Cowboy Fever (7 page)

Jodi nodded. No doubt Bucky thought that was a compliment, but it just reminded her that the pressure was on. Everyone expected so much from her—the town sweetheart, the golden girl. Obviously, Cal had fallen short, so apparently they were waiting for her to step up and make her hometown proud. It was a silly, old-fashioned notion, but it had been burned into her heart since she was a kid.

“Whatcha need, kiddo? Grain? Supplements? You still got Eightball?”

“Yeah, he's on the way. I hired a transport company to haul him.” Jodi leaned up against the counter. “He should be here in a couple days. I want to have everything ready so he knows this is home.” Having her barrel horse here would help her feel at home too. Eightball had been the one constant in her life—the one element that had moved with her from home to school, and now he was coming home again.

She moved to the bulletin board by the front door. A stocky figure was fingering a handwritten notice that was pinned to the center of the board. “Job Wanted,” it said. A series of tabs on the bottom let prospective employers tear off the applicant's phone number. Several slips were missing.

“Troy!” Jodi said, and the figure turned. “You're looking for a job?”

He grinned sheepishly, staring down at the scuffed toes of his boots. “Yeah. I need money. So I can get my own place.”

Jodi wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “Troy, you can't move out. Teague needs you. How come you want to move?”

Troy shrugged and refused to meet her eyes. “Just wanna,” he said.

“You want to be more independent?”

He looked uncertain, his eyes darting left and right before he shrugged again.

“Maybe a job's a good idea,” she said. “Maybe it would be enough just to have your own money. You probably get tired of asking Teague when you want something, right?”

“Uh-huh. He's always saying I shouldn't buy stuff. Like candy. And music. I like AC/DC.”

“Hmm.” Jodi smothered a smile. It would drive Teague nuts if Troy blasted AC/DC all the time, and driving Teague nuts sounded like fun. It had been kind of fun, back there in his bedroom—although he'd driven her nuts right back. “Maybe you could work for me.”

“I could?”

“Sure.” Jodi nodded. “I need somebody to help at the ranch. I need to get the arena ready, and build a ramp for the riding therapy clinic I'm starting. Once we're up and running, you could lead the horses for the kids, and maybe help out in the stable some, too. And I need to string more fence.”

Troy straightened and threw his shoulders back. “I'm good at stringing fence.”

“I'll bet you are.”

Troy nodded like a dashboard bobble-head on a dirt road. “Okay. When do I start? Tomorrow? Can I start tomorrow?”

“Why don't you come over for breakfast and we'll talk about it? Eight o'clock or so? We'll negotiate a salary and stuff.”

“Yeah,” he said, beaming. “Salary. I gotta go to Target. I gotta look at the AC/DC CDs.” She watched him head out of the store, a new strut in his walk. With the modeling money she'd saved up and the money from leasing the ranch, she could afford an assistant.

Of course, having Troy work with her would inevitably lead to more encounters with Teague. But that was okay. She could handle it.

She was on the winning side in that relationship, and that's where she intended to stay.

“Is that what you were looking for? An employee?” Bucky asked as Troy headed out the door.

“Not really, but I figure it's better if Troy works for me than somebody else. It'd be awfully easy to take advantage of him.”

“You got a point there.”

“So what I'm really looking for is a couple more horses. I need older ones. Calm and well trained. You know of any?”

Bucky thought a moment. “Might,” he said. “But you always liked 'em feisty. You gone soft? Some old cayuse is gonna bore you to tears.”

“They're not for me,” Jodi said. “I'm starting a business. A therapy riding clinic. I need horses I can trust with handicapped kids. They need to be quiet, and super bombproof. Old rodeo horses work great. They're used to crowds yelling and parade music. That's good practice for dealing with my students.”

“I think Caxton out at the Triple R just got a new roping horse,” Bucky said. “Maybe he's ready to retire Triple Threat.”

