I finally let him go. He scrambled to his feet and by the color of his face, he was angry and humiliated, and I thought for a second he might try to bum-rush me. Chances were that in a fair fight, I wouldn’t probably do too well against Austin Dix, so I had to try a little verbal ninjutsu instead.

  “So, Austin, why exactly did you try to kill my boyfriend?”

  The question stopped Austin in his tracks and transformed his mood from rage to total confusion.

  “What?” he said.

  “Don’t play dumb with me. You heard the question. My boyfriend happens to be Sheriff Kramer, and I want to know why you shot him in the back.”

  I watched Austin carefully to see how he reacted. He took in the words, and all of a sudden, the confusion was gone.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do with all of that.”

  “You sure about that, Austin? Because the thing is, whoever did it—they didn’t know they were shooting the sheriff. They thought they were shooting Trevor Dawes. You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?”

  His eyes widened, and he immediately started shaking his head.

  “You really think I had something to do with this?”

  “Absolutely. You see, nobody hated Trevor Dawes as much as you did.” I pointed at his face, at the lingering traces of that black eye. “And it’s pretty clear he didn’t think much about you, either. The way I see it, a young stud like yourself gets beat up by an old has-been like Trevor Dawes? I definitely think that would make you mad enough to kill.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “Out of your mind, bat poop crazy.”

  “So, you did try to kill Trevor and just accidentally shot a small-town sheriff? Or you did not try to kill Trevor at all? I’m confused by what you’re saying.”

  “I did not try to kill Trevor Dawes!”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “What do you mean? Lady, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Am I under arrest or something?”

  “You might be soon. You do have a pretty good motive to kill him, what with you hating his guts and all. So, yeah, I think for now, let’s go with you.”

  “No way,” he said while crossing his arms like a ref signaling a missed extra point. “Do I think Trevor Dawes is a grade-A prick? Of course I do. Did he get in a lucky shot last week? You bet he did. And will I get him back for that? Absolutely. But not by killing the guy. Nope—when all that went down with the sheriff, I wasn’t anywhere near the arena.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In the comfort of my own trailer watching Family Guy.”

  “And was anyone with you?”

  “No,” he said.

  “So, no one can verify you were here in this trailer all alone?”

  “I guess not. Why?”

  “Because that means you’re still a pretty good suspect.”

  “The hell I am. If hating Trevor Dawes was a reason to kill him, you’d better talk to half the cowboys and cowgirls at this rodeo. What you need is somebody with a real reason to kill him.”

  “A real reason? You got someone in mind?”

  Austin looked around, then lowered his voice. “Maybe.”

  “Would you mind telling me?”

  He thought it over. “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Listen, I’m sorry about the way I acted before. For real. And for the record, I do think you’re pretty. So, if you would go on a date with me to the concert after tonight’s rodeo, I will tell you what I know.”

  “Austin, did you forget the part where I said my boyfriend’s the sheriff? You know, the guy who got shot?”

  “No, I definitely caught that. I just figured if he was in the hospital, you were fair game.”

  It took an impressive number of hormones and amount of delusion to think that a gunshot wound was an appropriate opportunity to ask out another man’s girlfriend.

  “Austin, I wouldn’t go on a date with you under any circumstances. Not ever.”

  “Not ever?” he said.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  “It really is,” he said. “Lots of girls think I’m quite a catch. What with the rocking body, killer charm, and mega-watt smile.”

  “And the humility. Don’t forget the humility.”

  He looked at me skeptically. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  “I am indeed. So, Austin, for real. Who would have a better reason to kill Trevor?”

  “I don’t know. I was just saying that to trick you into hooking up with me. But now that I know that isn’t going to happen . . .” He sighed. “I’m not sure what to do.”

  “You could try being a good and decent human being and just help me figure out who shot my boyfriend. You could try that.”

  Austin scratched his chin as he thought about it, then leaned in. “What is your name, anyway?”

  “Hope Walker.”

  “Well, Hope Walker, I’ll ask around at the rodeo and see what I can dig up. If you plan on sticking around for the concert after the bull riding, I’ll meet up with you and tell you what I’ve learned.”

  “Works for me,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll see you then. By the way, if the sheriff ends up dying from his wounds, would you consider going out with me then?”

  “You’re quite the scumbag, you know that, Austin?”

  “This feels a lot like you’re flirting with me,” he said.

  “Then you’re in serious need of medical attention. And until you can dig up some better information, you’re also the prime suspect in the attempted murder of Trevor Dawes.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Iwalked away from my encounter with Austin Dix with two distinct feelings. That although he was a grade-A sleaze bag, for some reason, I didn’t think he was our shooter. Maybe my intuition was being fooled by his enthusiastic country-boy charm, but I just didn’t think he was out to kill Trevor Dawes. Hopefully, my accusations applied sufficient pressure so Austin would dig up something useful. Time would tell. But there was another, much more troubling feeling, and it had nothing to do with my intuition. It was coming from my gut. The Chicago-style chili dog with all the fixings was doing battle against my stomach, and my stomach was not up for the fight. So, there I was, standing in line for a Porta Potty and deeply regretting my culinary choices when a young cowgirl came by, stopped, and looked at me with concern. It was the same girl who had come into the grandstand the night before to grab Alex.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Well then,” she said, “follow me. You can do better than a Porta Potty.”

