-room shack.
“The bunkhouse has bunks.” Bo closed the door behind him, taking stock of the interior. “And you chose the bottom.”
“Same as always.” Jonah propped himself up on one elbow. “Did I invite you for a sleepover?” He chose to ignore the fact that Emily had invited Bo to stay.
“You brought me cookies,” Bo said cryptically, approaching the bunks. He removed his boots. “Hey, you have sheets.”
“I’m a guest.” Although Emily had told him he’d be doing his own linens.
“I’m a guest, too.” Bo spread his sleeping bag on the top bunk and then climbed up.
Jonah laid back down, smiling. “What about the light?”
“You’ll turn it off, just like you always do.” Bo sounded like he was smiling, too. He waited for Jonah to do so and get back in bed before he said anything else. “Those were the good times, weren’t they? When Grandpa Harlan took us places?”
“Yeah.” When they could be just a family—good and bad, young and old, laughing, bickering and, yes, loving—and not be the Monroes of wealth, expectation and forced loyalty. “Do you remember when Grandpa Harlan took us to Yosemite?”
“And we stayed in those tent cabins? It was August and hotter than blazes.” Bo’s sleeping bag rustled with movement. “You wrote an awful play for us to perform around the campfire. You killed us all off.”
“Don’t hold a grudge. I was eleven and it was satire.” Not that Jonah had known the word for it back then.
“It was payback for us making fun of you for trying to dance your way across a creek.” Bo chuckled. “You can’t dance with two feet on the ground. What made you think you could dance from rock to rock?”
“It’s hard to follow greatness,” Jonah murmured.
“I assume you’re talking about me, seeing as how I didn’t fall in.”
“You can assume all you want.” Jonah could apply his statement just as easily to his career as to that day in Yosemite.
He wasn’t a top athlete like Bo or Holden. When they’d crossed the creek with assurance and accolades, Jonah knew his would be just another ho-hum crossing. So, he’d done a jig on each rock he landed on until he lost his balance and fell in the creek. The cold mountain water couldn’t cool off his heated embarrassment, not when his fall was the joke of the day.
To get even, his eleven-year-old brain had written the day’s vignette starring hims
elf as a highly skilled villain who called each Monroe out on their discretions, right before pushing them in the creek. It had been more monologue than play and he’d considered it the best thing he’d ever written.
At the end, before he’d taken a bow to a chorus of boos, Grandpa Harlan joined him. His grandfather took the pages of Jonah’s script and threw them into the campfire. “There’s room for snark in storytelling, Jonah, if your characters have heart and learn their lesson. What lesson did you learn today?”
Jonah hadn’t known what to say.
“I learned he’s a jerk who hurts people’s feelings,” Holden had said in that lofty voice of his.
Grandpa Harlan had held up a hand to stop more commentary. “He’s upset because you boxed him into a corner and made him feel small. People who are cornered do desperate things. Uncharacteristic things.” Grandpa Harlan hugged Jonah. “We can all learn something from what happened today.”
Looking back on it, Jonah had learned many things, but mostly, he’d learned not to write himself into a script and to give every character heart.
But as for my take on Mike Moody—
“Did you hear back from your dad?” Bo asked, interrupting Jonah’s thoughts. Bo was the only one who knew Jonah had sent his father the treatment of the Mike Moody myth.
“I did.”
“Oh.” Bo let that sit between them for a while. “Grandpa Harlan would say the only person you need to believe in you is you.”
“In Hollywood, you need a champion, someone to cheer you on when the hits come.”
“I’ll be your cheerleader.”
Jonah nearly rolled out of his bunk in surprise. “Thanks.”
Outside, an owl echoed his support.
“I didn’t call Aria,” Bo said.
Jonah nearly rolled out again. “Go ahead and call Aria if you want.”
“She played us off each other.” Bo’s deep, mournful voice filled the bunkhouse. “I never saw it coming.”
“We were willing participants in whatever game she was running.” Jonah cleared his throat. “We can be a bit overwhelming when we’re competing for something.”
“We shouldn’t contend for women.”
“Lesson learned.” Jonah cleared his throat again. “And just so you know... I never loved her, not the way a man’s supposed to love a woman he proposes to.” Not the way he suspected Bo loved her.
“But you still have Aria’s painting.” Bo’s tone danced on the edge of judgmental.
“It’s a reminder.” Like a thick scab or a deep scar. “Put family first. That’s a must in the movie business where the divorce rate is higher than the rest of the country.” Monroes, his career and then love.
The owl hooted again, almost like an amen.
Bo hung his head over the top rail. “Jonah, are you so pessimistic you won’t get married for fear of divorce?”
“I have a slew of successful friends who are passionate about their work and every one of them is on their second marriage. Look at my father. He’s considering trophy wife number three. Not to mention Grandpa Harlan was married four times.”
“Since his final marriage lasted close to fifty years, I don’t think you should include it in your case against marriage.” Bo scoffed and rolled back into the bunk proper. “Is that why you had second thoughts about getting married?”
“And thirds.” And he’d realized what he had with Aria wasn’t true love.
An image of Emily’s dirt-smudged face came to mind, contrasting against the cynical lines of Aria’s painting.
“You’re not as jaded as you think,” Bo said.
“Really?”
“Really.” Bo chuckled softly. “You write an awful lot of romance, you know.”
Emily’s dirt-smudged face broke into a knowing smile. He couldn’t recall Aria’s painting at all.
It was Jonah’s turn to scoff.
Above Jonah, Bo shifted in his bunk and heaved a sigh. Knowing Bo, Jonah was sure he’d be asleep in a minute.
