Curing the Blues with a New Pair of Shoes Page 7

  “Yep. Everybody knows him, too.”

  Sam’s curiosity kicked up. “Really? I’m meeting him for breakfast in Salt Lick at a place called Hogg’s Drive-In.”

  A big grin split the girl’s face. “Now that’s cool.”

  “You know what? You look like you could be about Caleb Crawford’s age. I don’t suppose you’d know him personally?”

  “Nope. But I know lots of stories about him and his family. My uncle’s the sheriff down in Salt Lick. He’s known the Crawfords all his life.”

  Sam could barely curb his excitement at finding a jovial local eager to gossip. “Tell me one of the stories.”

  She frowned and pursed her lips, as if she were thinking. “Okay, here’s one. You know about the Permian Panthers, right?”

  “A little. I know they’ve won more state championships than any other high-school team in Texas.”

  “Won State six times,” Brittany said, her pride obvious.

  “Actually, I knew that, too. I’m an encyclopedia of football trivia at all levels.”

  “I mean, holy cow, that’s got to be like the Super Bowl, huh?”

  “In high-school football, it sure would be equivalent,” Sam said.

  “Okay, so if you know all of that, then you know what football means to everybody around here. There’s a big Permian booster club in this town. They went out of their way to bring the Crawford family to live in the Permian High School district.”

  Sam was surprised. But then, Texas was football paradise, where local fans attached as much importance to high-school games as to college and pro events. “Wow,” he said. “They must have really wanted Crawford’s passing arm.”

  “One of the booster club members owns Strata Oil Company,” Brittany said. “He’s rich. He’s a former standout on the Permian football team himself. He bought a house a few blocks from the high school’s front door. Then he offered Caleb’s dad a well-paying job with Strata Oil if he would leave Salt Lick and move his family into it.”

  Maneuvering like that in high-school football? “Amazing,” Sam said. “Then what happened?” He sipped his coffee.

  “Well, you see, before he became a cattle buyer, W. L. Crawford used to be a tough-as-nails oil-field worker. He didn’t appreciate that oilman trying to wheel and deal just to get Caleb to Odessa. W. L. said he’d been bullied and overlooked by executive types all of his life. He said he refused to be bribed. He said no, his family’s home was in Salt Lick. And he stood his ground.”

  Brittany had Sam’s rapt attention. “Awesome.”

  “That oilman wasn’t used to hearing people tell him no,” she went on, wearing a big grin. “He made this big public forecast that by not moving to Odessa, W. L. was squandering his son’s talent. Playing six-man football in Salt Lick, Texas, the kid would never amount to anything. It was in the newspaper and on TV and everywhere. You didn’t hear about that in Dallas, huh?”

  If Sam had heard it, he had glided past it. And it was a story that should have caught his attention when it happened because it was possible that by being obstinate, the elder Crawford really had risked his son’s future in both college and pro football. Though he had to wonder how Caleb himself felt about his father playing fast and loose with his future, Sam was impressed by the elder Crawford’s guts and gambling instincts. And now that things had worked out as they had, he could only imagine the guy’s enjoyment at beating the odds. “That’s a great story,” he told Brittany.

  “It’s all true,” she said with a big smile. “Now, courtesy of Caleb’s signing bonus, the Crawford family lives in a new house that dwarfs that oilman’s.”

  “And we’re all going to watch Caleb lead the Dallas Cowboys to the Super Bowl,” Sam said.

  Sam loved the tale. Sometimes just standing on your principles was payoff enough. A ton of money and unprecedented notoriety had overshadowed W. L. Crawford’s gambling with his son’s future—something that wasn’t W. L. Crawford’s to risk. Perhaps that was the real story. “Thanks for telling me that story, Brittany,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “Oops, I’d better get upstairs and finish my morning paper so I can get to Salt Lick on time. W. L. sounds like the kind of guy who wouldn’t wait around if I got there late.”

  “Oh, if what my uncle says about him is true, he’d probably hang around,” Brittany said, still grinning, “but just long enough to put you in your place for keeping him waiting.”

  And that would be as bad as missing a story. Sam saluted Brittany with two fingers and turned toward the elevator.

