Catch Me a Cowboy (2 page)

The pig snuffled, then dropped his head down to the blankets and closed his eyes. Shirlene didn’t usually go to sleep until well after
Letterman
. But with no television in sight, she resigned herself to an early night.

As she closed the door, she glanced down at the worn carpeting to find the Barbie doll Colt had given her on her sixth birthday. Picking it up, she stared at the wild blond hair and naked body—the type of body she had dreamed of possessing. But the dream of perky breasts and skinny hips died at thirteen when Shirlene started to develop more curves than an Indy raceway.

Carrying the doll with her, she flipped out the lights, slipped off her high heels, and climbed onto the fold-out couch. No doubt there was still a mattress in each of the bedrooms, but after her fright, she had no desire to sleep alone. Even if it meant she had to share a bed with a hog.

“Scoot over, Piglet.” She gave him a shove, and he gave her a mere two inches more before snuffling back to sleep. Rolling to her back, she stared up at the ceiling while she stroked Barbie’s short, uneven hair. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember cutting the doll’s hair. Just one more piece of her childhood she’d chosen to forget.

The night was hot and dry and the mattress so thin that the metal frame pressed into her back. How Colt had managed to sleep on it was beyond her. Her brother had
sacrificed so much growing up so she would have what other kids had—like her own room. Which was why she wasn’t about to let him sacrifice any more. Not when he had a new wife and baby girl to worry about. No, this time, Shirlene would fix her own mess. Come hell or high water—or nasty bank owners.

Despite the bad mattress, it didn’t take her long to fall asleep. It wasn’t surprising that she dreamed of Grover Road.

She was nine years old again and playing in the broken-down Chevy in the front yard. The day was hot and, even with the windows open, sweat glued her bright copper hair to her temples and to the back of her neck. Regardless of the heat, she refused to climb out of the rusty car. There were too many places she wanted to travel to, too many things she wanted to see. It would’ve been much more fun if Hope and Colt had been traveling with her. But Hope had moved into town, and Colt spent most of his days at Tinker Jones’s garage. So Shirlene was all alone, except for her mama, who was passed out cold on her bed inside the trailer.

Of course, that was the one nice thing about Grover Road—you were never alone for long. A man suddenly appeared in front of the hood ornament of the old Chevy, a man with a friendly smile and eyes as green as Shirlene’s. She wasn’t surprised to see her daddy. Even though he’d died in a car accident when she was a baby, she dreamed of him often. He walked around to the open window and reached in to smooth back her hair. At first, his fingers were cool and soothing. But, as with most dreams, when you least expect it, things could take a turn for the worst. Suddenly, he wasn’t stroking her hair as
much as strangling her neck. As his fingers tightened and she fought for breath, his face turned from her daddy’s into her husband’s—not the living Lyle, but the dead Lyle. Eyes that were deep holes of nothingness stared out of a lifeless face.

Shirlene woke with a start. Pre-dawn filled the room with grayish light. It sounded like the wind had died down, although it was hard to tell over the wild thumping of her heart and her heavy breathing. The nightmare slowly receded from her mind. But what she couldn’t seem to shake was the feeling of icy fingers on her neck. It only took a subtle tightening for Shirlene to realize that the icy fingers were no longer part of a dream.

“Mine,” a deep voice growled in her ear.

Releasing an ear-splitting scream, Shirlene jumped from the bed and headed for the door. When her hand closed around the doorknob, she quickly glanced back to see how closely the strangler followed. The room was empty except for a startled pig that looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. Maybe she had. But whether it was a figment of her imagination or not, she’d had enough of Grover Road. Without waiting for Sherman, she threw open the door, only to come face to face with an image straight out of a horror movie.

But it wasn’t the hockey mask that held her attention as much as the chainsaw. And having watched the
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
at least a dozen times, Shirlene knew exactly what happened to the pretty blonde. Luckily, Sherman had no intention of being carved into ham hocks, and with a high-pitched squeal, he sailed off the mattress and charged the door. The short psycho killer stepped back long enough for pig and blonde to hightail it out.

