The Great Jackalope Stampede by Ann Charles, C. S. Kunkle Page A

periodic squawk from his police radio the only sounds breaking the silence.
    When she had thanked him for the ride, he had stared across the cab at her. The dashboard lights had added more angles and ridges to his face, the areas not shadowed by the scruff covering his cheeks and jawline, anyway. She had swatted down the urge to reach out to touch his features, to explore the textures with the pads of her fingers.
    “I’d suggest you stay out of trouble,” his baritone voice had sounded hard and scratchy in the soft glow of the cab. “But you share blood with the Morgan sisters, so I know better.”
    She had grimaced at him, not liking the tone he’d used when mentioning her maiden name. “You say that like we’re descendants of the Clantons or the James Gangs.”
    “Well, let’s see, since you and your sisters rode into town, Cholla County has been flooded with attempted murders, B and E reports, and multiple irresponsible and reckless driving incidents. Add your speeding ticket, illegal parking, public intoxication, attempts to bribe an officer of the law, and threat to run around naked as a jaybird, and you three Musketeers are on your way to a bang up reputation as outlaws.”
    The back of her neck had bristled at the high and mighty Sheriff with his tin badge and condescending smirk. “And you love the idea of playing Wyatt Earp, don’t you?”
    His stiff cotton shirt rustled when he shrugged and shifted to face her. “Makes me wonder what dust devils you girls are planning to stir up next. Guess I’d better make room in my jail for all three of you to come spend the night with me this time.”
    Her smile felt brittle on her lips, but she hid behind it, anyway. “Sheriff Harrison, I assure you that neither my sisters nor I have any such criminal plans on our agendas.” Well, not at the moment, anyway.
    “Sure.” After a long stare down, he tipped his hat. “You have a good night now, Mrs. Jefferson .”
    His deliberate use of the name she had previously requested he no longer use had motivated her to slam his pickup door harder than normal. As he drove off across the bridge leading out of the R.V. park, she rattled off a chorus of colorful adjectives that flowed beautifully with “Hardass.”
    Now with the sun bearing down on her and the potential to get some cash in her pocket so she could possibly escape from Cholla County U.S.A. along with the steaming pile of trouble her lousy not-husband had left, she wasn’t feeling so cocky. A light at the end of the tunnel beckoned. She did not need Sheriff Hardass stepping in front of her and blocking it.
    She reached the library’s front door and pulled on the handle. The door didn’t budge. Pushing the sunhat back, she looked up and found a CLOSED sign front and center in the door window.
    Damn it! The place was closed on Sundays. No wonder the open parking spaces were so plentiful on the street. She’d have to borrow Katie’s car and come back tomorrow.
    Turning, she growled and muttered back to her sister’s car. Halfway there, she noticed a black sedan cruising toward her on the street. She was within ten feet of Katie’s car when her brain connected the dots and her breath caught. She looked up, gawking at the car’s passenger. He was missing his black cowboy hat, hiding behind dark glasses instead today.
    Her heart screeched to a stop along with her feet. She tried to think through the panic clanging in her brain. He had not seemed to recognize her, which might save her ass this afternoon.
    Forcing one foot in front of the other, she kept walking instead of stopping at Katie’s car. If they didn’t know what vehicle she was driving, she might be able to give them the slip after circling around the block a time or two.
    She glanced behind her. The sedan had pulled into a parking spot two blocks away, the goons still inside. Had the driver figured out it was her under the hat and shades? Were they waiting for the opportunity to hop out and shoot