Cowboy Fever (28 page)

Teague gathered the pieces of Courtney's music box from the front seat of the truck and carried them into the barn. He'd outfitted one small room toward the front as a workshop, with a rough wooden counter across one side and cabinets on the wall above it. Drawers, taken from various pieces of old and unwanted furniture, were tucked below and held an assortment of screwdrivers, hammers, and wrenches. Shovels, rakes, and pitchforks leaned in another corner, and a rusted but still serviceable wheelbarrow was parked near the door.

Spreading the pieces on the counter, he shoved the parts to the wooden box away and sorted out the pieces of machinery that made the music—the metal cylinders with their strategically placed nubbins, the metal keys the nubbins plucked to make each note. He opened a drawer and rummaged around for some tiny screws and a set of tools that was made to repair glasses.

He found what he was looking for, then picked up the cylinder and examined it. It would help if he could figure out what song it was supposed to play. Probably some tinkly ballet thing. He picked up one of the crumpled pieces of paper and spread it flat. The handwriting looked fairly masculine. Maybe it was a note from Courtney's dad telling her why he'd given her the box. Maybe it said what tune it played, and why it meant so much to her.

I am so sorry for all the terrible things I have done,
the note began.
I have wronged my daughter and there is no way to make it right.

Whoa. The guy was being awfully dramatic. Yeah, he was a lousy dad—but terrible things?

And wasn't this a letter
to
his daughter? Why was he referring to her in the third person? Maybe there was more going on with Courtney than Teague realized. Maybe Skelton was some kind of abusive pedophile or something. He shuddered and looked down at the letter again.

It was wrong to drive her mother from my home and take up with that slut Marissa. Marissa is a greedy, skanky, money-grubbing whore.

Holy crap. That was a weird thing for a guy to say about his wife. Having met the greedy, skanky, money-grubbing whore in question, Teague was inclined to agree, but he wasn't married to the woman.

But evidently, the guy was really wrestling with his feelings. The writing was getting larger and rounder, and it looked like the pen was digging into the paper. There was even a tear where he'd crossed the “t” in “slut.”

He kept reading.

Then I killed her horse. I set fire to the barn because I spent all my money on polo and on crap for Marissa and I didn't care that my daughter loved that horse like it was her own child and it was the only thing that made her life worth living. I killed Dutch and I should die for…

The letter degenerated into a series of illegible scrawls, which had been crossed out with large Xs that ripped through the paper.

Teague pushed it to the back of the table. No wonder Courtney was so screwed up. That letter was disturbing. And the language the guy used—“crap” and “skanky”—he sounded like a teenaged girl.

Teague picked up the other sheet of paper. This one had been crumpled even more, and he had trouble smoothing it out enough to read it. Finally, he managed to make out the first few lines.

They sounded very familiar.

I am so sorry for all the terrible things I have done. I have wronged my daughter and there is no way to make it right. It was wrong to drive her mother from my home and take up with that slut Marissa. Marissa is a greedy, skanky, money-grubbing whore. Then he killed my horse. He set fire to the barn because he spent all his money on polo…

This letter trailed off into scribbles and Xs even sooner. Teague looked at it again.

He set fire to the barn because he spent all his money on polo…

Not “I.” “He.”

Skelton didn't write this letter. Courtney did.

It read like a suicide note, but it hadn't been written by the dead man.

Skelton hadn't committed suicide. He'd been murdered.

When Courtney finally recovered enough to leave, Jodi glanced at her watch. Teague was taking forever to get that damn music box.

Well, Jodi didn't have time to track him down. She barely had time to get ready for her speech. She hadn't wanted to put on her queen clothes with Courtney there, and she'd been starting to wonder if the girl would ever leave. Courtney had recovered almost as soon as Teague had left, and had spent the day following Jodi as she did her chores, chattering about all kinds of nonsense as if she'd completely forgotten that her father was dead. It was unnerving, but Jodi figured it was probably her way of coping with the trauma.

Sighing, she opened her closet and pulled out a plastic-draped hanger. Shifting the plastic aside, she laid the clothes out on the bed: the fitted shirt, decked out with pink fringe and a fancy beaded yoke. The jeans, a ridiculous shade of Pepto pink and tight, tight, tight. She hoped she could still slide into them. Then there was the sash, shiny satin embroidered with the title she'd chased all through high school and finally caught: Miss Rodeo USA.

Turning back to the closet, she stood on tiptoe and took her queen hat from the top shelf. It was pink felt, with a sparkling rhinestone tiara affixed to the front.

She skinned out of her jeans and T-shirt and turned to the mirror, sucking in her stomach and striking a pose in her skimpy, sexy black lace underwear. She'd thought of Teague when she'd picked it out that morning—Teague and his lust for the special rodeo queen underwear.

Well, she couldn't talk to the Girl Scouts in that. She picked up the jeans, wondering if they'd even fit. To her surprise, they slid over her hips as easily as ever, fitting like a second skin. She grinned. They'd pose a real challenge for Teague.

