Catch Me a Cowboy (5 page)

Moses slowly pushed himself up from the bench in
front of Sutter’s Pharmacy and shuffled out to the curb. “I guess Colt and Hope got off okay.”

“Dropped them and little Daffodil off at the airport in Lubbock yesterday,” Shirlene yelled. She pulled the leash out of the truck and walked over to snap it on Sherman’s collar. Cattle, sheep, cats, and dogs were allowed to roam free on the streets of Bramble, but pigs had to be on a leash. Which seemed like the worst sort of discrimination to Shirlene.

“How long they gone for?” Moses asked. Without teeth or dentures, his mouth resembled a puckered peach left out in the sun too long.

“At least a week or two. Colt’s got a lot to do if he wants to get his motorcycle shop moved here by winter.”

Moses nodded. “Always knew that boy would turn out all right. A person don’t watch out for their mama and sister like he did and not have a good heart. ’Course you can’t tell the people of this town anything. They still think Colt spent time in prison.” He shook his head. “Durn fools.”

Moses was right. The folks of Bramble might have their noses in everyone’s business, but rarely did they get their facts straight. Something Shirlene had given up trying to change a long time ago.

“See you, Mr. Tate.” She tugged the disgruntled pig away from the wrapper. But she only made it halfway down the block before Kenny Gene’s girlfriend Twyla came trotting across the street, her over-processed hair teased higher than a Jersey girl’s.

“Hey, Shirl. Missed you at the Founder’s Day decoratin’ meetin’.”

Shirlene shot her a big smile. “Well, I’m sure you got things figured out just fine without me, honey.”

“We shore did. Darla’s takin’ care of all the decoratin’ and Josephine the food.” Her gaze wandered over Shirlene’s hair. “I’m havin’ a special on cuts and dyes this week.”

Since the woman could destroy hair better than nuclear fallout, Shirlene kept her mouth shut and continued to smile. The smile drooped when Twyla continued.

“Did you hear the good news? Bubba’s back in town. I guess he just strutted right into Bootlegger’s last night as if he’d never been gone.” Her face turned all dreamy. “Wish I’d been there. Cindy Lynn said he was flirtin’ and dancin’ with all the girls like there was no tomorrow.”

Fortunately, about then, Sherman spotted a paper cup blowing in the wind and took off after it. Glad for the excuse, Shirlene let him tug her down the street, waving a hand behind her. “Take care now, Twyla.”

Like most of the other buildings on Main Street, the bank stood two stories high and was made out of red brick. It sat on the corner of Walnut and Main, its large maple doors facing out at an angle. Thanks to her industrious friend Hope, who had organized a painting party in early April, the wood trim was freshly painted a bright Bramble High purple. Shirlene had to admit that it looked real nice. Of course, she’d always loved purple. What she didn’t love was the fact that the bank doors were locked.

“What in the world is goin’ on in this town?” she grumbled under her breath as she tried the other door.

It was locked as well, which just didn’t make any sense. Shirlene knew it was early, but the bank manager, Luther Briggs, was always at his desk by seven. And even if he was late, The Bank of Bramble didn’t keep their front doors locked—that was what the huge gray vault
was for. Of course, there had been that one time when the bank teller, Ruby Lee, had an affair with that Coca-Cola distributor. When her husband found out, he’d come to the bank with his shotgun and filled the Coke machine with buckshot, forcing Luther and two other employees to drag him out and lock the doors.

But since Hank had long since forgiven Ruby her infidelity, Shirlene figured the locked doors were a mistake so she lifted her fist and knocked. After only a few minutes, the door was thrown open. Except it wasn’t Luther that greeted her, but a short skinny stranger with eyes beadier than Sherman’s and a skinny, black mustache above a thin, sweaty lip.

“I’m sorry,” he stated in an uppity voice with not an ounce of Texas charm, “but the bank doesn’t open for another two hours.” He pointed a finger at the schedule posted on the window, a schedule that hadn’t been there when Lyle was alive.

