Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (9 page)

The tall boy's mother put one hand on her hip, and used the other to point a finger in her son's face. “You're grounded for two months! And we're taking away your car, too!”

The shorter boy's father was just as incensed. “Expect a month of hard labor. And no video games until summer!”

As the boys and their parents left, Brigit and I turned to head back inside.

“What do you think, g-girl?” I asked her. “Did we set those boys straight? Save them from a life of crime?”

She wagged her tail with a definite
yes.

 

ELEVEN

HORNY

Brigit

Brigit watched the big bucking animal in the arena. She couldn't blame him for trying to ditch the man on his back. She didn't like it when someone tried to ride her, either.

Way back, before she'd managed to escape, she'd lived with a dipshit stoner who'd snatched her from a cardboard box marked
FREE PUPPIES
in front of Walmart. She'd been the largest of the litter, nearly twice the size of her four siblings. But she'd been the smartest of the bunch, realizing early on that it paid to stay close to their mother and food supply.

The guy hadn't wanted the puppy as a companion. He'd only brought her home because, with those big paws, she was sure to become an enormous beast. She could protect his stash, provide a warning bark if the cops pulled to the curb. Hell, he hadn't even bothered to name her, referring to her only as “dog,” “damn dog,” or “shithead” as the mood struck him.

One night, when he and his stoner buddies had been particularly drunk and high, he'd climbed onto her back after one of his idiot friends commented that she was as big as a horse. He'd been a skinny guy, but dogs weren't built to carry weight on their backs. She'd crumpled beneath him, her spine feeling as if it had snapped in two. As she lay flattened on the ground he'd kicked her in the ribs, fracturing two of them. Of course they'd been left untreated. Hell, the jackass hadn't even bothered to have her spayed or get her shots. It was a wonder she hadn't died of parvovirus.

She'd wanted to bite the stoner, to rip the guy to shreds. But she knew he was mean enough and stupid enough and messed up enough to kill her if she dared. If she'd had a nice pair of horns like these bulls, though, she would've gone for it, gored the dumbass right through the stomach and tossed him out into the yard like the garbage he was.

Still, she'd exacted a subtle revenge. When he'd been passed out cold the following morning and one of his so-called friends snuck back into the house, she hadn't made a peep. Thanks to Brigit's silence, the intruder got away with untold pounds of marijuana and five hundred dollars in cash the stoner had hid under his mattress. If a dog could laugh, she would have then.

A few weeks later, in the dead of winter, he'd left her outside in the cold with no food or water. She'd managed to dig out of the backyard and was eventually rounded up by an animal control officer. She'd been slated to be euthanized at the city pound, escaping her fate only when a police officer came into the shelter looking for a dog with the potential to be a K-9 officer. Brigit had impressed the cop with her smarts and size and determination, so here she was, working as a cop, getting three square meals a day and overtime paid in belly rubs and chew toys.

Brigit continued to watch the action in the ring. After the bull threw the man off his back, the beast trotted toward the nearby exit, his head held high. Brigit barked in encouragement.
Arf-arf!
They might not be the same species, but any time an animal bested a human it was cause for celebration.

 

TWELVE

STALLING FOR TIME

Robin Hood

As expected, convincing her sisters to run interference for her had been a snap. She'd given them a sob story, too, delivering it while they sat in her Chevy Spark in the stock show parking lot.

The inexpensive car might not be much, but at least it wasn't a hand-me-down. Sick of secondhand goods, she'd refused to buy a used car. Given her young age and less than stellar credit score, the cheap car had been the only new one she could qualify for. Chevy called the yellowish-beige color “Lemonade,” but to Robin Hood it looked more like the color of butterbeans. Regardless, it was all
hers.
She only wished it didn't now smell like the Revlon Fire & Ice perfume her sisters seemed to bathe in. Robin Hood would never wear a scent sold at a drugstore. She bought her Tom Ford Black Orchid perfume at the cosmetics counter at Macy's. Or at least she had when she'd still had a viable credit card.