“Oh, he'd be perfect.” Jodi remembered the chestnut fondly. Bill Caxton had been a pretty good calf roper—mostly thanks to Triple Threat. The horse would pull the line taut and hold on like a pro no matter how much Bill flailed around with the piggin' string.

“I'll call him, let him know you're looking. Couple other guys too. So what kind of therapy you doing? How do those kids even get on a horse?”

“I'm building a ramp. And most of the kids I work with have cognitive handicaps, not physical ones.” Bucky looked confused, so she elaborated. “Kids with autism, Down syndrome, that kind of thing. Riding helps them focus, builds muscle, and makes them feel good about themselves. It's amazing what it does for them.”

“I'd like to see that.”

“Once we get going, you'll have to come watch.” She hesitated. “I'm going to need a lot of supplies. Tack, and probably boots for the kids whose parents can't afford 'em. Maybe some youth saddles too. I'm going to talk to the Rotary, Kiwanis, Women's Club—all those groups that might be willing to give funding. But then I wondered…”

“You'll get a discount here at Bucky's.” Her old boss nodded. “Course you will. And maybe I could be a sponsor or something.”

The tin bells attached to the door tinkled and Jodi turned to see a tiny blonde Barbie-doll type entering the store. Flowing locks cascaded from under the brim of her perfectly shaped black cowboy hat, and she was wearing a black suede blazer with beading on the cuffs and lapels that matched the curlicues embroidered on her tight black jeans.

It looked like she'd bought out the entire stock of the Brand Boutique. The only non-Western element in her outfit was an oversized purse decorated with Louis Vuitton's initials repeated over and over in a dizzying pattern. Jodi thought at first that the purse had a furry pom-pom attached to the top, but then the pom-pom let out a sharp yip and grinned.

“Hush, Honeybucket,” the blonde said, patting the pom-pom's head. She spoke a little too loudly, as if she was conscious of her audience, but her voice was high and childlike. “You be good now.”

Honeybucket?
Jodi smothered a laugh as she turned back to Bucky. “A sponsor? That would be… oh, never mind.”

One look at the cowgirl fashion plate had Bucky blushing again, opening and closing his mouth like a grounded trout as he nodded maniacally. The woman—or girl; she was something in between—simpered and fluttered a finger wave his way, dipping her hips in something strangely like a curtsy.

“Hello, Bucky,” she said in a breathy baby voice. She turned her blinking blue eyes on Jodi. For an instant her perfectly plucked brows arrowed down in a calculating squint, but she recovered fast. Turning her attention back to Bucky, she faked a strict schoolteacher scowl and wagged a finger. “You didn't forget our meeting, did you?”

“Forget?” Bucky shook his head in frantic denial. “Oh, no. I'd never forget. Not you. I mean the meeting. I'd never forget the meeting.”

“Well, good.” The girl sashayed past Jodi, stacked-heel boots clicking on the wooden floor. She set the doggie bag down and fished out a couple of well-worn catalogs.

“I brought those wholesale catalogs for you to look at. I can help you pick out some items that will help you cater to the needs of your new clientele.”

The girl glanced toward Jodi, then slid her eyes away as if what she saw embarrassed her. “As I said, it will be quite a
sophisticated
group.” She trilled out a high-pitched giggle and did the little dipping motion again. It reminded Jodi of a prairie chicken doing its mating dance, and was evidently calculated to make your jeans tighten over your butt.

Not that the jeans needed any tightening.

The little dog stuck its head out of the bag again, looked both ways, and climbed out. Putting its pointy nose to the ground, it began investigating the myriad smells lingering on the floors and fixtures. As Jodi watched, it scampered down the feed aisle.

“Let me just help out Jodi, here, Miss Skelton, and then I'll be right…”

Jodi couldn't hear the rest of Bucky's sentence over the roaring in her ears.