They took the front steps in one leap, Sherman landing on all fours and Shirlene going down to one knee. But she got up quickly enough when the chainsaw cranked to life. Since her keys were still in the trailer, she bypassed her SUV and headed for the hole in the shrubs that separated her lot from her neighbor’s. If she had been thinking clearly, she would’ve run to a trailer that was occupied, but her brain had flown right out of her head the minute the ghostly cold hands had closed around her throat. Add a chainsaw-wielding midget, and her only thought was escape.

Since the trailer next door was vacant at the moment, Shirlene didn’t waste any time knocking. She just swung open the screen door and barged right in. She closed the door behind Sherman and fumbled with the lock. While the lock at her trailer worked perfectly, this one didn’t work at all. Even locked, the flimsy door would be no match for a chainsaw, something she didn’t think about until the front steps creaked and a masked face peered in the kitchen window.

Terrified, Shirlene glanced down at Sherman, who shot her a look that pretty much said
every pig for himself
before he streaked behind a dilapidated recliner. With no room left behind the chair, Shirlene headed for the back bedroom. Unfortunately, the bedroom door didn’t have a lock either, and with her heart pounding in her chest, all she could do was listen and wait.

The chainsaw sputtered to a halt. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe the psycho was lulling her into a false sense of security—hoping she’d open the door to peek out so he could decapitate her in one slice. The image of splattered blood and her rolling
head was fresh in her mind when someone grabbed her from behind.

Before she could do more than squeak in terror, she was being pulled down. But it wasn’t the cold blade of a chainsaw that pressed her into the sagging mattress, but rather a solid chest of warm hard muscles. Shirlene barely had time to suck in a startled breath before a pair of firm lips settled over hers in a deep, tongue-dipping kiss that curled her toes into the sheets and sizzled all thoughts of ghosts and psycho killers right out of her head. Of course, her senses came back quickly enough when the man nibbled his way over to her ear and whispered in a whiskey-soaked voice.

“Now I’m shore not the type of man to look a gift horse in the mouth.” A hot palm settled over her breast, and Shirlene sucked in her breath. “Especially a gift that turned out to be more than I expected. But I’m afraid I’m a little too tuckered out from my trip to give you the kind of ride you deserve, Marcy. So if you don’t mind showin’ yourself out….”

“Marcy?” Shirlene huffed. Suddenly indignation took the place of fear. How could anyone in their right mind confuse her for Marcy Henderson? Marcy had to weigh a good twenty pounds more than Shirlene, with breasts that she was still making payments on.

The lips stilled against her neck, and he pulled back and brushed the hair out of her face. As he stared down at her, his brown eyes appeared to spark with something that actually resembled thought. But it must’ve been a trick of the early morning light that filtered in through the sheet over the window. Because when she looked again, all she saw was a whole lot of nothing.

Bubba.

I
F SOMEONE HAD TOLD
Shirlene that one day she would find herself in bed with Bubba Wilkes, the biggest redneck to ever come out of east Texas, she would’ve laughed them clean out of town. But she wasn’t laughing now, especially when the country hick dipped his lips for another taste. Without fear muddling her mind, his skillet-fried kisses turned into lukewarm milk toast. When he finally came up for air, it took a real effort not to wipe off her mouth.

An idiotic smile split his face. “If I had known you had such a hankerin’ for me, Ms. Dalton, I’da been back much sooner.”

“I think there’s been a mistake, honey,” she stated with as much civility as she could muster.

“Not in my book, Honey Buns.” His gaze drifted down to her breasts, nuzzled against his chest. “And all I’ll need is a couple minutes to prove it.”

“I hate to decline such a fine offer,” she said between gritted teeth, “but the only reason I’m here is because I was being chased by a psychotic killer.”

His forehead crinkled before a light went on. As usual it was the wrong light.

“Now there’s no need to come up with whoppers like that one, Ms. Dalton. If you wanted a tour of Wilkesville, all you needed to do is ask.”

