One Lucky Cowboy (21 page)

   "Jane, where are you?" Slade asked.

   She slung the door open and rushed out, nearly knocking him over.

   "Put these on and then hang on me like you're half drunk and hum 'I Saw the Light.' Don't you miss a single note."

   She flipped her hair up in a ponytail, stored the rest of the elastic holders in her pocket, crammed the funny hat on her head, and wrapped the bandana around her neck. She took his arm and began to hum. They walked right past Ramona, who was busy talking to the sales clerk.

   He pointed toward the ladies' room and said, "I saw that girl but she looked better than that. She went to the restroom a few minutes ago. She's been in here quite a while. What did she do that the FBI is lookin' for her? Do we need to evacuate the building? Is this a terrorist thing?"

   Jane's stomach did so many flip-flops that she feared she'd lose everything she'd eaten that day. She kept humming as if her life depended on it all the way to the truck, where Slade picked her up like a bride and put her inside. Then he took his own good time walking around the hood and slowly crawling inside.

   "Go! Get out of here," she said.

   "You don't want to go up there to that Malibu and kiss your sweet fiancé on the lips? You might surprise him enough that he won't kill you."

   "Great God in heaven, is he really parked that close? Just get us out of here, Slade. I don't think I've ever been so scared in my life."

   "If he's the same man that was in the van in Terral, he is—and are you admitting that you might not be so good at staying ahead of them all on your own?" Slade started the engine and pulled out slowly. Ramona rushed out the front door of the museum and went straight to the silver Malibu, gesturing frantically. John got out and followed her back into the museum.

   "Let's go see the cemetery now," Slade said.

"Let's go to China," she gasped.

   "We came to see where old Hank is buried and pay our respects so we'll do it. We don't have to sling snot and weep over his bones for an hour and those folks are going to be lookin' under every piece of sheet music in that place, so we've got a few minutes," Slade said.

   "What if—"

   "You know, I'd kind of like to face off with that city slicker and what better place than on top of old Hank's grave? I might be a cowboy with only a set of fists and a pair of tough boots, but I kinda like to think I could whip his ass. He might be good at killing women, but we could see how he'd fare in an honest fight," Slade drawled in that slow Texas accent that weakened her resolve never to trust another man.

   She giggled nervously. "He's an assassin. He'll know tricks you couldn't even think about."

   "I'm a barroom brawler."

   "When did you ever fight? I didn't think you ever left the ranch long enough to get into a bar fight." She began to breathe easier.

   "Lots of things you don't know about me."

   She shook her head slowly from side to side. "Sorry, I still can't see you as a brawler."

   "I was about twenty and went through a rebellious stage. Saturday night drinking was part of it. Fights come with the territory. But that's enough about my ornery days. We're here." He pointed to the cemetery sign and drove up to Hank's grave.

   They got out and stood in front of the tombstone. Jane had finally stopped shaking and her heartbeat had settled down to an even rhythm.

"Why'd you make me hum?" she asked.

   "To keep you busy so you wouldn't faint. You were pale as a ghost. That man really has got you spooked, hasn't he?"

   She gulped and nodded. "I hate to admit it. I've never been afraid of anything in my life but my blood runs cold every time I think of what he and my stepfather planned. Both are going to be mad as hell that they haven't gotten the job done yet. The time is getting close to my birthday."

   "We're going to see to it that you have that birthday, Jane. You ever been to Pensacola, Florida?"

   She shook her head.

   "Less than two hundred miles. We'll be there in time for supper and to watch the sunset on the beach."

   "Have you been to Pensacola?" she asked.

   "Nope, never have. Looked it up on the net last night. Thought about Nashville, but I want to see the Grand Ole Opry and it's only playing on Friday and Saturday nights."

   She followed him back to the truck wishing she had the nerve to reach out and take his hand. "So much for just riding and stopping, huh?"

   "Might as well see a few things and make the trip enjoyable, hadn't we?" he said.

   "Got to admit, it does help with the nerves."