Confused, Shirlene stared at it for a few seconds, just long enough for the man to start to close the door.

“Now wait just a minute.” She pushed it back open, which wasn’t difficult with such a scrawny man holding it. “I realize I’m here a little bright and early, but I need to speak to Luther.”

His thin eyebrows arched. “Are you referring to Mr. Briggs?”

“That would be the one.” Shirlene slipped inside, Sherman close on her heels.

“Have you lost your mind?” The little man stared down at Sherman, who started licking the solid wood floor like it was coated in honey. “You can’t bring that filthy animal in here.”

Now Shirlene had always believed in being cordial, especially to a stranger who didn’t have a clue who she was. But she couldn’t let the slight go, not when Sherman was extremely sensitive. Still, the best set-downs were done with a smile, and she flashed him one of her better ones.

“What’s your name, honey?”

“Mr. Reginald Peabody the third,” he sputtered with indignation. “But it doesn’t matter what my name is, young lady. You can’t just bust into a bank that is not open for business—especially with a… pig!”

Shirlene’s eyes narrowed. “Well, Mr. Peabody, I think that’s exactly what I did. And Sherman’s not just a pig. He’s our new town mascot.” She flapped her hand as the man started to speak. “Yes, I know that we’re the Bramble High Bulldogs. But since Emmett died a few months back at the ripe old age of fifteen, Sherman here is filling in until we get us a new bulldog. And let me tell you, that little purple sweater with the ‘B’ on it looks breathtaking against all that pink skin.”

“B-but,” the man stammered.

“No ifs, ands, or buts about it, Reggie. School pride is school pride. But if it will make you feel any better, Sherman and I don’t plan on staying very long.”

“Just because he has a name,” Mr. Peabody groused, “doesn’t mean he can be in my bank.”

Shirlene’s eyebrows popped up. “
Your
bank?”

“Well, not mine exactly.” His pointy chin came up. “But I’m the new bank manager. So therefore, I’m the man in charge.”

Shirlene knew that the bank had been sold—just another one of Lyle’s assets that had been auctioned off to
the highest bidder after his death. She just hadn’t considered the fact that Luther Briggs would no longer be working there. But now that she thought about it, it made sense. Luther would never have repossessed her house without talking to her first.

“And if you don’t take that animal out of here this instant,” Mr. Peabody continued, “I’m reporting you to the authorities.”

It was a lame threat considering Sheriff Winslow had absolutely no authority over anyone—not even his wife. But regardless, Shirlene didn’t want the sheriff knowing about her situation so she tried to smooth things over.

“Now there’s no need to call Sam. If you’ll just give me the keys to those new locks you’ve put on my door, I’ll be out of here in a jiffy.”

The man looked confused for only a second. “Ms. Dalton?” he asked.

“That would be me.” She held out a hand. “Keys?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Her smile slipped. The little man had really started to try her patience. “And exactly why is that?”

“I gave you plenty of warning, Ms. Dalton. And a banking institution will never survive if they don’t collect the money owed them. You had an obligation to make your loan payments, and you defaulted. Therefore, your house reverts back to the bank.”

“Reverts back to the bank?” Shirlene’s eyes narrowed as she took two steps closer. “Are you trying to tell me that you own my house?”

The man stepped back and nervously straightened his tie. “If we don’t receive payment in thirty days, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“But how can that be, when my house is paid for? The payments I missed were for one of Lyle’s loans he took out to help folks with their severance pay after the layoffs at Dalton Oil.”

Reginald nodded his balding head. “Exactly. And your house was what he used as collateral for that loan.”

Whoever said
the truth hurts
had hit it right on the money. Shirlene was devastated. Still, she wasn’t about to let this little pipsqueak know that.

“Well, of course, that makes sense. I assume you take credit.” She opened her purse and searched for her wallet. Most of her credit cards had reached their limit, but there were one or two that might work. Except her wallet wasn’t there. Not under her sunglass case, or her makeup bag, or her half-eaten Snickers bar. It wasn’t anywhere.

