Jackrabbit Junction Jitters (38 page)

That meant one thing—while he’d been messing around on the
other side of that hole, he’d had a visitor.

Shit!
Blood roared in his eardrums.

He shoved his hard hat back on his head, his gaze darting
around the shadows that wavered at the edge of the beam of his hat light. Sweat
beaded on his skin.

Who had come for a visit and why?

Adrenaline pumping, Mac scooped up his pack and ran toward
the main adit.

There was one thing he was certain about: Tomorrow, when he
came back to the mine, Ruby’s Smith and Wesson would be keeping him company.

Morning sunlight shone through the cell window, the bars
striped the glowing square onto the concrete floor.

Kate rubbed her eyes, which felt like they’d been dipped in
Tabasco sauce, and struggled to her feet. Her body ached. Between the floor and
the cell’s single cot, she’d opted for the unforgiving concrete.

She would’ve needed to be vaccinated and flea dipped before
even sitting on the stained mattress, which reeked of sweat, urine,
disinfectant, and a hint of something she didn’t want to decipher.

She glanced at where her sister slouched in the corner of
the cell. Early this morning, sometime between when the crickets stopped
chirping and the mourning doves started cooing, Mr. Sandman had whopped Claire
on the head with a sandbag. Kate’s mind, on the other hand, had been too full
of whirling dervishes to catch any shut-eye.

Wrapping her hands around the cool bars of her cage, she
stared out through the open steel door that divided the jail cells from the
civilized section of the police station. From where she stood, she could see
three oak desks and a tall reception counter. The glass entry doors, front
window, and waiting area were hidden from her view.

Sheriff Harrison sat behind the largest of the three desks,
his fingers clacking away on a computer keyboard. His dark hair curled slightly
over his forehead, his jaw clean-shaven. Arizona ruggedness in the flesh.

The spicy bay rum scent of his aftershave wafted through the
doorway on air-conditioned currents.

Kate shot him full of holes with her eyes. It wasn’t fair of
him to come in this morning looking as if he’d slept on clouds, showered under a
Costa Rican waterfall, and floated to work on a magic carpet.

She cleared her throat, wishing she had a gallon of
mint-flavored mouthwash. “Excuse me, Sheriff?”

The clacking stopped, but the sheriff’s gaze remained fixed
on the computer screen.

Kate added several scoops of sugar to her tone before
continuing. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you’d heard back
from Butch yet?” Miss America had never sounded so sweet.

The sheriff squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It’s only been
twenty minutes since the last time you asked.”

“Yes, well—”

“And you can see from your cell that I’ve been sitting at
this desk, typing away for every single one of those twenty minutes.”

“That’s true, but—”

“Have you seen me pick up my phone even once?”

“No, however—”

“As I told you the last three times you asked, I will let
you know as soon as I—”

A buzzing sound from the front door sensors cut him off.

He looked up from his computer and a smile spread across his
craggy face. His chair scraped on the linoleum as he stood. “It’s about
goddamned time!”

“Well, good morning to you too, my little ray of sunshine.”
Butch’s voice filtered into the cell room.

Kate’s pulse ramped up. She ran over and kicked Claire’s flip-flop.
“Get up! Butch is here.”

Claire jerked awake, knocking the back of her head on the cinderblock
wall in the process, and rattled out a string of colorful curses.

Back at the bars, Kate strained to catch a glimpse of Butch’s
face. But short of squeezing her head through the bars, he remained just out of
sight.

“What took you so long?” Sheriff Harrison asked Butch.

“The speed limit. Some idiot posted 55 mile-per-hour signs
every other mile from Safford on.”

The sheriff’s grin widened even further. He meandered over
to the reception counter. “Real funny, Valentine. I’ll be sure to remember your
sense of humor the next time you ask me to let you off with just a warning.”

Valentine?
Kate frowned. That had been the name on
the fake license that had fallen out of Butch’s wallet a couple of weeks ago.

“What’s with the frown?” Claire stepped up next to Kate. “We’re
about to get sprung.”

“The sheriff just called Butch ‘Valentine’,” she whispered.

“So. Maybe that’s Butch’s nickname.”

“Or his birth name. That was the name I saw on his license.”
Her gut churned. If she had been wrong about something as basic as the man’s
name, what else was she wrong about?

