Left Hanging (3 page)

“Crippled,” came Diana’s murmur. Nice to have your cameraperson double as an interpreter.

“—and can’t rodeo no more. I was going good to start the season. But seems like the weather gets warmer, and my luck gets colder. Thought I’d get the winner’s take for sure last weekend, but just missed. If that damned bronc had had a bit of go in ’im
 . . .
But that’s the draw, when a kid that’s still got milk teeth gets a rank one and walks away with the money.”

He spit as punctuation. I didn’t look, and I held my breath, holding onto my gum fantasy.

“I came in last night to help with the run-up to next week’s rodeo, so I’d have enough jingle in my pocket to pay my entry fee and take my ride. But that’s why this don’t make sense,” he added earnestly. “Don’t make no sense. Why would anybody do such a thing to him? He’d let a guy work in a pinch, and look at how he came through with this here rodeo. If it hadn’t a been for Keith, there wouldn’t’ve been a July Fourth rodeo this year in Sherman, that’s for sure.”

“Why do you think he was on the rodeo grounds last night?”

“Can’t say.” The eyes shifted faster and farther to the side, and stayed shifted. Now, why had that made him uncomfortable?

“Looking after his livestock, perhaps?” I suggested just to keep this going.

“Not him. Didn’t have much to do with them critters.”

“Will you still compete next weekend?”

He mumbled, “Don’t know about that, with Keith gone.”

“There’ll still be work. I understand his partner has said the rodeo will go on,” I said, although I hadn’t heard any such thing.

“’Spose I can talk to Oren.”

“Have you known Oren Street long?”

“Same as Keith. Funny how fast time goes. Oren’s girl was born right about this time of year. But that was the second year they ran the rodeo.” He shuffled his feet. “Better get goin’
 . . .
”

“Of course. What time was it you arrived here?”

“This morning, right behind Zane.”

I didn’t understand that last reference. Maybe Diana or Mike would. I thanked him. As he walked off, I noticed a slight limp.

I made a mental note to ask Jenks to confirm if he was the scruffy cowboy he’d seen this morning.

“You catch that stuff about
why would anybody do this to him
?” Diana asked as we headed toward the arena.

“Oh, yeah.” I noted Fine and his new favorite cameraman had left. “Interesting, wasn’t it, when everybody’s talking accident and— There’s another one of them. Let’s go.”

Chapter Three

THE GOOD-LOOKING cowboy had melted only as far as the enclosures used to send off roping event competitors, giving him a view down the arena
 . . .
and if he’d turned his head, a view of us talking with Evan Watt.

I had his profile, and a nice profile it was under the brim of his hat. He didn’t turn, but I had the sense he was aware of our approach. With one hand behind my back, I indicated to Diana to circle around to his far side, while I slowed my pace. Before I was close enough to hail him comfortably, he turned away from me, took one step before seeing Diana, then halted. That gave me time to close in and hit him with questions.

“You stuck around close enough to hear what I asked Evan Watt,” I said. “What do you think of what’s happened?”

“Nothing to think. Don’t know anything.”

“Are you a competitor? Will you enter the Fourth of July Rodeo?”

Diana looked at me over her camera, which was meant to convey something, but I didn’t try to figure out what because I was focused on him.

“’Xpect so, ma’am.”

“Not just in the nightly rodeos?” I pressed that point to be sure he would have been acquainted with Landry. A noise came from behind the camera. I ignored it.

“No, ma’am,” he said in that Western way that made me feel I was 143 years old, decrepit, and had never been very bright.

“What’s your name?”

“Grayson Zane.”

My eyebrows might have hiked of their own accord. Diana cleared her throat again, but I was focused on the subject. “Grayson Zane?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I resisted the temptation to ask the history of that name—Zane Grey, Grayson Zane. There had to be a story. Not because I didn’t want to know, but because the faintest note of resignation sounded in his voice. He expected me to ask, so I didn’t.

“You’ve heard about the death of Keith Landry, Grayson Zane?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Time to move him off yes and no answers. “What is your reaction to this
 . . .
to his death?” I’d started to say
to this tragedy
, but imagined him parroting back,
It’s a tragedy
.

“Real surprised like, ma’am.” I caught a glint in his eyes under his hat brim. Not a dumb cowboy. Equally, not a cooperative one.

Diana cleared her throat. Following the tip of her head, I saw Mike and Jenks headed in our general direction from beyond the rodeo office.