“Why that dirty little chainsaw-wielding midget,” she hissed under her breath.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Peabody’s beady eyes widened.

Shirlene tried her best to smile, but it was getting harder and harder to do. “Nothin’. I was just talkin’ to Sherman.” She pulled out her checkbook. “On second thought, why don’t I just write you a check from my bank in Austin?” She quickly signed and dated a check before she tore it out. “I’ll just let you fill in the blanks.”

The man glanced back at the bank schedule on the window, and finally conceded that she and her pig weren’t going anywhere. Taking the check, he nodded at a chair. “If you’ll just have a seat, I’ll be right back.”

Once Reginald disappeared into the back, Shirlene flopped down in the chair and covered her eyes with her hand. The check was only a Band-aid. With very little money in her account, she was just robbing Peter to pay
Paul. Sooner or later, it would catch up with her. She just hoped it was later. All she needed was a couple weeks to come up with another plan. She would have to sell the house, something Colt had wanted her to do since Lyle’s death. And he was right; the sprawling estate was way too big for just one person.

The upkeep on such a big place was more than she could continue to pay. Just that morning, she’d had to call her cook, housekeeper, and gardener and make up a farfetched story about a rat infestation to explain why they shouldn’t show up to work.

Of course, it wasn’t really that farfetched. Only a rat would force a woman out of her home.

The bell over the door jangled. Shirlene turned just as a tall cowboy stepped in, the kind of cowboy that made a woman take another look—even a tired widow with a bad credit score. The man was as fine a cut of prime as Shirlene had ever seen. A lean muscled body was covered in starched cotton and worn jeans, and topped off with a sexy black Stetson pulled low on his forehead. He held a cell phone to his ear as he headed toward the back offices, moving with the type of confidence that left little doubt that this was a man used to being in charge.

“I’ve checked out every cemetery within a hundred miles and have come up empty-handed. And even if I do find it, I think you and Brant are grasping at straws. Do you really think it will end the curse—”

Sherman snorted, causing the man to cut off in midsentence and turn to Shirlene. Even though the hat shaded his eyes from the morning sun shining in the windows, Shirlene had little doubt they gave her a thorough once-over. Suddenly she wished she’d taken more time to touch
up her makeup and fix her hair after her harrowing night in the trailer. Still, she wasn’t one to waste time on regrets.

She eased into a smile. “I think it’s only fair to warn you that cursin’ is frowned upon in this town.”

It only took a second for the phone to be hung up and the Stetson to be whisked off; exposing a face that was as fine as the body it was attached to—even if it was a little pale. But it wasn’t the man’s strong features that caught her attention as much as the silver hair that reflected the sun coming in through the windows like a shiny new dime. Premature was putting it mildly, considering the man looked much younger than herself. Still, the hair color fit him and made those pretty blue eyes stand out like Shirlene’s sapphire earrings. All in all, he was one sizzling stick of Texas testosterone.

Too bad her sex drive had died with Lyle.

“Good mornin’.” He flashed a smile that rivaled Slate Calhoun’s. “And I thought we grew ’em pretty in Houston.”

“Why, thank you, honey. Nothing like a little sweet talk to get the day started out right.” Shirlene rose from the chair, taking great pleasure in the way his eyes widened when she reached her full height—and with the Manolos a smidge more.

“Lord have mercy,” he breathed.

Her libido might be on the fritz, but her ego wasn’t. Shirlene couldn’t help but enjoy the appreciative gleam that sparked in his eyes. She held out the hand that wasn’t attached to a pig.

“Shirlene Dalton.”

Surprised flashed, but he recovered quickly. Taking her hand, he bent over it and placed a chaste kiss on the back.

“A pleasure, Ms. Dalton.” He lifted his head and
grinned back at her. “I was christened Beauregard, but I’d sure be obliged if you called me Beau.”

Shirlene laughed. “Beau it is. So what brings you to Bramble, Beau?”

“Vacation.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You always spend your vacations in graveyards of podunk towns?”

A hint of a blush stained his cheeks. “My family’s into genealogy.”