Last of the Red-Hot Cowboys (11 page)

An older man, maybe a vagrant, was walking down the road near Judy's house. Ava drove past him, thinking she'd seen him somewhere before, then realizing he'd spoken to her outside of Redfeathers the first night the Belles had been in town.

She thought it was kind of weird that he was out this way, a good ten minutes from town. He didn't have a car that she could see.

Maybe he lived out here. Ava drove on, seeing Trace's headlights in her rearview mirror—and for some reason, felt a whole lot less creeped out.

But then Trace's headlights disappeared, his truck no longer behind hers. Ava slowed down, but Trace never reappeared. She shrugged and headed on to the bungalow, unlocked her door, let herself in, and changed out of the bikini. Took a shower, grabbed a glass of wine, and sat down with a book on equestrian riding she liked to study.

I wonder where Trace went
.

It doesn't matter. He's one of those blow-with-the-wind kind of guys
.

He could have at least called, the jerk
.

On the other hand, he doesn't owe me any explanations
.

“Oh, my God, I am not arguing with myself about Trace Carter!” She hopped up, got out the vacuum, and began cleaning her room in the bungalow.

The pounding on her door erupted even over the sound of the seen-better-days vacuum. Shutting it off, she called, “Who is it?”

“It's Saint!”

“That's new,” Ava said to herself, and opened the door. “What's up?”

“Trace wanted me to check on you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Why?”

Saint shrugged. He glanced inside the room. “Everything all right in here?”

“Yes. What is it with you guys?” She glared at Saint. “You're all way overprotective or something.”

He looked like a puppy whose toy had been taken away. “We just feel responsible for you ladies.”

Okay, he was being nice, and she was being a little bitchy. “Sorry. I'm just not used to being micromanaged.”

He nodded. “I know. But you might as well get used to it, now that Trace has taken you on as a project. Call one of us if you need anything.”

“Where is Mr. Micromanager, anyway?”

Saint turned around. “He had to go out to Ivy Peters' place.”

“Oh.” She'd wondered why he'd disappeared. “Goodnight, Saint.”

He grinned. “See you tomorrow night. It promises to be a real barrel of monkeys.”

She shut the door.
A barrel of monkeys
.

I'm definitely not in Virginia anymore. I'm in a tiny town in Texas called Hell, and the man who was supposed to follow me home ditched to head out to a place that sounds like what passes for a whorehouse around here
.

I'm giving this plan one more week, and then I'm pulling the rip cord
.

Ivy Peters' place was hopping, a crazy night, with out-of-towners loading up the joint with trucks and cars Trace didn't recognize. He and the sheriff, Declan, and Saint had jumped back in their jeans and shorts when Steel had gotten the call, but Trace sure wished he was carrying. He felt a little comfort that the two deputies who'd met them at Ivy Peters' Honky-tonk and Dive Bar (the dive-bar part was unofficial, but everyone called it that anyway) were carrying and looked official in their uniforms.

The Outlaws followed Steel, hanging close.

“This is a mess,” Steel said, shoving open the wide wooden double doors.

Trace had never seen the place so packed, then realized Ivy's “girls” were just about nude. Ivy herself was dressed in a stunning beige gown, a la Marilyn Monroe, not leaving much to the imagination. This was not a good place to be, and Trace could understand why someone had phoned in a panicked call just because of the sheer overload in the parking lot.

“Steel.” Ivy floated over to the sheriff and glued herself to his side. “What a very pleasant surprise.”

“We got a call, Ivy.”

She laughed, patted his bicep. “You're always getting calls. And yet, do you see anything we're doing wrong?”

“Not yet.” The sheriff looked grim. “You need to cool this place down.”

“Why? Because Judy says so?” Ivy looked at him curiously. “I expect you to protect my rights against our crooked mayor, Sheriff. You know Judy can be spiteful and mean, even if you don't admit it out loud.”

Trace took a deep breath, keeping a watchful eye on the girl on the counter doing a striptease. “You don't have a permit to operate a club of this variety, Ivy.”