Miss Skelton.
Miss Skelton
. So this… this
bimbo
was Teague's girlfriend. His
secret
girlfriend. The one he didn't tell her about before he lured her into bed. Jodi was struck with a sudden urge to slap her.

No, wait. Why would she be the one doing the slapping? She was the bimbo here, appearances to the contrary. From what her mom had said, Miss Skelton had a prior claim.

Maybe she ought to slap herself. Or better yet, Teague.

She cocked a hip and tossed her hair back, almost wishing she had her queen coif to add emphasis to the gesture. It wasn't that she was jealous; it was just that Teague deserved better. This girl was worse than the wanna-bes that plagued the rodeo queen circuit—pageant princesses who sat a horse like a straight chair and thought they were better than the cowgirl contestants just because they'd won a few rhinestone tiaras in state swimsuit competitions.

“Never mind, Boss.” Jodi backed away. “I'll come back. I wanted to talk to you about that sponsorship, but I can see you're busy.” She turned to the new arrival and offered her best queen smile. “It was
so
nice to meet you.”

As she headed out the door, Honeybucket was just trotting in. He'd evidently managed to escape the feed store, and judging from the dirt caked in his long hair and the aroma wafting from it, he'd found himself something very special to roll in.

Jodi grinned. Those little pocket pets didn't get much of a chance to be real dogs. This one looked ecstatically pleased with himself as he trotted over to his mistress and pawed at her leg, leaving a wide brown streak on her fancy-pants jeans.

“Honeybucket—
oh!
” The girl skittered backward. “What have you
done
?”

Jodi grinned and headed for her pickup, wondering what business the Skelton girl had with Bucky. She seemed to be talking him into ordering new stock, for some “new clientele.” What was that all about? There hadn't been anything new in Purvis since Cade Wilkins installed a new lift in his body shop in 1973.

She'd have to ask Darla. It was time to go back to the Rexall.

***

Jodi parallel parked her Ranger in front of the drugstore and yanked the parking brake into place. Frowning, she pulled down the sun visor and scanned her face in the mirror. In the unsympathetic light of day, she really did look washed out. Sighing, she dug a zippered pouch out of her purse and pulled out a compact and a tube of mascara. She was trying to break free of the image that convinced everyone she was a ditzy blonde whose only skill was riding a horse while carrying a flag, but this was an emergency. She'd never survive another twenty minutes fending off Darla's unsettling combination of curiosity and compassion. Not today.

Not after meeting Courtney Skelton.

Teague had always had his issues, but he'd never been a liar. Yet he'd told her—what was it he said?

No girlfriend. Don't let anybody tell you different.

It was her mother that told her about “the Skelton girl.” And her mother definitely had an agenda. An anti-Teague agenda.

Maybe Jodi should give him a chance to explain. Maybe she should trust him more.

Yeah, right. She'd always been a fool about Teague, and it was getting worse.

She dabbed powder on her nose and glanced back in the mirror. She shouldn't be making excuses for any man. She deserved better. She might be pale, but her lips were full, her chin was strong, and her blue eyes fairly glowed once she'd stroked on a coat of mascara. Giving herself an encouraging nod, she rolled out of the truck and headed for the drugstore.

Darla was holding court behind the pharmacy counter when she entered, talking with another woman. The conversation broke off abruptly when Jodi walked in, and she felt a twinge of panic in the pit of her stomach. Were they talking about her? Had someone seen her with Teague? News could travel fast in a small town.

But no one could possibly know. No one had seen them. More likely Darla was spreading the news about her supposed illness. She was probably telling everyone Jodi Brand had come back to Purvis to die.

Well, that would sure help with the fund-raising for the clinic.

Jodi pretended to scan the shelves while she worked out a strategy. There was an art to small-town discourse she'd mastered in her youth and nearly lost in the real world. You couldn't just walk up to the counter and ask Darla to dispense gossip. You had to come at your question obliquely and make it seem as if the subject you were dying to dish on had come up naturally. Acknowledging that Darla was the gossip queen of Purvis was the surest way to shut her up.

