There was silence in my Ford F-150 as I drove Annie back toward the fairgrounds, but it was far from awkward.
If anything, it was comfortable. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask the young cowgirl riding shotgun in my truck how she had gotten to the off-site portable headquarters for the impromptu summit of the Seven Heads of the Rodeo or if she even needed a ride. She just hopped right into the passenger seat, rolled down her window, and looked contently out at the suburban side streets as we cruised, the wind in her hair causing her strawberry-blonde locks to flap gently over her shoulders.
A honk from the car behind nudged me out of unconscious ogling. I threw up a submissive hand in front of my rear-view mirror and waved, keeping my eyes on the road as I resumed driving back toward the parking lot reserved for performers and athletes, for which I still had a green parking pass on the dashboard. By the time I had rolled to a stop in an empty stall and turned off the ignition I had figured out something to say.
“So, uh, you and your dad work together, eh?”
“We do, but he often does the lion’s share depending on my competition schedule.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“How so?”
“Well, I may be a wrestler-detective and partner in our private investigation firm, but my pop is a retired thirty-year VPD legend who keeps our business afloat. Especially lately.”
“Lots of squared circle action in the springtime?”
“Something like that,” I said, declining to mention the melancholy that had haunted me since my last case and the morally conflicting events before my PI sabbatical.
“I suppose it is the beginning of Speedo season.”
My heartrate spiked as I felt flushed with embarrassment. “You saw me in the ring earlier?”
“Maybe,” said Annie, with a hint of a smirk on her face.
“I usually wear pants.”
“Uh-huh.”
We got out of my truck and started making our way to the private performers and competitors’ entrance to the fairgrounds.
“What events do you compete in?” I asked, desperate to change the topic before the possibility of Annie having witnessed me executing a cringe-worthy bronco buster on the ugly mug of “Cowboy Cobb” Calhoun became a point of conversation.
“More like what events don’t I compete in.”
“Really, I’d like to know.”
Annie sighed and began listing her horseback specialties. “Barrel racing, pole bending, saddle and bareback riding—if it’s done on a bronc, I’ve got it covered. But I’d have to say my specialty is roping the brisket.”
“I’m not bad at that last one myself, as long as I have a side of horseradish and can chase it with a banana milkshake.”
“What about a banana cream pie? Cuz I make a sweet one.”
“Will you marry me, Annie?”
She blushed and chuckled, then swatted my arm. “It’s not nice to tease,” she said coyly. “And just so we’re clear, ‘roping the brisket’ is a particular steer roping technique. Give me a lasso and a moving target, I can pretty much take down anything.”
“Never thought I’d find myself jealous of cattle.”
“They’re all castrated.”
“Did I say ‘jealous of cattle?’ I meant come at me with rope and I’ll be ready for battle.”
“Nice save.”
“Hey, I am half-Irish, after all. The malarkey makes me prone to a little hyper-bull-e.”
Annie groaned. “Are all pro wrestlers such dorks?”
“Just the ones who regularly use two-by-fours for celebratory self-inflicted head trauma.”
“How do you break those planks of wood over your head every night and still manage to form sentences, anyway?”
“Trick of the trade, my dear. Trick of the trade.”
“Well bless your heart and your bumpy ol’ noggin then.”
The gate attendant recognized either Annie or me, as he let us walk on by and into the country fair with a curt nod. I kept my head down and dared not look at my new cowgirl compatriot, but if the vibe I was feeling between us was any indication, she was doing her best to keep herself from grinning a little bit too.
We kept the ensuing chitchat amicable, but to a minimum as Annie picked up the pace and entered the Ribfest area I had recently visited. Due to the horde of hungry carnivores, we were forced to switch our march to single file. As a result, I fell in step behind Annie and followed her toward the Agri-Zone through the maze of flaming grills, long lines, and satisfied, finger-licking customers hunched over weather-beaten wooden patio tables. Soon a converted ice arena and adjacent outdoor field, peppered with people and pens containing a collection of critters and beasties on hand for the super-sized mammal menagerie, appeared in the distance. It was then that Annie’s words took a more pointed turn.
“So, you’ve got history with this Sykes hombre, I reckon?”
“I do indeed.”
“Good or bad?”
“Our relationship definitely began as a quid pro quo one, although we’ve certainly become chummier of late. I dare say we might even be considered friends.”
“What’s the deal with the wiener dog and the little horn-head on a leash?”
“You’re speaking of Napoleon and Brutus, two prized purebreds that anchor a couple of Sykes’s animal-themed businesses. And it’s probably best to refer to them as a dachshund and a goat. He may have his fingers in some murky transactions, but Sykes takes pride in conducting himself like a proper gentleman.”
Annie gave me a bemused look as I pulled out my performer’s pass and flashed it to the Agri-Zone attendant, who swung open a metal gate and waved a hand for us to enter. “You know some weird people,” she said, matter-of-factly.
I did my best to smother a laugh. “Wait until you meet Pocket and Tubbs,” I said, referring to the loquacious three-foot dwarf and his four-hundred-pound BFF who were both stalwart friends and my occasional tag-team partners in the XCCW.
If Annie mustered a response, I didn’t hear it as my focus was suddenly hijacked when I recognized a familiar face on the other side of a large enclosure housing a sounder of swine that had their snorting snouts caked in mud as they trotted about in all directions within their sty.
I stood there staring until it was as if the target of my gaze felt my eyes upon him, lifted his head, and looked directly back at me. Time stood still as I locked eyes with Kelly Lewis, who had changed out of his gear and into a simple white T-shirt, a pair of dark blue jeans, and yellow hiking boots.
Annie elbowed me. “What is it, Jed?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said, as Jasper Adams’s former lover’s eyes widened in surprise. “I just spotted the rodeo clown who tried to have me killed less than an hour ago is all.”