“I'm in the county,” she reminded him. “Why don't you let Dee pour you a drink. And one for Saint and Declan, too. We're a friendly place here, Sheriff.” She rested her head on Steel's shoulder, and Trace knew Steel really didn't have anything he could cite
Ivy for. Ivy knew how to push the boundaries just enough to keep herself inside the law.

“No, thanks,” Trace told Dee, wishing Ivy hadn't pushed his ex toward him. “I don't need a drink.” He wasn't about to be dragged away from Steel's side—not with Ivy on the move. Judy would kill him—both of them—if Steel came back stinking of perfume.

Dee molded up against his side with a glass in her hand. “Whiskey, neat,” she said. “Just like you always liked it.”

He shook his head, wishing he could drink it. Trace didn't even let his gaze wander below Dee's chin. “I'm on duty.”

He realized two girls had also attached themselves to Saint and Declan. “No, no,” Trace said, shooing the girls away from his buddies, “we're not here for that, ladies. Move along.”

He was priding himself on his strength and self-control until he realized Ivy was practically sucking the tongue out of Steel's head, her arms wound around his neck.

“Holy shit! Cut that out!” Trace shoved Ivy away from the sheriff, who looked pretty damn poleaxed by the situation.

Not to mention he now wore red lipstick on his cheek, lips, and collar.

“Damn it, Ivy!” Trace glared at Ivy. “What the hell? We come out here to do you a service, keep a little law and order around here—”

He was doing fine on his righteous jag until he caught Steel's worried gaze. Trace glanced behind him, saw that Dee had moved on to an easier target, her lips firmly attached to Saint's as his buddy tried desperately to extract himself.

The dancer who'd been on the counter was now kissing the daylights out of Declan—who wasn't pushing her away in the least. Camera phones went off like mad—and Trace realized they'd been dragged into an ambush.

He pulled the women away from his friends and shoved them toward the doors. “Go, damn it. You, too, Steel.”

“Come again, Steel,” Ivy said, her voice silky, and a bad feeling crawled all the way up Trace's scalp. The sheriff was in a big pile of steaming shit, and Trace had a bad feeling it was going to hit the fan.
Big-time
.

* * *

They regrouped at Trace's out of necessity.

“Shitfire,” Trace said, “I thought that was lipstick on your neck, but it's a goddamn hickey, Steel! What were you thinking?”

“That I had a python wrapped around me,” Steel said miserably. “I didn't know what to do. I couldn't move, I couldn't think. It felt like my brain was made of Play-Doh!”

“Holy crap,” Declan said. “Your ass is so grass with Judy. Serious, fucking grass.”

“You're going to have to hide for a week,” Saint said—wearing a hickey of his own, Trace noticed, though he didn't think Saint realized it. “Are we all dumb as rocks, or did something really weird happen back there?”

Trace shook his head, grabbed a whiskey bottle to help them think. He poured several stiff ones, and they emptied the glasses fast, staring at Steel's lip-peppered neck and face. “Weirdness always happens at Ivy's. It's why we don't let Steel go there alone. Or any of us, for that matter. It's a mantrap, which is fine if a man wants to be trapped.” He did not, and he knew Steel sure as hell didn't.

“Deputies were of little use,” Saint muttered. “Pretty sure you didn't get those two new deputies out of there alive, Trace. Thanks for saving my big dumb ass, though. My God, I could have awakened tomorrow morning with real trouble on my hands.”

“Yeah,” Declan said glumly. “If we ever see those deputies again, it'll be a miracle. They were way too wet behind the ears to survive a night in the Honky-tonk.”

“I don't care about any of that,” Trace said. He studied the sheriff. “What the hell are we going to do about him?”

They all stared at Steel, who looked stricken.

“May I just point out the obvious?” Declan said. “This is Friday night. Tomorrow is Saturday. Hickeys don't go away in a day. But if Steel doesn't show up for his Saturday night at Judy's, there'll be trouble in paradise.”

Steel grabbed another shot of whiskey and sank back into Trace's leather sofa. “I'm going to stay here,” Steel said.

“You can't hide from her. You got the call at her house. She knows we went to Ivy's place. In fact, any minute now, your mobile is going to start lighting up with the mayor's calls.” Trace took a deep breath. “And when Judy doesn't get an instant answer from you, she's going to hit our cell phones next.”