I returned my attention to the
ma’amer
. “Why surprised? Isn’t rodeo a dangerous sport?”

“For cowboys some. It’s us taking the risks. Men like Landry take the sure thing. And if there’s not a sure thing to be taken, they rig it so there is.” The edge to that sliced right through his laconic drawl.

“You mean contractors?”

He had the drawl back in place as he said, “Yeah. Contractors. Can’t say I ever heard of a stock contractor killed this way before.”

“Trampled by his own bulls? No, I would imagine that isn’t a frequent
 . . .
”

I let my imaginings die a natural death because he wasn’t paying attention. He was looking over my shoulder toward the rodeo office. A flicker of something showed for the first time in the strong lines of his face. It made him a lot more interesting. I turned to see what he was looking at.

Standing on the office’s narrow wooden porch were a woman I didn’t know and a man I did.

The woman was tall, rawboned. Those attributes added to her air of strength. Even at this distance I had the impression the strength was also one of character.

The same description applied to the man next to her, Thomas David Burrell. From encounters this spring I had reason to know that the impression of his strengths was accurate.

Turning back to ask Zane about his reaction, I was left with only his back, now at a distance of several yards, as he strode away. It was a pleasant view, but I didn’t let it distract me.

I could chase after him. Chasing after people to ask questions is one of my finer professional skills. But in this instance, I didn’t think exhibiting that professional skill would gain me much.

On top of his general lack of cooperation, that flicker of reaction had been too short, and not well enough defined, for me to have an inkling of what I might be messing with. No sense in making an enemy out of him if I might need him cooperative down the road. All I knew was that the sight of those two people had an effect on him: Awkwardness mixed in with some strong, unidentifiable emotion.

I knew exactly how that felt, since the last time I’d spent any time face to face with Tom Burrell, we’d not only been face to face, but mouth to mouth.

I turned and headed toward the arena, wondering if Zane’s unidentifiable emotion had been unidentifiable only to an outside observer, or if we had in common that it was unidentifiable to the person experiencing it, too.

“Where’re you going?” Diana asked.

“Let’s see if we can find that third cowboy.”

“Don’t you want to check with Mike and Jenks?”

“Looks like they’ll be occupied a while.” They had intersected with Burrell and his companion. All appeared pleased by that.

Continuing in the other direction, I started looking for a familiar face among kids in black cowboy hats as we wandered through knots of arriving competitors. Diana easily kept pace, despite toting the camera. I needed to start lifting weights again.

I felt a pang for the fully-equipped workout room in the Manhattan apartment I’d shared with my then-husband. What did it say when you missed the treadmill, but not the marriage’s rut?

Diana saved me from my own questions with one of hers. “Do you know who that was?”

She knew I knew Tom Burrell. She must mean the woman he was with. “Who?”

“The guy you were just interviewing.”

“You heard him the same as I did. Grayson Zane. Why? Do you have reason to think he was lying?”

“I have reason to know he wasn’t. Do you know who Grayson Zane is?”

I had a feeling
cowboy
wasn’t the right answer. Nor
cowboy in a black hat
. “No.”

“He is one of the top rodeo cowboys in the country. Way he’s been going this season, possibly
the
top rodeo cowboy in the country. Although it’s a long way to December and the NRFs.”

The scruffy cowboy, Evan Watt, mentioned those letters, too.

“But Grayson Zane’s been there before. He was all-around rookie champion. Then he had a couple real bad years. Got hurt, started to rise up the ranks, got hurt again. That second time it looked like he’d stay down.”

I eyed her. “You play in the Fantasy Rodeo League or something?”

“Or something. I have two kids crazy for rodeo. Anyway, he came into town four, five years ago looking more beat up and low down than Evan Watt. But he must have had enough left for his entry, because he won an event here that Fourth of July. Started winning a few more. Had a steady climb ever since. Been to the NRFs the past three years and has taken home a bundle.”

“What is—are the
 . . .
?”

“National Rodeo Finals. Rodeo’s World Series, Super Bowl—”

My phone ringing interrupted. “Where are you guys? Jenks is leaving.”

“Mike wants to know where we are,” I told Diana.

“Tell him west end of the arena, near the boxes for the timed events. But I’m not staying, either. I’ve got to pick up the kids.”

“Uh-oh.” Two vehicles and both leaving. “Did you hear that?” But Mike didn’t appear to be listening to me.

He came back on. “It’s okay. Tom’ll drive me to the station to get my vehicle. I might miss the start of events. Meet where we sat last time.” More talking in the background on his end. “Unless you want a ride to the station, too.”