   "So Miss Tougher-than-a-cougar has nerves?"

   "And every one of them are raw, so you'd better watch your mouth, cowboy," she smarted off.

   They were back in familiar territory.

   "So, does this mean I have to feed you again? I didn't know if nerves affect you the same way as being angry."

   "Give me an hour to think about Ramona being that close to me. By then I'll be able to do damage to the menu at McDonald's."

   She watched the scenery speed by the first hour and then, true to her word, she got angry and hungry. He stopped at a McDonald's and when she leaned across him to order at the drive-by window, traces of the scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils and he wanted to tangle up his hands in her hair and kiss her again.

   For the past two days that's all he'd been able to think about. He attributed it to being cooped up in close quarters with no one else to talk to. No way could it be because he was falling for the girl. No sir, he wasn't his father and she wasn't a damsel in distress. Well, she was, but not the kind of poor girl who needed saving from poverty kind of damsel in distress. If everything Jane had said was the pure gospel truth, she was as rich as Midas.

   They checked into a cabana room with a kitchenette in a beachfront hotel long before dark. He booked one room with two queen-size beds and hoped she was truly sincere when she said she wasn't averse to sleeping in the same room with him. She looked around the room for the connecting door and back at him.

   "You said…" he started to defend himself at the look she gave him.

   "It's all right. Actually after today, I'd feel safer," she admitted, although it went against her grain. That episode in the museum had taught her right quick that she wasn't nearly as tough or ready to die as she'd thought. "By the way, who are we tonight?"

   He grinned. "Hiram and Lillie Williams, who else?"

She managed a weak laugh.

   "And now while it's still light let's go find a place that sells bathing suits and shrimp," he said.

   "Beer, bait, and ammo? We might be a little too far south for a redneck place like that," she said.

   "All of the above and bathing suits, too, unless you want to do what Ellen suggested and go skinny dipping." He wiggled his eyebrows.

   His cell phone rang.

   She froze. Nellie wouldn't be calling on his real phone so that meant that John and Ramona had found his number. With that they could probably track them, and damn it all, she'd wanted to go swimming and eat shrimp.

   "Hello," he answered it cautiously.

   "This is Agent Riley August of the FBI returning your call from two days ago concerning a lady by the name of Ellacyn Jane Hayes and a flier that is out stating that she is a runaway."

   "Agent August, would you please state your secre tary's name for me?" Slade asked.

   "That would be Brenda Levi. She's the one who passed on the information."

   Slade let out a whoosh of air. There was no way either John or Ramona would know that information. "Did she relay the whole story to you?"

   "She did and we have looked into it. Ellacyn Jane Hayes is a runaway bride. She left a note on the eve of her wedding day and ran away. The note said that she had second thoughts and needed some time to think. That's all we can find on her. She is the owner of a big ranch in western Mississippi and heiress to a large oil company. At least she will be on her twenty-fifth birthday which is… let me check… July 18. The pair posing as agents, John and Ramona Farris, do not belong to us. Also, the phone number on the flier is a private cell phone number. It's not one of ours either. Does that help?" Agent August asked.

   "Tremendously. If I sent a picture of the two of them, would you be able to see if they are in your database?"

   "Yes, I would."

   "Thank you for your time and efforts, Agent August. What's your fax number?"

   Slade picked up the hotel pen and wrote a number on the pad beside the phone. He flipped his phone shut and turned to find Jane still standing in the same spot.

   "Breathe. Hum again. Do something before you turn to stone," Slade said as he took two steps toward her. She was going to faint at any minute and hit her head on the dresser. He'd come too far to allow her to be killed by a silly accident.

   She began to hum.

   "Who was that?" she asked and then went on humming.

   "The real FBI. I called them before we left home to see if we could find out about the ones posing as FBI. They have no idea who they are, but if I send them a picture they can look them up on their database. You got any pictures with you?"

   "Hell no!" The humming stopped.

   "You a good enough artist to give me a composite?"

