Debbi Rawlins - Slow Hand Luke

“You get me my million bucks, you hear? And you bring me that son of a bitch.”

No kidding. Why else would he be sitting out here by the McCall ranch, sweating like a pig in the heat and humidity near a mosquito-infested pond? “Yes, sir.” One of the critters buzzed near his ear. He swatted, missed and cursed.

“What did you say to me, boy?” Seabrook’s voice came out in an angry wheeze and then he started coughing. More than likely caused by the stinky cigars he was always smoking.

Wilcox smiled. “Nothing, Mr. Seabrook. Just getting eaten alive by these friggin’ mosquitoes.”

“Well, the sooner you find Luke McCall, the sooner you can go home.” Seabrook severed the connection.

Wilcox flipped his cell closed and slipped it into the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. He could go home any time he damn well pleased. Technically he didn’t work for Seabrook, but he’d gotten himself knee-deep in debt to the bastard, which, around these parts, pretty much meant Seabrook owned his ass.

What he couldn’t figure out was why Joanne stayed with that nasty piece of lard. Yeah, he had money, but she was a mighty fine looking woman and half his age. She could find another sugar daddy over in Dallas. A woman like that would be taken care of for a long time if she was so inclined.

Another mosquito buzzed close to his ear. He swatted at it, slapping the back of his sunburned neck too hard. “Son of a bitch.” He stared through the trees toward the highway. Couldn’t see a damn thing. Twenty minutes ago he’d seen headlights, but it must have been a wrong turn. Besides, the lights were high and wide like a truck’s, not like McCall’s flashy red Corvette.

Jethro stretched out his legs and slid lower in the seat so that the back of his head hit the headrest. If McCall didn’t show up tonight or early tomorrow morning, Jethro’s guess was that the guy had hopped a plane in Dallas. If Jethro had stolen a million dollars, that’s what he would’ve done. Get the hell out of Dodge, pronto. The only reason he was sitting in this crummy place at all was on account of Seabrook’s stubborn belief that McCall wouldn’t leave the state. Or the county, for that matter.

The whole thing just didn’t add up. Seabrook was president of the stockmen’s association that put up rodeo prize money. Luke McCall was one of the top bull riders in the country. Over his career, he’d earned over a million dollars and, as long in the tooth as that ole boy was getting, he was still riding. More than likely he would’ve taken a nice chunk of that prize money at next month’s rodeo. So why steal the mil? And what had he been doing at Seabrook’s ranch anyway?

There was no love lost between those two. Not since the Fourth of July two years ago, when Seabrook spooked Luke’s horse real bad right before the rodeo started. Some folks thought the old man had done it on purpose. If Luke had hurt himself he wouldn’t have ridden that big mean Samson. Staying on that Brahma bull for a record time ended up winning Luke a fifty-thousand-dollar purse.

Still, that missing money didn’t mean anything to Seabrook. Only a portion of it was his contribution to the stockmen’s association and it wasn’t out of the goodness of their hearts they put up the prize money. It was all promotion. They got back large returns that made blowhards like Seabrook millionaires.

Maybe Luke grabbed the cash to get even with Seabrook. Although that didn’t seem like McCall’s style. Or maybe he just wanted to make Seabrook sweat for a while. The old man was obviously embarrassed. That’s why he wanted the whole mess kept under wraps.

Jethro adjusted his hat to partially cover his eyes but still allow him to see if any headlights appeared. Seabrook had offered to square his debt if he brought Luke back and, no matter what their beef, that’s exactly what Jethro aimed to do.

W ELL, HE DIDN’ T RUN, but he sure looked as if he wanted to. Annie poured herself a second glass of juice. Her mouth had gotten so dry it felt as if her tongue had swollen. “You want another one?”

Luke shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go get a beer out of my cooler.”

“Knock yourself out.” She’d bet next month’s rent that he’d get in his truck and she’d never see him again. The horrified look on his face when she told him she was a cop took first place as far as reactions went.

“Want one?”

“Sure.” She waited until he got to the back door and said, “You forgot your hat.”

He turned and stared at it for a moment, and then his eyes met hers and his mouth curved up on one side. “I didn’t forget it.”

She watched him leave, and then she moved to the window to watch him walk to his truck. Yeah, he made a great picture with his long legs and snug-fitting jeans. Broad shoulders, for which she was a hopeless sucker, that tapered to a narrow waist made him look like he should be in a commercial.

She was equally interested in the way he walked. His long leisurely strides told her more about the man than he had himself. It was her job to study people, to understand the small quirks or habits that gave them away. So far, Luke had shown her two things: confidence and compassion, an interesting combination in a male ego. Healthy certainly, but really surprising at his age and the way he looked.

He had to be in his early thirties, and had to receive oodles of female attention. Probably got by on charm more than anything else. He certainly wasn’t lacking in that department. Even though Annie hated gratuitous endearments, she knew enough women who ate them up.

Tomorrow she’d have to ask Aunt Marjorie about him, or even ask Chester for that matter. She’d left the barn door wide-open already, as they’d say around here. She knew well enough she wouldn’t sleep soundly with this guy in the next room. She trusted her instinct but she’d be foolish not to be a bit apprehensive.

He turned back toward the house, and she ducked away from the window, grabbed their glasses and rinsed them out. She waited until she heard him set something on the table before she turned around. He’d brought in the entire cooler, which made sense, but it was still a little weird. She’d just met him and he was practically moving in.

“I figured I ought to put this food in the refrigerator. Can’t let it go bad. We might have to live on ham sandwiches for a while.”

“With white bread, I bet.”

“Is there any other kind?” He winked at her, and then pulled packages of cold cuts out of the cooler and deposited them into the refrigerator.

She watched him stack everything neatly on the second shelf, leaving room for the beer and a quart of milk. She thought about offering to help, but it was much more fun watching the way his shirt stretched across his back as he moved and how the soft faded denim molded his perfect ass.

His legs were long and, even without the inch heels on his cowboy boots, he was tall. Well over six feet for sure, since she was five-seven and only came up to his shoulders.

He kept out two beers. After opening them both, he handed one to her. She took it, even though she wasn’t crazy about beer. Rarely did she drink alcohol, and when she did it was some sweet frothy concoction that the guys at the precinct called a girly drink.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Luke asked after taking a long pull.

“Get my car out.”

“Right. First thing.”

“Talk to Chester about repairs.”

Luke pulled out a kitchen chair for her. “Don’t count on him being much help. He’s always had a bum leg and, at his age—” he shook his head “—the guy shouldn’t be doing too much.”

“Yeah, I know.” She sat down, exhaustion suddenly saturating her limbs. Not only was it late, but her body was still on East Coast time.