  “I’d take the stairs if I were you,” she said. “That old thing is probably one trip away from crashing and burning. We’ve had a service call on it for a month now. It still barely works, but I wouldn’t take the chance.”

  Sam eyed the car and looked back at her. “Thanks for the warning. See you later.”

  Bounding up the stairs two steps at a time, he thought of questions he wanted to ask W. L. and other topics he would like to discuss with Brittany when he saw her again—like who was the tall flaxen-haired beauty with a body built for fun? He had gotten a glimpse of her as she had walked past him while he was getting the goods on the Crawford clan from Brittany. The woman hadn’t looked his way or said a word, but his male instincts had made him look her way, and parts of his anatomy just south of his stomach made him want to know her better.

  Parade day. After a fitful night of missing Buddy slumbering beside her, Debbie Sue awoke still missing him and trying to think of the upcoming parade instead of the outlaws her husband might be facing. She’d had to learn one hard lesson being married to a man who had dedicated his life to law enforcement. While he was out risking it all to safeguard the public, it was up to her to safeguard her own sanity.

  She was also thinking of the outlaw who had stolen Elvis’s blue suede shoes from Hogg’s Drive-In as well as the mysterious man from Las Vegas who had loaned Hogg’s the shoes in the first place.

  She showered alone and missed Buddy again. On most mornings, they showered together. Drying her hair took forever. She hadn’t let Edwina trim it in ages and it hung past the middle of her back. She usually washed and dried it at the shop, where the dryers were more powerful, but this morning, she wouldn’t be going to the salon.

  She did her makeup, then dressed in her “parade getup”—a starched white shirt emblazoned with sparkling red and blue rhinestones, six inches of red fringe hanging across the front and back yokes, and tight Wranglers. Underneath it all, she wore a set of silk long johns, just in case the day turned out colder than predicted. West Texas Januarys were like that. You could never depend on what some TV weatherman or Etta Jo Carlson said.

  She stuffed the hems of her Wranglers into the stovepipe shafts of custom-made boots she called her show boots. The tops struck her at mid-calf and she’d had them embroidered and painted with white Texas stars and a red-white-and-blue Texas flag.

  Last, she added a hand-tooled leather belt fastened around her waist with one of her sterling silver trophy belt buckles, which was as big as a dinner plate. She had won it at the PRCA show in Denver.

  When she dressed like this, Buddy teased her and called her his cowgirl. She was his, for sure, and had no desire to be anyone else’s. A flashback zoomed into her mind. Just a few days ago, after Buddy had watched her exercise Rocket Man, he had called her a helluva horsewoman.

  “As a matter of fact,” she had said saucily, “I’m a better horsewoman than I am beauty operator. And I guess the jury’s still out on the private investigator—”

  “I like you better being a beauty operator.”

  Though he supported her every endeavor, she knew he didn’t like her being a detective. He had put his hands on her waist and pulled her against him. “I know you, Wyatt Earp,” she said softly, wrapping her arms around his wide muscled shoulders and looking up into his intense brown eyes. “You’d be happy having my foot nailed to the floor in that beauty parlor.”

  “At least I’d know where you a
re and what you’re doing. Part of the time.”

  “Silly. You know most of the cops in West Texas and they know you. Even if you don’t know what I’m doing, one of them does. I don’t doubt for a minute that every one of them would tattle.”

  “Just goes to show, Flash, it takes more than one man to keep tabs on you.”

  Flash. The pet name her absentee father had given her so many years ago, when she first started winning barrel-racing competitions. Besides her mom, Buddy was the only one who knew it and he was the only one who used it as an expression of affection.

  “Take care of yourself while I’m gone,” he had said and kissed her with his heart on his lips. And she had kissed him back the same way.

  A tear sneaked from the corner of one eye, threatening her eye makeup. “Fuck,” she mumbled, grabbed a tissue, leaned closer to the mirror and dabbed at her eyes. She couldn’t show up for a parade on Salt Lick’s greatest day, looking like she had been bawling.

  chapter eight

  Debbie Sue walked out of the house into a sunny but cold day. The morning’s chill bit her cheeks and made her eyes water. She stopped by the dog run and said good morning and good-bye to the dogs. Jim and Jack, short for Jim Beam and Jack Daniels, were strays that had wandered in from somewhere. Jose Cuervo, or just Jose, had been picked up on the highway by Buddy when he was a DPS trooper.