“I'm pregnant,” she told her sisters, blinking her eyes repeatedly to fight back tears that weren't coming.
Like I'd ever let my twenty-five-dollar mascara run.
“Evan, he wants me to … to…” She turned her head away, as if unable to let them see her grief. “He wants me to get rid of it!”

Crystal reached out and put a hand on her sister's shoulder. “That asshole!”

Robin Hood turned back to her sisters and gulped back a sob that, like her tears, didn't truly exist. “I don't know how I'm going to afford the medical bills.”

Heather frowned. “Don't you have health insurance through your job?”

“Yes,” she said. “But there's a three-thousand-dollar deductible plus a hundred-dollar copay for every office visit.”

She hoped that sounded reasonable. Honestly she had no idea what her insurance policy covered. She was twenty-one years old and in perfect health. The last time she'd seen a doctor she'd been nineteen and suffering with a genital wart. She'd been unemployed and on county health insurance at the time. The doctor at the clinic had simply burned the thing off, warned her about the dangers of unprotected sex, and sent her on her way.

Her sisters exchanged glances.

“We'd offer to help you out,” Crystal said, “but we pooled the last of our money to get the trailer leveled. Our bedroom was a foot lower on the end. If it sank any further we'da fallen out of bed.”

Robin Hood eyed her two sisters, opening her lids wide in an expression of hope. “But you would help me? If you could?”

They exchanged glances again.

“Of course,” Crystal said. “You're our sister.”

“Sure,” Heather agreed after a slight hesitation.

Robin Hood explained her plan. “So all you need to do is run a little interference if necessary. Got it?”

Crystal nodded once.

Heather, on the other hand, asked, “What if we get caught?”

“We won't,” Robin Hood said, letting a tone of
how-can-you-be-so-stupid?
underscore her words. The fictional Robin Hood had never gotten this kind of shit from his Merry Men. “And even if the police catch me, they can't charge you with anything. It isn't a crime to use a public restroom.”

“Oh.” Heather's face brightened and she sat up straighter. “Right.”

After Robin Hood traded her stilettos for sneakers—
getaway shoes
—they climbed from the car. She popped her trunk open and retrieved a pair of crutches she'd bought for three dollars at a yard sale. She held them out to Crystal. “Here you go.”

Crystal took them and slid them under her armpits. They were a little on the short side, but Robin Hood hadn't thought to bring tools to adjust them. They'd have to do. Crystal hunched over and crooked one leg up behind her, feigning a sprained ankle. Robin Hood wasn't as impressed with Crystal's acting skills as she'd been with her own, but they would have to do.

The three bought tickets at the ticket booth and headed inside, making their way to the arena to watch the rodeo. Crystal and Heather seemed to enjoy the show, cheering on the calf ropers and bull riders. Robin Hood, on the other hand, was bored out of her skull. Stinky animals and dust and farmers were so
not
her thing. She was here for one thing and one thing only. To relieve a wealthy tourist of her cold, hard cash.

After enduring the events for an hour or so, she let out a long sigh. “Can we please get moving?” When she realized she'd sounded impatient and thus unsympathetic, she added in a whisper, “It's just hard for me to keep sitting here. I keep thinking about the baby and all.”

Murmuring words of support that fell on deaf ears, her sisters followed her down the bleachers, out into the corridor, and down the hall to the ladies' room. As they'd planned back in the car, her sisters positioned themselves at either end of the sinks, Heather washing her hands and Crystal fixing her hair. Robin Hood hovered near the stalls with her oversized Michael Kors tote. She looked down at her cell phone and pretended to be texting, when actually she was using the ruse to hide her face while secretly checking out the women who came in to use the facilities.

Several women came through, but most looked like young mothers or farm folk, not likely to have much cash in their wallets. Finally, in walked a woman with some potential. She was fiftyish, with blond hair styled poofy on top and short on the sides and back, with a longer piece lying stylishly on her cheek in front of each ear, like a blond female Elvis. The woman was dressed in hundred-dollar Miss Me jeans with rhinestones and embroidery on the back pockets. She wore hand-painted boots and carried one of those pricey tooled-leather western-style purses. She also wore the happy, loose expression of someone who'd had a few glasses of wine with dinner before heading to the rodeo.

