One Lucky Cowboy (20 page)

   She unzipped the duffel bag and brought out a thick paperback; the cover featured a red-haired woman draped out on a bed with a near-naked man holding her. She wore a yellow slip of a dress. Even the picture inspired pure sexual heat. Jane wasn't a bit surprised that Ellen would have read such a novel.

   "What have you got?"

   "It's called
Master of Pleasure
." She held it up so he could see the front.

   "Who's the author? Nora Roberts?"

   "No, a newcomer. Ellen knows a friend of her mother's or something like that. Her name is Jessica Trapp and she lives down in southern Texas."

   "Looks like something Ellen would read," Slade said. The woman actually looked like Jane would if she had red hair. Thank God she didn't! Jane was fiery enough with that dishwater-blonde mop on her head.

   Jane read for a while and nodded at the words.

   "And what are you agreeing with?" He was already bored with the drive and wished he could turn around and go home.

   "Page fifty-nine, the heroine is refusing to behave like a lapdog. She's very sassy and the hero isn't going to win every time with this girl. Want me to read it out loud to you?"

   "Lord, no. I'd fall asleep and wreck my truck."

   "Not with this book, but it's just as well. If I read some of these passages to you we'd have to stop at a local brothel just so you could sleep tonight."

   "Okay, okay. I won't ask any more questions about your pleasuring master book."

   She went back to reading and he put a Martina McBride CD in the player. It was one she'd made several years before; a tribute to the old country singers. It started off with "You Win Again." Appropriate to the idea of going to Montgomery the next day, since it was an old Hank Williams tune.

   The tinkling piano and strum of the acoustical guitar had him tapping on the steering wheel and enjoying the scenery. They were in the tall pine country with trees reaching to heaven. If he'd been with anyone else he would have considered this road trip a wonderful vaca tion, but being forced into taking care of a con artist put a damper on his mood.

   Martina began singing, "Today I Started Loving You Again."

   "Who recorded this first? Dolly?" Jane asked.

   "You like country music?" Actually, he'd been surprised to walk into the kitchen and find Conway on the CD player earlier that week. He'd have figured her for a rock music enthusiast.

   "Love it. My grandmother listened to it all the time. And Momma was a big fan. She loved George Strait and she would have flown halfway around the world to see Travis Tritt in concert. I really like Billy Ray and Blake Shelton. But you didn't answer me. Who did this the first time? Didn't Willy write it for her?"

   "No, Merle and his wife Bonnie wrote it. Recorded it, but it didn't light up the charts."

   "Then Dolly did it?" she asked.

   "No, Kenny Rogers."

   "How do you know so much about it—or are you lying to me?" She eyed him carefully but couldn't tell if he was bluffing. Slade Luckadeau damn sure wouldn't do to play strip poker with, no siree! With his ability to keep that stone face, she'd lose everything but her dignity before the night was finished. On second thought, she might just string him along and see what he had hidden underneath those tight fittin' jeans.

   "I read the leaflet inside the CD case when I got it. I actually thought Hank recorded it. It was written back in the early 70s, so neither of us was even born then. Dolly did record it. So did Emmylou, Waylon, and Conway. And you'd never guess who did it the most recently."

   "Blake?"

   "No, Buddy Jewell."

   "You're kidding me," she said. Buddy Jewell had been on American Idol and gotten a lot of publicity with his singing there.

   "Nope, he really did."

   "Do you realize we just had a five-minute conversa tion without a fight?" she asked.

   "You'd better go back to your sexy book. We'd be pressing our luck to try for anything longer than that."

   "You got it," she said. But instead of reading, she propped the pillow against the window, curled up in a ball, and went to sleep.

   Slade listened to the CD a couple of more times before he put it away and turned on the radio. Every few minutes he looked his fill of Jane and tried to figure out by staring if she was innocent or the best damned actor in the whole world. If those two people really were FBI, he could be arraigned on charges of aiding and abetting some kind of criminal. If they weren't, he could be wearing cement shoes at the bottom of a deep body of water right along beside her. Neither option was very appetizing.

   She didn't awake until suppertime. He exited at the next available off-ramp, headed for the Arby's drive-by, and ordered sandwiches, fries, and Cokes while she dashed inside to pee. By the time the order was ready, she was already back in the truck. She squeezed sauce on his beef sandwich while he drove and situated the French fries between them so they could share.

   "Want me to drive for a while and let you catch a nap?" she asked.

   "Not on your life. We'd end up in Montana or Mexico," he said.

   "Just because I've never been on a road trip doesn't mean I can't follow signs. It's interstate the whole way. And besides, what difference would it make? You just have to keep moving with me for two weeks so they don't catch up to us. Which reminds me, pull over at the next exit, half a mile down the road."

   "You already got to pee again? Girl, your bladder ain't big as a thimble."

   "No, I saw a sign that said a restaurant was right next to Wal-Mart. They sell those go-phones in there. We can pick up one and call Nellie tonight."

   He caught the exit and they bought the phone. He charged it in the cigarette lighter as they drove. When they checked into the hotel in Montgomery at ten o'clock that night, they called Nellie before they unzipped their suitcases.

   "Hello," she answered cautiously.

   "Granny, is everything all right?" He held his breath. Her voice didn't sound a bit normal.

   "Oh, it's you. Yes, everything is fine. I just had one of those telemarketers trying to talk me into a credit card. I hung up on the woman when she demanded that I give out personal information on the phone. She even wanted to know if I had children or grandchildren who lived here with me and their names. It might have been those loony bins after Jane. I should have given her some kind of spiel, but I was spooked."

   "You did a good job, Granny. We are fine. We're in Alabama. We'll call you again tomorrow night. Do you really think we should dispose of this phone? Seems a waste."