Biting her lower lip, Jodi reached for a bottle of pills and pretended to scan the label while she thought out a winning approach. She was running two possible introductory sentences through her mind when a sudden silence jarred her into awareness. The two women at the counter were staring at her, their eyes wide. She jerked her attention back to the present and looked down at the bottle in her hand.

Prenatal vitamins.

Great. Now not only would everyone think she had cancer; they'd think she was about to give birth to an orphan. She shoved the bottle back on the shelf.

“Well,” Darla said. “If it isn't our own little Queenie.”

Perfect opening. “Oh, but you know, I'm not the rodeo queen anymore,” Jodi said. “I just saw the new one over at Bucky's.”

“The new one?”

“Blonde? Little tiny thing, dresses real, um, queen-like?”

“Oh, you must mean that Skelton girl,” Darla's friend volunteered. It was Belle Arnold, who ran the Snag Bar with her husband. Belle looked soft and matronly, but she was tough enough to double as a bouncer when things got rough at the Snag. “That girl doesn't dress like a rodeo queen. She dresses like a boomtown hooker.”

Jodi laughed. Belle was never one to mince words. “Well, kind of. She had on this crazy outfit. Fringe, embroidery—real flashy.”

“Goes around looking like Yee-Haw Barbie,” Belle muttered. “Hussy.”

“Who is she?”

“Courtney Skelton,” Darla said. “Her daddy's a millionaire—retired CEO of… something.” She flushed. Darla never liked to admit there was something she didn't know about one of the locals. “They bought the Hunt acreage out west of town.”

“Ray Hunt sold his ranch?” Jodi was shocked. The Hunts were the biggest landowners in Mead County—or at least, they used to be. If someone else owned that spread, things really had changed.

“Ray died, honey,” Darla said. “Prudential had their signs hanging off his barbwire for two, three years before they could find a buyer. It was millions, you know.” She licked her lips as if she could taste the money—or maybe it was just her reaction to the delicious morsels of gossip such a transaction inevitably served up.

“What about Virge?” Jodi had gone to school with Ray's son Virgil. He'd been head of the Future Farmers of America and wore white shirts and bolo ties to school from fourth grade on, looking like a miniature businessman and smelling like a sheep shack. Everyone had always figured he'd be next to run the Hunt spread. “I can't believe he would sell it.”

“Virgil went off the road in his Ford and killed hisself four years ago,” Belle said. “You been gone a long time, girl.”

Jodi swallowed. Virgil Hunt hadn't been a friend of hers by any stretch of the imagination, but it was still a shock to hear he wasn't living out the future that had seemed so assured. None of the kids in her graduating class had ever doubted that Virgil would be a successful rancher. Of course, they'd also believed that Cal's winning streak would continue off the football field, and that Teague would continue on the road to hell, or at least the path to jail. Everyone had their assigned roles to play in this town, but with Virgil gone, Cal in jail, and Teague on the street, it looked like Jodi was the only one sticking to the plan.

“So this Skelton fellow bought the whole place.” Darla leaned her elbows on the counter. “He's got it subdivided into forty-acre lots. Ranchettes, they call them.”

Things really had changed. The Hunt ranch was huge. Forty-acre lots meant a whole lot of ranchettes—which meant a whole lot of new folks coming to town. New folks meant new businesses, new movers and shakers, and new ideas. She'd probably arrived just in time to watch her old-fashioned hometown burn itself out and rise from the ashes like a phoenix, transformed into a haven for Super Walmarts and fast-food joints. She squelched a pang of sorrow. Progress was good. It was about time Purvis slid into the twentieth century now that the rest of the world had hit the twenty-first.

“Skelton kept a big piece of the ranch for himself, though,” Darla continued. “Supposedly he's building a polo facility, and the ranchettes are for polo people. He's got a bunch of his rich friends moving up from Florida.”