The perfect victim.

As the woman slid into a stall on the end, Robin Hood slipped into the adjacent stall. She watched the floor. Once the embroidered jeans came down, she climbed up onto the toilet. Keeping her head as far back as she could, she glanced down into the stall. The woman's face was down as she pulled paper from the roll.
Good. She was paying no mind to her purse.
All it took was a quick hand over the top of the stall and the bag was yanked from the hook. Spoils in hand, Robin Hood jumped down from the toilet to the floor.

“Hey!” the woman cried. “You took my purse!”

Oops.
Looked like the woman hadn't been quite as inattentive as Robin Hood had thought. She kicked at the toilet knob, hoping the flush would drown out the woman's screams.

Flushhhhh.

“Give it back!” the woman cried. “Give me my purse!”

As the woman yanked up her pants in the stall next door, Robin Hood shoved the purse into her oversized tote, zipped the tote closed, and exited the stall without so much as a glance in her sisters' direction. Five steps later she was out of the bathroom, merging with the bustling crowd, home free. It took everything in her not to throw a victorious fist in the air.

Robin Hood rises again.

 

THIRTEEN

BUCK-A-ROO

Megan

After sending the boys home with their parents, Brigit and I had returned to the arena.

When the bull-riding was over, the announcer jumped back on his mic. “Keep your seats, buckaroos! Up next will be our bareback riders. You won't want to miss this classic rodeo event!”

I decided to leave the arena at that point. The dust had my eyes feeling gritty and made me sneeze. Besides, the way Brigit kept eyeing the bulls and drooling I feared that if I didn't get her away from that arena she'd try to take one down singlehandedly. Or would that be single
paw
edly?

As I led my partner into the outer hallway, Deputy McCutcheon strode by with a group of men. He'd ditched his uniform for jeans, chaps, and a burnt-orange western shirt over what appeared to be some type of padded chest protector. Like the other men around him, he now sported spurs and a straw cowboy hat. While these men looked every bit as tough and determined as the bull riders, by and large this group tended to be taller. I supposed having long legs would be a benefit when trying to remain on the back of a horse who was trying to throw you.

Clint spotted me and Brigit and turned our way, spinning to walk backward as he continued on. “You can't leave now!” he called. “I'm riding in ten minutes.”

I glanced down at the schedule in my hand. Sure enough, his name was listed third among the bareback riders.
Clinton McCutcheon, Azle, TX.

“He won't be riding long!” hollered the man walking next to him. He gave Clint a friendly pat on the shoulder before turning back to me. “McCutcheon drew Tornado Loco. Toughest horse in the bunch.”

Clint raised his palms in a final invitation before turning back around to watch where he was going.

What is it with the men in my life?
First Seth and his bombs and now Clint and his unbroken horses. I wasn't sure if the two had a death wish or just an overabundance of testosterone. Or perhaps this said more about me than them. Was there something about me that scared off normal men, something that said
only men with oversized
cojones
need apply?
Either way, I wasn't going to miss Clint's ride.

Brigit and I returned to our place at the gate, pulling rank over a quintet of young female rodeo groupies wearing low-cut tops and jeans so tight it was a wonder they could bend over to put on their boots. “Step back, girls,” I said, though they were only a year or two younger than me. “Official police business here.”

Riiight.
As if stalking a sexy cowboy could in any way be considered part of my duties.

The broadcaster announced the start of the bareback riding event, calling the first rider to the chute. The man slid his right hand into a leather glove, and rubbed it with some rosin from a bag. Ready now, he settled onto the back of the horse immobilized in the chute and slid his hand into the rigging.

The gate clanged open and released the horse, a dark brown stallion with a wild mane. The horse leaped to the left, then right, then bucked three times in quick succession. The rider spurred with perfection, marking to the horse's shoulders with each jump. When the horse seemed to realize his tactics weren't working, he combined a buck with a spin, sending the rider flying off to the side. The man impacted the ground like he'd been slam dunked.