I could go with them to the station and skip tonight’s rodeo. We’d get no footage anyway, with both photographers gone. So, all I could gather would be background. Plus, it wasn’t like I’d never seen a rodeo. I had. Once.

On the other hand, accepting the ride would mean being confined in a truck with Burrell and Paycik. Most likely
between
Burrell and Paycik.

There’s no such thing as too much background.

“I’ll meet you in the same spot,” I said.

So, there I was, alone behind the scenes of a rodeo, sidestepping black-hatted cowboys, the horses they guided, and stinky piles of agricultural byproducts.

I was about to head to the grandstand, when I spotted Cowboy Number Three.

He stood against a fence, running rope through one gloved hand, with his other hand gathering it into a neat coil. He’d nearly finished, then he unfurled it and began again. From the way he started when I spoke, it had not been my approach that prompted the do-over.

“Excuse me. I’m E.M. Danniher from KWMT. I have a few questions about your reaction to the death of Keith Landry.”

At my first words he jumped like he’d been poked with a bull horn—the kind with a point, not the kind that makes noise.

His head snapped up, and the glare he sent me indicated his answer would be, “Hell, no, I’m not talking.”

But he had no chance to say it.

“What are you doing? What
are
you doing?” demanded a female voice.

In another half a second, a female form interposed itself between me and Cowboy Number Three.

She was the same age as Cowboy Number Three, wearing a glittering western shirt of a chartreuse so bright it made my teeth ache, a stripe of glittering rhinestones down the outside of each leg of her tight black jeans, and a pink cowboy hat with—I wouldn’t kid about this—a tiara attached around the front of the crown.

It required another look to take in the girl inside the outfit. She wore heavy makeup and her long hair teased and sprayed into the stiff bigness of another era. Beneath it all was the attractiveness of a young, healthy, fit female.

“I have a few questions for
 . . .
” I left it for either to fill in the name of Cowboy Number Three. No such luck.

“Can you not see he’s getting ready to
compete
?” Brain surgery, rescuing a toddler from a raging flood, or pilots taking off to save the planet from a plunging asteroid—none rivaled the importance she gave that word.

“He’s not competing yet.”

“You can
not
be serious! You do not interrupt a man’s preparations.”

“Heather,” Cowboy Number Three said from behind her, one hand cupping her shoulder in a familiar way. “It’s o—”

“No, it is not. It is not the least little bit okay.”

He shrugged and went into the competitors’ area, where I was not allowed.

At this point, though, I was at least as interested in her as in him. Talk about an over-the-top reaction.

“I’m E.M. Danniher with—”

“I don’t care who you think you are, asking questions all over the place when it’s none of your business. It is not acceptable to break a competitor’s concentration. You might not be from around here
 . . .
” Dramatic pause for a scathing look at my decidedly unsparkly attire, as well as unforgivable lack of cowboy hat, much less tiara. “. . . but it’s only good manners no matter where you come from not to barge right in like that.”

“And your name is?”

“Honey,” came a new voice, practically dripping that substance. “You go get ready.”

“But Mom—”

“Now.” Ah, this honey could carry a sting. Quickly soothed. “Go on, now. You don’t want to have to rush for your ride.”

Ms. Tiara did what she was told.

With the hierarchy clear, Cowboy Number Three at the bottom, then Heather/Honey, then Mom, I turned to greet the top of the pyramid, prepared to spread honey of my own if it got me what I wanted.

No need.

“You’re Elizabeth Danniher with the TV station, aren’t you?” Her smile was gracious and warm, with a touch of wryness. She didn’t look around for a camera, but I had the feeling she’d already determined there wasn’t one.

“I am.” I held out my hand. “And you are?”

“Vicky Upton, Heather’s mom.” She gave a good handshake in return. Firm, not rough. Well-tended hands. Well-tended everything. But perhaps the most well-cared for was the iron determination in the eyes and jaw. “I do apologize if Heather was overzealous. She’s keyed up, what with getting ready and all. It’s not the big event like it will be next week, but they are having her do the rodeo queen’s ride tonight, and it’s her first time. Plus, she always has been protective of Cas.”

Her smile invited me to be indulgent with young love. I was more interested that Cowboy Number Three had at least one name.

“In fact, they’re protective of each other,” she added. “They’ve been sweethearts practically from the cradle, and he’s a fine boy, from a fine family.”