  At the barn, she dressed Rocket Man in his show regalia—a fancy saddle made of honey-colored hand-tooled leather with strategically placed saddle silver. She and the paint horse had won it together years back at a rodeo in Fort Worth. It coordinated with a show bridle that glittered with rhinestones and sterling-silver conchas. The whole array was a perfect contrast to Rocket Man’s brown-and-white coat. If there were a fashion magazine for the best-groomed horses, he would be a cover favorite month after month.

  Seeing Rocket Man decked out in his finery, she could imagine his wide chest filled with pride—and she believed that horses did have pride, along with a desire to please their human owners. She loved that horse almost as much as she loved Buddy. She had told him secrets she would never utter to a human being. He had been with her through thick and thin—love, marriage, an infant’s passing, divorce and remarriage to Buddy.

  Rocket Man had been enjoying retirement for several years, but she rode him at least twice a week. If she didn’t, he pouted like a rock star demigod. But her beloved animal was aging. His back was still strong and straight, but he was over twenty now. He’d had a close call a few years back when he contracted pneumonia, but Dr. Miller, who was now her stepfather, had saved him. Since that time, Rocket Man’s mortality had been ever present in her mind. Moisture rushed to her eyes. Lord, she was weepy this morning. She dabbed her damp eyes with her fingertip and gave a big sniff. Damn mascara anyway. It always made her eyes burn. Probably had started running all over her face.

  As she opened the trailer gate, Rocket Man began to prance. When she approached him, he stamped the ground with his front right hoof and backed farther into his stall. Like an old man wrapping a shawl about his shoulders to ward off the cold, he made it clear he preferred the warmth of his quarters to the chilled temperature outside. It was a game they played.

  “Now, Man,” she said softly, “don’t be an old fart. We’ve got a parade today. The kids can’t wait to see you.” All of the area schools were still on Christmas break and the weather was great, so a parade route filled with kids was assured. “I know you love parades. And this is your chance to show off in front of the fillies.”

  The paint nickered and sawed his head up and down, eliciting a chuckle from Debbie Sue. She stroked his neck and he nibbled her hair. She was about to lead him out of his stall when her cell phone bleated “The Eyes of Texas.” She plucked it from her belt and saw that the caller was Edwina.

  “Now what in the hell does she need this early?” Debbie Sue said to Rocket Man. She flipped the phone open. “Edwina Perkins-Martin, just what makes you think I’m not still asleep?”

  “I’m your best friend and I can read your mind. I know what you’re gonna do before you do,” Edwina replied.

  “Oh, really? And what am I doing now, smart-ass?”

  “That one’s easy. You’re standing in your barn with that big pet you call a horse. You’re telling him how wonderful he is and how much he’s gonna enjoy the parade. You’re probably telling him about all the mares he’s gonna meet, which is really kind of mean, considering that he’s a gelding.”

  Debbie Sue walked to the barn door and looked out. She saw no cars, no sign of a visitor. Peeking behind a stack of hay bales, she finally replied, “Where are you? How’d you know all that?”

  “I told you, I’m a mind reader. Listen, I got a call from that reporter from Fort Worth. She wants to meet with us.”

  “Where? And when? Rocket Man and I have to be at the schoolyard at nine to line up for the parade.”

  “In about an hour. She’s staying in Odessa. I told her to come on down to Hogg’s. She might as well jump right into the story.”

  “Works for me. I’ll get Rocket Man loaded and be there within the hour.” Debbie Sue was about to disconnect when she had a thought.

  “Hey, Ed, you still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Tell me what I’m wearing, Oh Great One. Use your strange powers of knowing all and seeing all.”

  “C’mon, Debbie Sue,” Edwina said.

  “No, tell me. Earn my respect. What am I wearing?”

