The Maverick: The Maverick / Magnate’s Make-Believe Mistress

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t have a horse, you’re not wearing a cowboy hat, and you don’t have on any chaps.” She glanced at his feet. “You aren’t even wearing cowboy boots!”

He gaped at her. “Did you just escape from intense therapy?”

“I have not been in any therapy,” she said haughtily. “My idiosyncrasies are so unique that they couldn’t classify me even with the latest edition of the DSM-IV, much less attempt to pyschoanalize me!”

She was referring to a classic volume of psychology that was used to diagnose those with mental challenges. He obviously had no idea what she was talking about.

“So, can you sing, then?”

He looked hunted. “Why would I want to sing?”

“Cowboys sing. I read it in a book.”

“You can read?” he asked in mock surprise.

“Why would you think I couldn’t?” she asked.

He nodded toward the sign on the hardware store’s door that clearly said, in large letters, PULL. She was trying to push it.

She let go of the door and shifted her feet. “I saw that,” she said defensively. “I just wanted to know if you were paying attention.” She cocked her head at him. “Do you have a rope?”

“Why?” he asked. “You planning to hang yourself?”

She sighed with exaggerated patience. “Cowboys carry ropes.”

“What for?”

“So they can rope cattle!”

“Don’t find many head of cattle wandering around in hardware stores,” he murmured, looking more confident now.

“What if you did?” she persisted. “How would you get a cow out of the store?”

“Bull. We run purebred Santa Gertrudis bulls on Mr. Parks’s ranch,” he corrected.

“And you don’t have any cows?” She made a face. “You don’t raise calves, then.” She nodded.

His face flamed. “We do so raise calves. We do have cows. We just don’t carry them into hardware stores and turn them loose!”

“Well, excuse me!” she said in mock apology. “I never said you did.”

“Cowboy hats and ropes and cows,” he muttered. He opened the door. “You going in or standing out here? I have work to do.”

“Doing what? Knocking unsuspecting women in the head with doors?” she asked pleasantly.

His impatient eyes went over her neat slacks and wool jacket, to the bag she was holding. “I said, are you going into the store?” he asked with forced patience, holding the door open.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” she replied, moving closer. “I need some tape measures and Super Glue and matches and chalk and push pins and colored string and sticky tape.”

“Don’t tell me,” he drawled. “You’re a contractor.”

“Oh, she’s something a little less conventional than that, Harley,” Police Chief Cash Grier said as he came up the steps to the store. “How’s it going, Jones?” he asked.

“I’m overflowing in DBs, Grier,” she replied with a grin. “Want some?”

He held up his hands. “We don’t do a big business in homicides here. I’d like to keep it that way.” He scowled. “You’re out of your territory a bit, aren’t you?”

“I am. I was asked down here by your sheriff, Hayes Carson. He actually does have a DB. I’m working the crime scene for him per his request through the Bexar County medical examiner’s office, but I didn’t bring enough supplies. I hope the hardware store can accommodate me. It’s a long drive back to San Antonio when you’re on a case.”

“On a case?” Harley asked, confused.

“Yes, on a case,” she said. “Unlike you, some of us are professionals who have real jobs.”

“Do you know him?” Cash asked her.

She gave Harley a studied appraisal. “Not really. He came barreling up the steps and hit me with a door. He says he’s a cowboy,” she added in a confidential tone. “But just between us, I’m sure he’s lying. He doesn’t have a horse or a rope, he isn’t wearing a cowboy hat or boots, he says he can’t sing, and he thinks bulls roam around loose in hardware stores.”

Harley stared at her with more mixed emotions than he’d felt in years.

Cash choked back a laugh. “Well, he actually is a cowboy,” Cash defended him. “He’s Harley Fowler, Cy Parks’s foreman on his cattle ranch.”

“Imagine that!” she exclaimed. “What a blow to the image of Texas if some tourist walks in and sees him dressed like that!” She indicated Harley’s attire with one slender hand. “They can’t call us the cowboy capital of the world if we have people working cattle in baseball caps! We’ll be disgraced!”

Cash was trying not to laugh. Harley looked as if he might explode.

“Better a horseless cowboy than a contractor with an attitude like yours!” Harley shot back, with glittery eyes. “I’m amazed that anybody around here would hire you to build something for them.”

She gave him a superior look. “I don’t build things. But I could if I wanted to.”

“She really doesn’t build things,” Cash said. “Harley, this is Alice Mayfield Jones,” he introduced. “She’s a forensic investigator for the Bexar County medical examiner’s office.”

“She works with dead people?” Harley exclaimed, and moved back a step.

“Dead bodies,” Alice returned, glaring at his obvious distaste. “DBs. And I’m damned good at my job. Ask him,” she added, nodding toward Cash.

“She does have a reputation,” Cash admitted. His dark eyes twinkled. “And a nickname. Old Jab-’Em-in-the-Liver Alice.”

“You’ve been talking to Marc Brannon,” she accused.

“You did help him solve a case, back when he was still a Texas Ranger,” he pointed out.

“Now they’ve got this new guy, transferred up from Houston,” she said on a sigh. “He’s real hard going. No sense of humor.” She gave him a wry look. “Kind of like you used to be, in the old days when you worked out of the San Antonio district attorney’s office, Grier,” she recalled. “A professional loner with a bad attitude.”

“Oh, I’ve changed.” He grinned. “A wife and child can turn the worst of us inside out.”

She smiled. “No kidding? If I have time, I’d love to see that little girl everybody’s talking about. Is she as pretty as her mama?”