   "Hell no again! I have trouble drawing stick people." She sat down on the side of the bed.

   "Leaves only one thing." He flipped open his phone and dialed his grandmother.

   "Hey Granny, what's goin' on there?" he asked when she answered.

   "Slade Luckadeau, I've got caller ID and I know you are using your cell phone. What is the matter with you? Have you lost your mind?"

   "No, but I lost my curls and got a tattoo today. Blame Jane when we get back home. She got one, too. A rose, right between her boobs. I got a white tiger on my arm and had my head shaved. Don't worry, I bought a do-rag to wear so I don't sunburn this white globe. Jane loves it. She says tomorrow we might get something pierced while we are in Pensacola. There's a tattoo parlor right down the street from us. I'm thinking of a gold earring and she's looking at a diamond nose ring. What do you think?"

   "God Almighty, are you drunk?" Nellie shouted into the phone.

   "No, but I will be in a little bit. There's another shot of Jack Daniels in the bottle and it's calling my name. Jane has been drinking Jim Beam all day. I keep telling her Jack is better but she's stubborn as hell. She's even saying we might have some champagne sent up here to the room. Says she didn't get to drink her bottle in Cancun where she was going on a honeymoon with that son of a bitch fiancé she had."

   "But…" Nellie had a scalding lecture on the tip of her tongue when she remembered that Jane hated whiskey and the only time Slade ever drank it was mixed with Coke. Most of the time they both preferred cold beer.

   "Don't come home until your hair is grown out. I can't do nothing about that tattoo, but if you get your nipples pierced I'll pull them off you with pliers, I don't give a damn if you are twenty-five. I can still whip your ass, boy. And tell Jane to go easy on the champagne. It'll knock her on her butt."

   "See you in a couple of days. We're going to hole up here. Ain't no way the FBI will find us in this place," Slade said.

   "I mean it. Until your pretty curls are grown back in, don't you darken my doorstep," she said.

   "Yes, ma'am. Go have a shot of Peppermint Schnapps and think of me. We've outsmarted those fools."

   "Sober up. Good-bye." Nellie said and hoped she'd said the right words.

   Jane looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. "What in the hell was all that about?"

   "Let's go find bathing suits and I'll tell you on the way. They won't get here until late tonight."

   She shivered all the way to her toenails.

   While they drove to the first souvenir shop on the strip he explained. "I told her all that shit so they could hear it and they'll be looking for a bald man with a new tattoo on his arm. And a lady with one on her boob."

   "Did she believe you?"

   "Not at first, but then it dawned on her what was going on and she let me know she understood. She's a grand old gal, ain't she?"

   "Grander than you'll ever know."

JANE SAT AT THE EDGE OF THE WATER, BUTT IN THE SNOW- white sugar sand, toes in the surf that drifted in and out, sloshing against her bare legs. She'd chosen a brown floral tankini at the souvenir shop. She'd tried on a bikini but suddenly went all shy in the dressing room.

   Slade wore a baggy blue suit. His chest was broad and muscular, his arms as big as piano legs and firm as an oak tree. What would it be like to have those arms wrapped around her in the middle of the night when she had nightmares? Would they keep her from waking up in a cold sweat? Would just knowing someone that strong was beside her keep the dreams at bay? Suddenly a different thought skipped through her mind. She wondered briefly if indeed he could whip John's ass in a barroom brawl.

   "Of course he could," she mumbled. In a real fight he'd be no match for Slade. But he was a devious man and in that Slade was no match for him. John would kill him without raising a finger or giving Slade a black eye. He'd do it with sly poison or a sniper's rifle from a block away. John wouldn't think of fighting fairly.

   In the old western movies, John would be the evil cowboy on a black horse and wearing a black hat. Slade, the painfully honest man who said what he thought without considering the consequences it would bring, would wear the white hat and ride the white horse. In present-day movies, John would be the terrorist. Slade would be the man who brought justice and thwarted John's plans.