  For the second time in as many days, I found myself following this young cowgirl. She moved toward a gate near the grandstand, and when an older man wearing a yellow security shirt looked like he was about to say something, she held up her hand authoritatively and simply said, “She’s with me.” And just like that, the security man backed off, and the girl and I walked through the gate and toward the part of the grandstand where the announcers, film crews, and special guests were located. She pointed to a women’s restroom sign and said, “It’s actually pretty nice. But most importantly, it has a lock.”

  “Thank you . . .” I hesitated, not knowing the girl’s name.

  “Harley. The name’s Harley.”

  A few minutes later, I was walking out of the ladies’ room when I saw Harley coming down the stairs of the grandstand. This time, she was the one who didn’t look so good. She saw me, but started jogging away.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to keep up. “Hold up, Harley.”

  She stopped and turned around, and there was no doubt about it. She was angry about something.

  “I just wanted to thank you for that kindness you showed me earlier.”

  All she did was nod.

  “Hey, I know it’s none of my business, but I can’t help but notice that something’s wrong. And I was thinking that maybe I could repay that kindness.”

  Her face tightened, and I knew whatever was wrong had her ticked off and made her embarrassed. It was time to back off, so that’s what I did.

  “No worries, Harley. But my name is Hope, and if you ever want to talk, I’ll be around.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital with Sheriff Kramer? He is your boyfriend, right?”

  “That’s right. Alex and I are dating. But the hospital’s taking good care of him, and I’ve got a job to do.”

  “You’re not involved with rodeo, are you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m an investigative reporter, and it just so happens that I’ve got a knack for solving crimes. Since the sheriff is otherwise occupied eating green Jell-O and catching up on cable TV, I thought I would try to solve this mystery.”

  “Figure out anything yet?”

  “Only that the shooter was going for Trevor Dawes and shot the sheriff by mistake.”

  She chewed on her lip. “Makes sense, with the last-minute replacement and all.” Then her eyes widened. “If someone was trying to shoot Trevor? Well, that could be quite a list.”

  “I’ve heard he can ruffle a few feathers.”

  “That’s the polite way of saying it. And not how my daddy says it.”

  “Who’s your daddy?” I asked.

  Her face tightened up again, but she answered the question. “JB Trautman, the rodeo announcer.”

  “That’s your daddy?” I asked, genuinely impressed. “Boy, does he have some kind of voice.”

  “That’s what everyone says.”

  “I take it your daddy does not like Trevor Dawes?”

  “No, he does not,” Harley said.

  “Any idea why?”

  “Not really, only that it goes way back. Daddy says Trevor might be a talented bulldogger, but he’s also a good-for-nothing. I disagree.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because Trevor’s always been nice to me. Plus, I like disagreeing with my daddy.”

  “Is that why you were angry just now? I saw you coming down from the grandstand. Did you and your daddy get into it about something?”

  She set her jaw and looked away, then looked back at me. “Maybe.”

  I shrugged. “Like I said, if you want to talk about it . . .”

  She shook her head back and forth like she’d better not, but then finally blurted out, “It actually involves Trevor.”

  That had me intrigued. “How so?”

  “Rumor is that Darla Kross might have broken her hand and will probably be a no-show tonight for the barrel racing competition. So, I asked Daddy if I could go as her replacement.”

  “Wait a second. You were the one riding in the arena when the deputy and I went in there earlier?”

  She nodded. “But of course, as always, Daddy said no.”

  “There’s probably an age limit to this sort of thing, right?”

  She shrugged. “Now you sound like Daddy. Eighteen to be exact, and I get it. I know I can’t officially compete. But at least let me go in her place as an exhibition. That way, I can show him. Show everybody . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “How good you are?”

  “Well, yeah. Is that so wrong? To want to show people what you can do?”

  “I don’t suppose it is.”

  “My point exactly, the point I’ve been trying to make to him because this sort of thing happens all the time, you know. Someone having to drop out of the rodeo for some reason or another. And every time that happens, the fans lose out. I just want to be part of the show.”

  “Like your daddy.”

  “Exactly. In fact, I just got done telling him that if the rodeo will let a sheriff who hasn’t competed for ten years into the competition . . . no offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Then why not let a girl compete who does this every day of her life and is better at this than half the competition?”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “He said what he always says. ‘Harley Jean Trautman, no means no, and that’s the end of the discussion. You will compete in youth rodeo events and youth rodeo events only until you are eighteen and can get your PRCA permit.’”

  “That’s a bummer, Harley. I’m sorry. But what does this have to do with Trevor?”

  “I told him—or ‘hollered’ might be a better term—that Trevor said he was a fool for not letting me compete.”

  “And considering your daddy’s history with Trevor?”