The men whipped out their phones and shut them off. Trace shook his head. “It's not going to work. Judy'll be suspicious as hell. She'll bust us instantly. We're going to have to play it cool, somehow.” He looked at the sheriff, worried.

“How come you got off so easy, Trace?” Declan asked.

He frowned. “Dee wasn't trying all that hard.” He considered that for a moment, studying his shell-shocked buddies. He and Dee had shared many things, but he'd barely thought about her since the breakup. All he'd had on his mind was Ava and that teeny bikini, so he hadn't been receptive to her; still, Dee hadn't put up much of an effort. Not like what his buddies had gotten hit with. “In retrospect, I think she was just trying to sidetrack me. There's nothing between us anymore.”

“She was a decoy?” Declan asked. “So we'd get the full treatment?”

Trace looked at the sheriff, nodding. “Yeah. Because he's in deep now. Those cell phone photos have hit many phones in Hell by now.” He swallowed, hating to say what he suspected. “You can bet they swiftly made their way to Judy's phone.”

“I'm screwed,” the sheriff moaned. He collapsed against the sofa. “I can tell Judy that nothing happened, that it was an—what'd you call it?”

“Ambush,” Saint said helpfully.

“Yeah,” Steel said, “but Judy always says excuses are like assholes. Everybody has one—if they're an asshole.”

“Great.” Trace put the whiskey away, realizing they were past the assistance liquor could provide. “Here's the thing. We have to confront this head-on.”

“I don't like the sound of that,” Steel said.

Steel was an excellent sheriff because he was nice to everyone, and everyone in the town always knew they'd get a fair shake from him. Steel was more interested in getting along and extolling Hell as a pleasant place to live than cracking heads. Which helped explain why they were in this jam at the moment, because Steel was a marshmallow when it came to Judy. “Steel, look, man. Either you do some hard hell-raising
over at Ivy's and figure out what she was up to, or Judy's gonna do it. I can assure you of that.”

He and Declan and Saint looked at each other, and a dawning, horrible comprehension came over Trace. “Judy has her own team now.”

“Her own posse.” Declan nodded. “She'll drag the Belles with her to Ivy's when she goes.”

Trace stared at his boots, thinking. “I think that's Judy's real goal. She's got her own Judy-gang, so she's never alone when she wants to make Ivy's life miserable.”

“I did ask Judy tonight what she was really up to,” Steel said. “I figured she was just trying to matchmake you boys.”

“Matchmake us?” Saint demanded. “Good luck with that.”

“Yeah.” Declan scoffed. “Who'd tie us down? We're so untie-able even Judy couldn't pull off that wonder.”

Trace shook his head. “We can't let Judy drag her Belles over there, Steel. You're going to have to buck up, find out what Ivy was really up to. That whole thing was planned and staged. Who put the call in so you'd go out there?”

“I'd have to check with the router.” Steel looked perplexed. “I don't generally ask who's called something in. I get a call and I go. Plus, I had sufficient backup, even for Judy's comfort.”

“I know. I had my guard down, too.”

His phone rang, and he pulled it out. It was Ava, and his heart gave a slow double-jump, painful in its intensity. “Here we go,” he said. “Ye ol' shit hitteth the fan. Hello?”

“Trace? It's Ava.”

“I know. I see the Virginia area code. I'll save your number,” he said, sounding way too friendly and nonchalant, even to his own ears.

“Um, Judy can't get in touch with the sheriff.”

Trace glanced at Steel, noting his friend's sickly demeanor. “He's here with me.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

“I don't know,” Ava said. “I was getting ready for bed, and Judy called. She
seems to think something might have happened to Steel.”

He glanced at Steel's hickey and wished he was vacationing in Hawaii. “Everything's fine. Tell Judy to calm down. I won't let anything happen to the sheriff.”

“You went out to Ivy's?”

He wondered how long it took for hickeys to go away. He hadn't had one since high school, and he recalled all too well that nothing helped hide them. Which had been the point: to brand Steel and get him in big trouble. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing his face. “But we're at my place now.”

“Trace, I don't really want to get into this, but Judy's here. She wants to talk to you.”