Shirlene rolled her eyes. Good Lord, it had been so long since his last visit, she’d forgotten what an arrogant hillbilly the man was. A hillbilly who had wiggled his way into the hearts of every man, woman, and child in Bramble. Which was the only reason Shirlene didn’t knee him in the family nuggets and be done with it—that and the fact that there was a chainsaw-wielding killer on the loose.

She flashed him a dimpled smile. “Yes, well, I’ll have to take that tour another time. Right now, I need you to—”

“You sure about that?” he cut her off. “Because some offers only come once in a lifetime.”

“I guess that’s a chance I’ll have to take.” She glanced back at the door. “So do you have a gun?” It was a stupid question, considering that most Texans owned a gun—or two.

“Yes, ma’am.” He pressed his hips closer. “Would you like to see it?”

She stared back at him in disbelief. “Do you really get women with these lines?”

“What lines?”

Good Gravy, and she thought dealing with a psycho had been tough.

“Look.” She patted his cheek in an attempt to knock a little sense in him. “All I need—”

The front door banged open.

And brains or no brains, she clung to Bubba like he
was a bathtub in a tornado. But instead of the whine of a chainsaw, Kenny Gene’s voice drifted in. Which was almost as terrifying, when she realized one of the biggest gossips in Bramble was about to find her in bed with Bubba Wilkes.

“Hey, Bubba,” Kenny Gene yelled. “You in here, buddy?”

Remembering the kind of hell her best friends, Faith and Hope, had been put through at the hands of the crazy, matchmaking townsfolk, Shirlene sent Bubba one look of warning before she dove beneath the covers. Not that the man would know a look of warning, but she really didn’t have much choice. Especially when Kenny Gene didn’t believe in the sanctity of a closed door.

Throwing it open, he walked right in.

“There you are!” Kenny sounded like he had just found his long-lost hound dog. The floorboards creaked as he stepped into the room. “Rossie Owens said you showed up at Bootlegger’s last night. And I was damned sorry I let Twyla talk me in to stayin’ home to watch that exterminator show—although watchin’ that skinny, weird dude flush out them roaches was pretty fascinatin’.”

“Hey, Kenny,” Bubba drawled. “How you been?”

“Fair to middlin’. I had a bad case of the runs last week, but I feel fit as a fiddle now. ’Course things in town have been a little scary since Lyle passed away and Dalton Oil changed hands. But that C-Corp seems like a good enough outfit, so people are probably worryin’ about losin’ their jobs over nothin’—” He stopped in mid-sentence, and Shirlene’s breath hitched in her chest.

“Hey, who’s that sleepin’ next to you? By the size of that bee-hind I’d say it was Ernie Clines. You two plan
nin’ on gettin’ an early start on fishin’? You mind me taggin’ along?”

A squeak of disbelief slipped out of her mouth, and she clamped a hand over it. First Marcy Henderson and now Ernie Clines. Her butt was not that big. She might have a little junk in the trunk, but it was nothing close to Marcy and Ernie’s bubble butts. Still, she made a mental note to cut back on the chocolate.

“You’re always more than welcome to come along, Kenny,” Bubba replied in his thick drawl. “Except I’m not goin’ fishin’ with Ernie.”

“You ain’t? Huntin’?”

“Nope.”

There was a long stretch of silence before Kenny spoke. “Then why is Ernie sleepin’ over? You ain’t one of them fellers that—”

Before Kenny could finish and the smirk even began to settle on Shirlene’s face, she was pulled, blanket and all, into Bubba’s arms.

His deep voice rumbled against her ear. “As much as I like my fishin’ buddies, I prefer my bed partners to be of the female variety.” His hand slipped down and patted Shirlene’s butt. “Even if those females have a little extra paddin’.”

Her humor evaporated as Kenny crowed like a proud papa. “Why, you sly dog, you. In town for less than a day, and you already got yourself a woman—a pretty blonde by the looks of that hair.” The floor creaked as he backed out of the room. “Well, I’ll just leave you to it then, Bubba.” But before Kenny left, he added, “You want me to let Slate know you’re here so he can bring by your truck?”

“I’d shore appreciate it,” Bubba said.