But the shirt wouldn't. She fastened the snaps, remembering how she'd yanked his open the night before. Tucking it in and slipping a concho-decorated belt through the loops on her jeans, she stepped over to the bed and picked up the sash.

She shivered, remembering what Teague had said about tying her up. She'd never wanted to give up control like that—but with Teague it might be, well, fun. She trusted him. For all his worries about turning into his father, he was the gentlest man she knew. But only she knew that side of him. To the rest of the world, he was dark and dangerous, a man to be reckoned with.

And she was the rodeo queen, a model of propriety and poise. She slipped the sash across one shoulder and draped it across her body, then tipped on the hat, tiara and all. Standing in front of the mirror, she struck a modeling pose and pasted on a smile.

Dressing like Queenie wasn't so bad. It was all the responsibility that went with it that gave her trouble. She'd thought success would set her free, but it had made her feel so beholden to the town that made her that she'd spent her life trying to live up to their expectations.

A half hour later, she stared out at the sea of girlish faces in front of her and lit into her speech as if someone had pushed her “talk” button. She'd given the rodeo queen role-model talk a hundred times, to thousands of little girls. She practically knew it by heart, and she'd read it over before she came, just to make sure. But watching the rapt expressions on those little faces was kind of unnerving.

She told them about poise. Confidence. Getting good grades. Listening to your parents, because they knew what was best for you. Being part of your community, and representing it with pride. Doing, saying, and
being
the right thing.

“You have to work really hard to become a rodeo queen. You have to study a lot, volunteer all you can, and make sure you always look your best. It's all part of being an exemplary citizen. Does anybody know what ‘exemplary' means?”

A hand shot up in the air. It belonged to a little blonde with hair cascading down her back and a self-conscious smile—a tiny rodeo queen-in-the-making.

“Yes?” Jodi gave her a nod.

“You have to set an example.”

“Right. You can't always do what you want to do, or say what you want to say. You have to think about how other people see you.”

Her eyes lit on a freckled face in the first row—a little redhead whose tip-tilted nose and blue eyes reminded her of herself at that age. The kid squirmed in her chair, glancing out the window for the umpteenth time and earning a sharp look from the den mother.

Jodi paused, picturing little Red with her hair tamed into queen curls and her freckles hidden by makeup, and addressed the next part of her speech directly to her.

“But you still have to be yourself. A rodeo queen is an individual. She takes pride in her appearance, but she also takes pride in who she is.” She looked around at the sea of little faces. “And she has a reason to be proud, because she's worked hard and made a lot of tough decisions. And once you make that goal, you know you can trust yourself.”

That wasn't part of the speech, but it was truer than anything she'd planned to say. She stood up a little straighter.

“I know I can rely on myself to do the right thing, even when it's hard. I know I can accomplish anything I set my mind to. But most of all, I know I make good decisions. I've proved it, all my life.”

The little girl in the front row was watching her, wide-eyed. Jodi smiled at her.

“Did you have a question?”

The little girl nodded and leaned forward. “So you don't have to listen to your
mom
?”

Jodi laughed. “Oh, yeah you do. You always listen.” She sobered. “You always listen, but when you get older, you listen to yourself too. There are some things even your mother can't decide for you.”

***

Teague stood in the middle of his workshop with the letter in his hand, wondering what he should do.

He'd take it to the sheriff, he decided. Woodell could take it from there. It wasn't Teague's job to deal with it.

He was heading out the door when he heard a car door slam.

“Teague?”

Damn. It was Courtney.

What the hell could he say? He folded the letters in quarters and shoved them in his back pocket. Maybe he could talk her into turning herself in. It wasn't like the girl would go to jail. She was clearly unbalanced. She needed help, and the court system would see that she got it.

Either that, or they'd lock her up and throw away the key. That wasn't the option Teague would choose, but it was better than leaving her loose.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the barn. If he played this right, he could take care of this situation with the least amount of grief to all concerned—including Courtney. And if Marty Woodell was proud of him for now, imagine how he'd feel when Teague escorted Courtney to his office, handed her over, and closed the case. That would be one step toward paying the man back for all he'd helped Teague with over the years.

“Court,” he said. “What's up?”

She was leaning against her SUV, her arms folded over her chest, a stormy expression on her face.

“I should ask you that,” she said.

Teague shrugged and gave her his most charming grin. He'd just pretend everything was okay. “Not much.”

“There's something up between you and Jodi.”

“Well, yeah, there is.” He walked over to her, his hands in his pockets. “Things with me and Jodi have kind of… changed.”

“Really? What's changed? I know you've been sleeping together this whole time.” She tossed her hair. “I know you got together the night you lost my dog.”

“Yeah, where's Honeybucket?” he asked, jumping at the chance to change the subject.

Courtney scowled. “I took him to the shelter. He wasn't doing his job.”

“His job?”

As far as Teague could tell, the dog's job had been to get hauled around like an animated stuffed toy and dragged out whenever Courtney wanted a little extra attention.