“You’ve disabled your force field,” Jonah murmured.
“My...my what?” His cousin sounded sleepy. He yawned. “Shut off that clever writer brain of yours for a minute...and tell me about Emily.”
Jonah’s mouth went dry. He didn’t want to tell Bo about his favorite rodeo queen. She was like a forgotten treasure that he’d found, one he could keep to himself.
But there was Emily’s hope of finding a cowboy and there was his tentative truce with Bo.
So Jonah started talking and he didn’t stop until he heard Bo snore.
* * *
“BO’S AT THE diner,” Jonah announced when Em opened the door to the ranch house the next morning. “Let’s go.”
“Hold up.” Emily’s curiosity was fired up enough to have her bouncing on her toes. “How do I look?”
Jonah gave her a perusal she was sure didn’t miss anything.
But she missed something. Gone was the flirtatious gleam in Jonah’s eye from the day before.
He cleared his throat. “You look like a cowgirl ready to go on a date in town.”
“You say that like I failed.” Em stared down at her midcalf jeans skirt, pink cowboy boots and pink button-down.
Adam ran past them and out the door. “You look pretty, Aunty Em.”
“Thank you.” At least one male thought she looked good, even if Adam was only five.
“Is someone getting married?” Charlie ran out the open door next. “Aunty Em never wears a skirt ’cept at weddings.”
“She’s a rodeo queen.” Davey shot by them, carrying a wrapped birthday present. “She’s supposed to look pretty every once in a while.”
Emily blew out a breath. This wasn’t how she’d imagined the morning going. She’d fantasized about making Jonah’s jaw drop, followed by a show-stopping entrance into the diner where Bo would do the same.
“It’ll do.” Jonah turned. “Let’s go. Bo’s there and I’m hungry.”
“It’ll do?” Em lifted her chin. She’d tried on six outfits before sticking with this one. And now she had no time to change because the boys were in the ranch truck waiting for her to drive them into town for a friend’s breakfast-themed birthday party.
“You look lovely. Why don’t I come along?” Franny held a bucket of cleaning supplies. “Shane is due any minute. We can lend some moral support even if we’re only sitting across the room.”
“Thanks, but no.” Emily poked Jonah’s back. “Jonah’s supposed to be my Bo-coach. Jonah’s supposed to build me up. Jonah’s supposed to—”
“Be in your corner.” Jonah faced Em once more, attempting a smile. “I meant to say you look very nice.” He took her arm, drawing her out the door. “I like that you’re leaving your cowboy hat behind.”
Several minutes and very little adult conversation later, Emily had dropped her nephews at Nate Ritter’s house and was entering the Bent Nickel diner with Jonah. The restaurant was a midcentury classic—checkerboard linoleum, green pleather booths, chrome stools at the lunch counter and town gossip around a large community coffeepot.
And there he was. His Bo-Highness.
Bo sat at a booth to the side, every strand of thick, dark hair in place. His chiseled cheekbones were illuminated by the fluorescent lights. His breakfast had already been served—a large omelet, a side of plump sausages, strips of thick bacon and a plate of toast. Her kind of meal. He gestured them over.
An invitation to breakfast with Mr. Bodilicious?
Emily’s heart beat faster.
Ivy waved at Jonah and Emily from behind the counter. “The usual for you two?”
“Uh...” Emily wasn’t aware she had a usual.
Ivy took out her order pad. “When you were stranded in town a few weeks ago, Emily, you ordered the two-egg breakfast every morning. Over easy, crisp baco
n, English muffin?” Without waiting for Em’s assent, Ivy turned her attention to Jonah. “Green tea and Greek yogurt?” When Jonah nodded yes, she disappeared into the kitchen.
Jonah guided Em into the booth seat across from Bo. She scooted over to make room for him next to her.
“Morning.” Bo cut into a sausage. “We didn’t talk about your schedule this morning, Jonah. I’ve got wall framing to do today.”
This morning? Emily slanted a glance at Jonah. He’d seen Bo already this morning? “I’m sure Jonah or I can—”
“Busy today. Sorry.” Jonah waved to the elderly man coming through the front door, and slid to the edge of the booth, as far away from Emily as he could get. “Egbert! I’ve got a question for you.”
Bo continued to eat, but was frowning at his plate.
And since he wasn’t looking at Em, she could ask, “Did you guys see each other earlier?”
“I slept in the bunkhouse,” Bo said between bites. “I saw you in the henhouse collecting eggs when I left.”
He saw me with bedhead and a slouchy pair of sweats?
“Oh.” Emily hadn’t noticed Bo because her earbuds had been blasting country music. She’d worn her stall-mucking, egg-collecting, ugly plastic boots, too, which were so not polished or sophisticated. And... Em’s mind circled back to the earbuds because her playlist was designed to make her move in the morning.
He could have...
She peeked at Brawny Bo from under her lashes. Was he smiling as he ate?
He saw me dancing?
Which was worse than him seeing her with bedhead and wearing a slouchy pair of sweats.
Emily stifled a groan and sank lower in her seat. As discreetly as possible, she nudged Jonah beneath the table and whispered, “Help me out here.”
“Huh?” Jonah had his back to Emily and his feet in the aisle. He was waiting for Egbert to get his coffee, although not patiently. What was wrong with Jonah? He was twitchier than a wood tick looking for a home. It was as if he’d forgotten their purpose this morning. Or...
Her eyes narrowed. Or his purpose had been different than hers all along. He’d wanted to chat with Egbert, whose head was full of Second Chance history.
Enchanted by the Rodeo Queen--A Clean Romance Page 10