  “Yeah, it didn’t go so well after that. So, I hightailed it out of there, and that’s when you saw me just now. I just can’t believe I have to wait this long to really compete.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “You’re right, Harley, that is an awfully long time to wait. I’m sorry about that.” Then I thought of an important question. A girl like her probably knew as much about the comings and goings of the rodeo as anyone.

  “Do you have any idea who would want to kill Trevor?”

  “I don’t know why people kill other folks. But Trevor rubs lots of people the wrong way. It’s a whole list. Anyway, I gotta go.”

  Harley ran off, and I went and found a good seat in the stands. The grand entry was just as grand as the night before, and JB Trautman’s voice was every bit as spectacular. When he led the crowd in a cowboy prayer, he said a special prayer for a cowboy who was, in his words, near and dear to the hearts of the people of Hopeless, Idaho—Sheriff Alex Kramer. It was a good and decent gesture, and I wondered momentarily about something Harley had said. About her daddy not liking Trevor very much. Was it possible that the man who led cowboy prayers in hundreds of rodeos each year could somehow be the man responsible for what happened to Alex?

  I rolled that idea around in my brain. For one thing, logistically, it would be impossible. Everyone at that rodeo knew exactly where JB Trautman was the moment Alex got shot. He was right there in the grandstand, announcing the action from his usual perch in the announcer’s booth. There was simply no way he could have done it. But the truth was, for some reason unknown to his own daughter, JB Trautman despised Trevor Dawes, so he might not have pulled the trigger, but he could have had somebody else do it. And wouldn’t that be kind of a perfect alibi?

  The bareback riding was just as exciting as the night before, but of course it was the steer wrestling that I was really interested to see. The night before, Austin Dix had gone first. But on this night, he was the second-to-last competitor. Once again, he threw down a really fast time, and once again, he soaked up the crowd’s applause like he’d just walked on the moon. Now we were ready for the last competitor, and this time, it really was Trevor Dawes entering the chute on his horse. I think everyone in that arena held their breath. Then the chute exploded and the steer launched out into the arena, followed by Trevor and his hazer. Trevor was all over that steer, dismounting almost immediately and then wrestling it to the ground, flipping it over in the best time of the rodeo so far. The crowd went absolutely nuts, and Trevor had a smile plastered all over his face. In addition to his really solid run at slack that morning, he was now in second place behind Austin Dix.

  And right as he started walking back up to his horse, a gunshot rang out, and Trevor Dawes fell to the ground.

  CHAPTER 16

  Iran down the steps of the grandstand with a dizzying feeling of déjà vu as cowboys and rodeo clowns swarmed the champion bulldogger. But just as soon as they reached the fallen cowboy, Trevor stood up of his own accord. He frisked himself, checking for wounds, and then put both fists into the air in some sort of triumphant act of survival. The crowd roared their approval, and I slowed down, but only a little because something was abundantly clear. Whoever was after Trevor Dawes had not given up.

  By the time I saw him again, Trevor was behind the bulldogging chute surrounded by a couple of cowboys, Festus Bloom, and Deputy Kraft. When Trevor spotted me, he let out a sigh that said it all. That he had just dodged a bullet. Literally.

  “So, you heard it too?” Trevor asked.

  “Everyone heard it,” I said.

  “But what we heard is up for some debate,” a gravelly voice with a Southern accent said from behind me. I turned to see an older but regal man walking our way. Though dressed like a cowboy, he looked somehow nicer. No, that wasn’t it exactly. Performative. That was the word. This was the way someone might dress if they wanted to look like a cowboy and had plenty of money to do it.

  “What do you mean by that, Pierce?” Festus asked. “Like she just said, we all heard the gunshot.”

  Pierce Stevens eyed me suspiciously as he worked over the toothpick in his mouth. Then he shrugged. “What we all heard was a loud bang. But from where I sat, it could have been the backfire of a pickup truck.”

  “You really think so?” Festus asked.

  Pierce put his hand reassuringly on the committeeman’s shoulder. “Yes, Festus, I do. And here’s my point. If this was a gunshot, I can imagine some people being anxious to shut down the rodeo. And that would be a highly imprudent thing to do.”

  I looked to Deputy Kraft because even though he was inexperienced, he was, for now, the only official lawman around.

  “What do you think, Deputy?” I asked.

  “Well, um, I think it sounded more like a gunshot.”

  Pierce worked over his toothpick some more as he sized up the young deputy. “I get what you’re saying, Deputy, I really do. But don’t you think it’s possible that it sounded like a gunshot because that’s what people were looking for, so to speak? I mean, if the poor sheriff had never been shot, don’t you think people would be more likely to believe that what we just heard was the backfiring of a vehicle?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Good,” Pierce said.

  “No,” I said firmly. “Not good. Not good at all.”

  Pierce turned my way and decided this was the opportune time to spit what was left of that toothpick out of his mouth down to the ground at my feet.

  “And why do you say that?”

  “Because I know the difference between the sound of a rifle and the sound of an F-250. What we heard tonight was a gunshot.”

 

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