“He was supposed to love me,” Courtney said. “But he took off every chance he got.” She pouted. “He'd rather roll in shit than be with me, so I got rid of him. I'm going to get a new dog.” She smiled down at the ground and swayed from side to side like a little girl savoring the anticipation of a birthday pony. “I'm getting a Chihuahua.”

Teague couldn't hide his shock. “So you took Honeybucket to the pound?”

“That's what you do with dogs that don't behave,” Courtney said.

Damn, the girl was cold. Teague couldn't believe he'd ever thought she was helpless.

He needed to be careful. How could he get her talking? She might have an ice cube for a heart, but he knew she was hurting inside too. If he could just get past all the layers of anger and vengefulness she'd piled up to defend herself, maybe he could find the scared little girl inside her and talk her into getting help.

“I'm so sorry about your—horse,” he said. He'd almost said he was sorry about her dad, but that wouldn't have worked. She wasn't sorry about that; she'd killed him herself.

The letters felt huge in his back pocket. Hopefully she wouldn't go in the barn and see what was left of her music box spread out on the counter. That would really piss her off. And he was beginning to realize that Courtney was one woman you didn't want to cross.

“Thank you,” she sniffed. “Dutchy was everything to me. And my father…” She closed her eyes and clenched her fists so hard her arms trembled. “My father killed him.”

“I know.” He reached over and patted her shoulder awkwardly. “You want to talk about it, Court?”

“No.” She ducked her head and covered her face with her hands. “I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it, even.” She lifted her head and met his eyes. Her own were glossy with coming tears. “I just want to start all over. Okay?”

Teague nodded, humoring her. He could tell the tears were coming, and if there was some way to put a stopper in the weeping spell that was coming, he was going to find it.

“Okay.” He wasn't sure how he was going to get her
back to the subject of her father and get her to turn herself in, but he'd follow her lead. He'd read somewhere that deep inside, most murderers wanted to get caught. That's why they made dumb mistakes—like leaving those letters where someone could find them. Why hadn't she burned them, or thrown them away? It was a cry for help, that's what it was.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath and made a visible effort to control herself, brushing her hair out of her face and setting her jaw. “So we'll start over. I'll forget about Dutch and my dad, and you forget about Jodi.”

Teague blanched. She was nuts, no doubt about it. The poor girl was so fixated on her own problems she was grasping at straws, making the world over into the one she wanted.

When he didn't respond, a shaky smile tilted her lips. She took a step toward him. “Let's go in the house, Teague. You can make me forget everything.” She gazed flirtatiously up at him through her lashes. “I can make
you
forget too.”

This was going too far. She'd never get help if she didn't face reality. The first step toward getting help was admitting you had a problem, so he had to get Courtney to see the truth. Much as he wanted to avoid her tears, they were inevitable.

“No, Courtney.” He set his hands on her shoulders. “You can't. I want to help you, I really do. But I…”

He couldn't say it. He should. He should tell her straight out that he loved Jodi and there was no chance of that changing—not now, not ever. But she'd cry for sure if he said that. Cry, or fly into a rage. And God knew what would happen if she got mad.

He patted her the way he might try to soothe a vicious dog. “But going in the house won't help.” Man, that was the weirdest euphemism for sex ever. “We need to talk.”

“Oh,” she said in her little-girl voice. “Oh. Okay.” She looked up at him, her lips pursed, her eyes wide as a china doll's. “But after we talk, can we do it? I want you, Teague.” She reached out and stroked one finger down the buttons on his shirt. “I really, really want you.”

“We'll see,” he said.

That seemed to soothe her.

“You want to sit down?” Without waiting for an answer, he walked over to the bench that sat against the wall beside the barn door. She followed, and he made sure she sat down before he did. That way she couldn't plop herself in his lap, or cozy up too close.

He folded his hands in his lap. Courtney shimmied herself closer to him. So much for that strategy.

“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

“I think we need to talk about your dad. Courtney, I know what really happened.”

“No you don't,” she said pertly.

“I think I do.”

“He abused me.” She used the same conversational tone she'd use to tell him her father had grounded her, or taken away her cell phone. Teague was pretty sure it was a lie, but who knew with this family? He'd humor her. See if he could steer the conversation to the point where she'd make a confession.

He wished Oprah was here. Or Barbara Walters.

No, not Barbara Walters. Then Courtney would cry for sure.

But Oprah would handle this just right. He wasn't much for TV, especially in the middle of the day, but a couple times when he'd been inside with a cold or something, he'd watched the way she handled people in her interviews. She'd get them talking, and then she'd ask questions that led them to reveal the truth about themselves. How did she do that? Teague wrinkled up his forehead, trying to remember.

“He abused me repeatedly,” Courtney said in that same matter-of-fact tone.

Teague did his best to arrange his features in an Oprah-like expression of sympathy and understanding.

“How did that make you feel?” he asked.

“Mad,” Courtney said. “Really mad. And—and violated. Dirty.”

Teague nodded sagely. “I can understand how you would feel that way. What did you do then?”