  “You’ve got on a pair of sweatpants with the legs stuffed down the shafts of your old worn out, seen-better-days work boots. And a Texas Tech windbreaker. No makeup, but you’re wearing earrings. Always earrings. Silver.”

  An evil grin tipped Debbie Sue’s mouth. She looked at Rocket Man and whispered, “Should I tell her?”

  The horse stamped his hoof.

  “Do you think I’d show up for the parade dressed like that? I’ll see you soon.” Debbie Sue snapped the phone shut.

  Rocket Man loaded into the trailer with ease. He never balked. She had lost count long ago how many times he had been loaded and unloaded and how many miles he had been hauled up and down the highways. In honor of him, she’d had the horse trailer painted cherry red to match the color of her pickup because she and Rocket Man were a team. On his back she had ridden to acclaim and notoriety. Plus, she had won a few bucks. He deserved a pretty trailer to travel in.

  With her dressed-up horse secured inside his dressed-up trailer, she slammed the gate, climbed onto the driver’s seat and laid the hat she saved for special occasions next to her. It was an off-white 30x Beaver with a glitzy rhinestone band. Buddy had bought it for her on one of his trips to Austin. With him out of town, she felt a little blue, but she told herself today was going to be a good day. By the time she reached town, she would be excited about the parade.

  She sped down her driveway, turned left onto the caliche county road, then headed for town like a bat out of hell, raising a cloud of white dust that would linger like smoke long after she had passed. Buddy had warned her often that she drove too fast. With country music blaring from the radio, he said, she couldn’t hear what was going on around her.

  And that was why, when she reached the intersection where the county road met the state highway, she didn’t see Cal Jensen in his black-and-white until his red-and-blues flashed behind her. Cal was a DPS trooper Buddy had worked with before becoming a Ranger.

  “Oh, fuck,” she grumbled, crunching to a stop on the highway’s gravel shoulder. Had Cal heard about the theft of the shoes? Was that why he was in Cabell County today? As he came to her pickup door, she buzzed down the window.

  “Good Lord, Debbie Sue,” he said. “Where in the world are you going so fast?”

  She gave him a weak smile. “I’m riding Rocket Man in the parade and I’m late.”

  He shook his head and gave her a solemn look. “All that glitter you’re wearing is about to blind me. That is, if I don’t choke to death firs
t on that cloud of dust you stirred up.”

  She waited for him to mention the shoes. When he didn’t, she concluded he might not even know they were supposed to be on display. “Okay,” she said on an exaggerated sigh. “Go ahead. Give me a ticket.” She yanked her purse into her lap and began to dig for her driver’s license. “But please don’t tell Buddy.” She handed over the license.

  Cal glanced at it and handed it back. “If I give you a ticket, even if I don’t tell him, you think he won’t find out? Half the gossips in the courthouse will know it and half of those will be delighted to call him up and report it.”

  Debbie Sue chewed on her bottom lip, her brow tented in dismay. Apparently, Cal knew the citizens of Salt Lick as well as she did. “I know.”

  “You were going too fast, Debbie Sue, and this isn’t the first time. I can’t let it go.”

  “I know,” she said again. Damn, it was hell being married to a cop.

  Cal began to write out a ticket. “I’ll make a deal with you. This time, I’ll give you a written warning if you promise to slow down. But this is the last time.”

  “Okay,” she said meekly. “You won’t tell Buddy?”

  He gave her a mischievous grin. Cal Jensen was too cute to still be single. “I figure I won’t have to. You’ll tell him.”

  “Oh, I will, I promise.” She sighed, acknowledging the warning, and accepted her copy. “Listen, thanks, Cal. A speeding ticket would really screw up my insurance.”

  He shook his head again. “I’m serious, woman. You drive too fast. You could hurt yourself or someone else. And what about your horse? You think Rocket Man likes riding in that trailer at seventy miles an hour on an unpaved road?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God. Was I driving seventy?”

  “That’s what I put down,” he answered, which told her nothing.

  Had he cut her some slack on the speed? Had she, in truth, been driving faster than seventy on a caliche road?

  He touched his hat to her and smiled. “You have fun at the parade…And slow down.”