“Jesus.” Claire leaned her head against the bars. “Don’t
tell me you based your Butch-Is-the-Bad-Guy theory on something as flimsy as a
different name on his license.”

“It could have been a fake I.D.”

“Damn it, Kate.” Claire shoved away from the bars and paced
to the other side of the cell and back. “Let it go. Butch is not Dr. Evil. He’s
just a bar owner—and some kind of cactus dealer.”

Shit. If Claire was right, Kate would need a crane to remove
her foot from her mouth.

“You’d better fix this mess you made,” Claire said, “because
I like going to The Shaft.”

The jangling of keys sounded like a chorus of angels to Kate’s
ears.

“Well, girls, it’s your lucky day.” Sheriff Harrison shot
Kate a cockeyed grin as he swung open the cell door. “Remember, darlin’, third
time’s a charm. If I get you in here again, you may be leaving in shackles.”

Avoiding his stare, she stepped past him through the doorway.
Kate scanned the room for a certain blue-eyed bar owner. The waiting area stood
empty.

Claire pushed past her and beelined for the women’s
restroom.

Kate approached the reception desk, familiar with the
sign-for-her-valuables routine after her last performance of the Folsom Prison
Blues in Sheriff Harrison’s Read-’Em-Their-Rights Resort. She couldn’t wait to
go home and steam herself clean under Ruby’s showerhead.

The men’s room door on her right creaked open. She glanced
over. Butch strode toward her. Besides the muscle twitching in his jaw, he gave
her no hint as to the depth of the hole she’d dug for herself.

“Hello, Butch.” She offered a slight smile.

“Kate,” he replied with barely a nod.

Wringing her hands, she stammered, “Umm, thanks for … for
not pressing charges against us, uh … you know, for last night.”

The sheriff chuckled from behind her. “I told you that new
security system would work better than a pack of Dobermans. These two had no
idea they’d even tripped the alarm.”

“Whew!” Claire stormed out of the women’s restroom. She
glared at the sheriff. “You need to explain to Deputy Droopy that giving me a
bottle of Coke and then not allowing me to use the restroom is cruel and
unusual punishment. It’s no wonder your jail cells stink like piss.”

The sheriff’s lips twitched. “I’ll talk to my deputy about
your concern.” He pushed a piece of paper across the desk toward her and held
out his pen. “If you’ll just sign here, I’ll give you back your personal items.”

Claire signed the paper, handed the pen to Kate, and then
turned to Butch. “I’m sorry about all this.” She gestured toward the jail
cells. “Did Kate explain why we were at your place?”

Kate busied herself with signing on the dotted line, her forehead
and neck roasting. “Not exactly.”

The door buzzer rang again. Kate looked up from the paper and
found Chester’s shit-eating grin. Manny followed on Chester’s heels, his smile
even toothier. A groan escaped her throat before she could swallow it.

“We’ve come to transport the convicts back to Jackrabbit
Junction,” Chester announced to the sheriff.

“Did we miss the strip search?” Manny asked.

Claire grinned and lightly punched Manny on the shoulder. “What
are you guys doing here already? We just got cleared not five minutes ago.”

Plopping down in one of the green vinyl waiting room chairs,
Chester answered, “Butch stopped by on his way back from Phoenix to let us know
you’d need a ride home.”

Kate’s stomach took another turn on the Tilt-O-Whirl. If
only she had the ability to spontaneously combust at will. Suffocating under a
hippo-sized mass of mortification, she mouthed
thank you
to Butch.

He gave another hint of a nod in return, his gaze dogged.

“Please tell me Mom isn’t waiting in the car.” Claire peered
out the front window.

Kate’s head throbbed at just the thought of listening to her
mother’s high-pitched rebuke all the way home.

Without looking away from the Wanted pin-ups hanging on the
bulletin board, Manny said, “She planned on riding along until Chester
mentioned that we were stopping for some booze and condoms on the way.”

“Here you go.” Sheriff Harrison slid two boxes across the
desk.

“What kind of booze are we talking about?” Claire snatched
up her grandmother’s ring and slipped it on her finger.

Kate could use a little liquid courage of her own,
especially with Butch standing mere feet from her. She clipped on her earrings
and stared out at a passing station wagon to avoid his gaze and her guilt.