   "Not if they've found a way to bug my phone and use it to find you," Nellie said. "From now on, don't even tell me where you are. Just that you are fine and having a good time. You are, aren't you?"

   "I'd rather be branding cattle," he said. "Hell, Granny, I'd rather be shoveling fresh shit out of horse stalls. Just remember I'm doing this whole thing for you."

   Nellie ignored the comment. "Let me talk to Jane."

   "Hello," Jane said.

   "Darlin', are you havin' a good time?"

   "The best in the world, thank you very much. And tomorrow we're sightseeing a bit before we take off again. I love Hank Williams and…"

   "Don't tell me where you are or where you are going, in case they've got ways of listening."

   "It's so good to hear your voice, Nellie. I miss you," Jane played along with the detective stuff but smiled the whole time.

   "It's nice to be missed. Now get off here and get some sleep. Make Slade eat right. He'll live on junk if you let him. Make him stop and eat real food instead of hamburgers and ice cream."

"Yes, ma'am," Jane said. "Good night."

"Same to you. Tell Slade to toss the phone."

   Jane handed the telephone back to him and he pushed the right button to disconnect. "She said to tell you to toss it. There's no way in hell they can trace a phone like that, is there? I mean, it's pay as you go and it goes dead the second the minutes are all used up."

   "I'm just a country boy. You're the big, hotshot, rich oil baroness. You tell me," he said.

   "I want to call my friend before you get rid of it," she said.

   "What's her name?"

   "Celia."

   "I don't think it would be a good idea but it's your naturally born white ass that will be in trouble if you do," he said.

   She made a face at him and closed the door between their rooms but she didn't call Celia. She wanted to hear her voice, learn what was going on and what kind of stir it had caused when she ran away, but something kept her from it. Probably that smartass remark from Slade.

   She awoke the next morning at seven o'clock. Her first thought was that she was late and Nellie would already have breakfast ready. Then she realized where she was. Day two of the two-week ordeal. A part of her wanted to sneak out of the hotel, catch the next plane to the most populated city in the world, and get lost in the middle of it. The other part said she was doing the most sensible thing, even if it did mean constant battles with Slade.

   They ate breakfast in the hotel dining area and gath ered up area attraction brochures from a display near the checkout desk. They found Hank Williams' boyhood home, a one-story, white frame house that displayed some of his clothes, documents, photos, and other mementos of his life. Jane was in total awe and hummed "You Win Again" the whole time they were there.

   Next they sat in the old pews of the Mount Olive West Baptist Church where Hank said that he had begun his career at the age of five or six years old sitting on the organ stool beside his mother, Lillie, and singing louder than anyone else in the church. Jane hummed "I Saw The Light."

   They grabbed a burger on the way to The Hank Williams Museum, where Jane squealed over the 1952 Baby Blue Cadillac convertible, then said in awe, "That's where he really breathed his last. His spirit could still be in that car. Do you feel it, Slade? Can't you just feel all the pain and sorrow plus the joys in his life that made him write those wonderful songs?"

   "You believe in all that folderol?" Slade asked.

   "I don't disbelieve in it. I do believe in fate since all this happened in my life. I didn't used to, but I do now. Something drove me outside where I heard John and Ramona discussing their plans. Something sent me to Wichita Falls. I could have bought a ticket to Houston out of Dallas. I had enough cash on me. Call it fate. Call it destiny. I don't care. It exists on some level."

   "You going to start telling fortunes?" Slade frowned.

   "Nope, just appreciating that God is taking care of me."

   "Well, thank you very much but honey, I'm not God."

   "I didn't say that you were," she said through clenched teeth.

   "You said God was taking care of you. It's me taking care of you, so you called me God."

   "You are full of shit. And don't call me honey," she snapped.

   "Believe me, it wasn't an endearment," he told her. "And I think it might be wise for you to make a trip to the bathroom before we leave. That way we won't have to stop in ten minutes."

   "Hey, my bladder isn't as small as yours," she taunted, but she headed toward the bathroom all the same.

   She stopped in the first stall and parked her fanny on the potty. She heard the door open and someone humming a tune she didn't recognize. It sounded somewhat like the wedding march and then the door opened again.

   Maybe someone was getting married in the museum. Big fans of Hank's, no doubt. She wondered if the groom would wear a copy of one of Hank's suits she'd just seen on display. Perhaps they'd have their first married picture taken by the blue Caddy.

   She finished the job and went to the sink to wash her hands and came close to fainting stone cold unconscious on the floor. One of the fliers with her picture was taped to the mirror right in front of her.

   That had been Ramona humming.

   Jane panicked and ran back into the stall. She sat down, put her head between her legs and took great gulps of air. Finally everything stopped spinning.

   She only opened the door a crack to make sure the bathroom was clear before she ventured out. She eased open the door to the museum even slower. Slade was waiting patiently not three feet away.

"Pssst," she whispered.

   He looked around, finally spotting her. "What are you doing? You want to see the cemetery, we've got to get going."

   She put a finger over her lips and handed him the poster she'd ripped from the mirror. His eyes widened and rage boiled up from his boots to his blue eyes. The only way those people got to Montgomery so damn fast was because they'd bugged something at the ranch. It was a violation and by damn he'd have their hides tacked to the barn door before this thing was over. His grandmother had been right—again!

   He edged over to the door and whispered. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

   Tears flowed down her cheeks and fear ran through her veins like ice water. She went back into the stall and leaned against the cold metal door.

   Slade went to the gift shop and purchased a pair of oversized sunglasses, a package of hair things that she could use to make a ponytail, and a big gaudy pink cowboy hat with a plastic fake diamond tiara for a hatband. On the way to the checkout counter he bought a pink bandana.

   The ten minutes Jane leaned against the stall door lasted three days past eternity. When the door opened, she pulled up her feet and held her breath.