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After an awkward but delicious dinner a week ago with Joey, Jenny, and Tex, Jenny ordered Tex to take me up to the lodge and give me a vehicle I could depend on. I can’t be sure, as I haven’t known the two of them for long, but if I were making an educated guess based on the light in Jenny’s eyes as she ordered it, I’m pretty sure the only alternative for Tex if he didn’t comply would’ve been death and dismemberment.
That night, I drove home in my loaner truck, more than ready to step up to the challenge Rhett laid out—if I found him, I could treat him.
Well, after seven days of attempting to chase him around the ranch, I’m finding it’s not as easy a task as I originally thought.
Truth be told, I didn’t even think it’d be easy. I knew it’d be hard. I just didn’t think a full week would pass without me even getting a damn ice pack on his injured knee.
He’s basically Carmen Sandiego, and I’m a clueless ACME agent always ten steps behind him.
Where in the world is the fucking grumpy cowboy?
Thankfully, after several days of figuring out his usual routine on the ranch, last night, after I managed to have a long conversation with Dr. Namath about Rhett’s current plan of care while I stood outside at one of the “good cell spots” on the map Tex gave me, I headed back to my cabin, made up a game plan, and tucked myself into bed immediately.
If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t even be functioning right now.
Sky still dark with the cool air of predawn, I flip through the pages of notes I made on Rhett’s case and glance up to his front door yet again.
The house still seems dark to me and his truck is still out front, but after the difficulty I’ve had trying to find him, I wouldn’t put it past him to have snuck off to Mexico on a horse in the middle of the night.
I check my watch. It’s almost five a.m., and the first light of the day is only about thirty minutes away. The one good thing about playing CIA agent for the past week is that I’ve learned the basic ins and outs of the ranch. I know the typical routine for the guests who stay here to get the “Dude Ranch” experience. And I also know that Rhett Jameson starts his days bright and early.
“Come on,” I mutter to myself, admittedly eager to see Rhett choke on his freaking tongue upon noticing me out here.
I won’t deny that when a person challenges me directly—especially when they goad me to take their bet and savor the taste of my perceived defeat prematurely—I turn into a bit of a maniac.
Not in the manic sense, though—the calculated kind. I plot, I plan, I lay down a strategy, and I put in the work. Even if that means I have to play freaking stalker and sit outside his house at an ungodly hour of the morning.
My brother Sam knows this best, perhaps, after making a simple bet with me about who had the better ability to consume a whole cake every day for a month without gaining weight.
It was a dumb, childish contest at best, but holy hog heaven, did I take it seriously. I made three trips a day to the gym and limited my liquid intake to water only. Other than the cake, which there was a lot of, I gave up all other carbs, went high protein, and spent all of my off time hitting the weights.
At the end of our joke, I’d turned into half a bodybuilder, and Sam had lost the definition in his precious abs.
Basically, all I’m saying is that Mr. Cowboy doesn’t know what’s about to hit him because I don’t play around.
A flash of light shifts in the darkness, and I look up from my notes, grab my coffee cup, and take another swig.
A lamp shines through the curtains, and a shadowed figure moves slowly around the muted room. I can’t tell much about anything, but unless Chewbacca broke in to Rhett’s house in the middle of the night and took his place, I’m guessing that’s him.
With the engine of my truck off, and all the lights out, I’m just a woman in the darkness for right now. But soon, so soon, Rhett’s going to get the sweet taste of making a deal with Leah freaking Levee.
“Yeah, buddy. You don’t know who you’re messing with,” I taunt the empty cab and rub my hands together with glee. I will find a way to treat his damn leg, even if it kills me. Or I get arrested for stalking and he has a judge slap a restraining order on me. You know, whichever comes first.