“Hey, Chester,” Manny said. Papers rustled. “Isn’t this the
señorita
who could do that trick with peppers? The one who tied you to the bed and then
ran off with your wallet and autographed Willie Nelson bandana?”

“That’s her all right.” Chester sighed. “What I wouldn’t do
to see her pepper trick again.”

“On that note,” Butch said, heading for the door. “I’ll see
you tomorrow morning, Grady.”

The buzzer hummed and Kate watched the door close behind him.

“Go after him, Kate.” Claire nudged her toward the door.

“I already apologized.”

“But you didn’t explain anything.” Claire grabbed Kate by
the elbow, her fingers punishing, and dragged her over to the doors. “Go clean
up the mess you made.”

She shoved Kate outside.

The sun’s rays, hot and bright, made Kate feel like she’d
landed under the burger warmer at McDonald’s. The outside world stunk of heated
tar and diesel exhaust, which was like exotic perfume after that jail cell.

She shielded her eyes and looked across the street to where
Butch was opening the door of his pickup.

“Butch, hold on!” She jogged across the street.

He waited, leaning against the side of his truck, his
expression unreadable.

She skidded to a stop in front of him. “Listen, I need to
talk to you.” She moved closer to him as a cement truck rattled by behind her.

For the first time since he’d stepped out of the men’s
restroom, his lips curved upwards. But the grin didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s
there to talk about? You tried to sneak into my house, tripped my alarm, busted
out one of my garage windows, broke into my greenhouse, and ended up in jail.
Seems pretty cut and dried to me.”

“Don’t you want to know why I did any of those things?”

He shrugged. “Sure, I’m curious. But I figure anything you
say will just piss me off more.”

Kate held his stare in spite of her face blazing.

“The way I see it,” he said, “the best thing for me to do is
say
‘adios’
to you and the frustrations that come as part of your
packaging.” His eyes drifted south. “No matter how much I like the packaging.”

“Surely, you don’t mean to—”

“Goodbye, Kate.” With a mock salute, he climbed into his
pickup and started it up.

“Butch, wait!” She pounded on his window.

He rolled down the window. “What?”

“Give me just fifteen minutes. We could go get a coffee—you
drive and I’ll talk.” She clutched the windowsill of his truck. “Please.”

For several silent seconds, he stared straight ahead, his
forehead crinkled. Then he blinked and looked down at her. “No, Kate. We’re
done.” He shifted into gear. “Take care of yourself.”

Her hands shaking, Kate stepped clear of his tires as he
slowly rolled forward. The sun pummeled the top of her head as she watched his
taillights until he turned left and slipped out of sight.

Oh, God, what had she done?

A horn blared behind her. She looked over her shoulder.
Manny’s Chevy Tahoe sat idling in the middle of the street, the back door open.
Head hanging, she sulked toward the Tahoe—her ferry to Hades.

* * *

“I hope you’re happy!” Deborah’s voice dragged Mac from a
shallow slumber.

He opened one eye. Claire’s mother stood scowling down at
him, her lips pinched tight. Mac groaned and rolled away from her onto his side,
pulling the cool cotton sheet up over his head.

“MacDonald Garner, don’t think you can turn your back on me
and pretend I’m not here.” Deborah yanked the sheet down. “This is all your
fault.”

Growling, Mac glared up at her. “What in the hell are you
talking about?”

“Your bad influence on Claire.”

He sat up, all hope of catching another hour of sleep washed
away by Deborah’s senseless ranting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,
nor do I care.”

Thank God, Claire took after her father.

He stood, adjusted his boxer-briefs, and strode toward the
kitchen in nothing but the thin piece of cotton covering his ass. Modesty be
damned—he needed some caffeine to keep from saying something he shouldn’t to
Claire’s mother.

Deborah trailed him into the kitchen, her gaze steadily
northward, two rosy spots dotting her cheeks. Chiggers were less irritating.

“Well, you should care.” Deborah’s said. “You’re the one who
told her you love her.”

Mac froze, coffee pot in mid-air. Christ! Had Claire bought
a one-page ad in the
Yuccaville Yodeler
? Everyone around here knew that
he’d told her how he felt.