Cut Loose (Dusty Deals Mystery Series)

By Rae Davies

No one’s perfect.

At least that’s what Lucy Mathews tells herself. Except faced with her boyfriend’s rodeo queen ex-wife and perfectly trained Australian shepherd, she has to wonder if maybe this whole ‘no one’s perfect’ thing was made up by someone like...Lucy.

Lucky for Lucy though, things are hopping around Helena. It’s rodeo season, and she has a booth. It’s a great opportunity to expand her clientele and maybe even snag a cash prize for Kiska as the world’s first sheep herding malamute.
Except Kiska can’t herd, Lucy loses her wallet, and oh yeah...there’s that dead rodeo queen Lucy just stumbled over.

Good thing her boyfriend’s a detective. Except that’s not going so well either. A new detective is in town, and he’s convinced Lucy’s involved in the rodeo queen’s murder. Her boyfriend is no help at all and worse he’s spending a little too much time with his ex-wife.

Lucy finds herself out of money, out of love, and maybe this time, out of luck.

Don't miss book 1 in the series, Loose Screw, for only 99 cents!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rae Davies
• Release date: May 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476426495

Rae Davies

Rae Davies is the USA Today Best-selling Author of the Dusty Deals Mystery Series.She also, under the name Lori Devoti, writes in numerous other genres including paranormal romance, urban fantasy, and young adult fiction.Rae/Lori is a past winner of the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award and a member of Novelists Inc., a prestigious group for professional writers. She lives near Madison, Wisconsin with her husband and children as well as two dogs. She teaches the craft and business of writing through the University of Wisconsin's Continuing Studies program, both in person and online, and blogs about writing at www.HowToWriteShop.com.Like Lucy, Rae/Lori loves antiques, Montana and malamutes. (Although don't tell her husky or aussie/pug mix that last part.)Learn more about both personas by visiting Rae's web site at http://raedavies.com or Lori's web site at http://www.loridevoti.comWhile you are there, don't forget to sign up for her newsletter for information on what is coming next from both Lori and Rae.Like Rae's page on Facebook! https://www.facebook.com/RaeDaviesAuthor

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Cut Loose

Book 2 in the Dusty Deals Mystery Series

By Rae Davies

Published by

Copyright Rae Davies & Lori Devoti, 2012

Smashwords Edition

File updated April, 2016

Cover Design: India Drummond

This book is set in the real city of Helena, Montana. However, this is a work of fiction and all people, places of business, and events are fictional. Any similarity to anyone, thing or place is purely coincidence.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or a portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

If you notice any typos or formatting issues with this book, the author would appreciate being notified.

Email her at [e-mail]

Dusty Deals Mystery Series

Loose Screw

Cut Loose

Loosey Goosey

Let Loose

Lucy and the Valentine Verdict (a Dusty Deals Novella)

Loose Lips

Chapter 1

You know that girl in high school who could do no wrong? The one who spilled Kool-Aid on her shirt at lunch and the next day half of the senior class showed up sporting Kool-Aid-dyed splotches on their white tees?

Well, I was not that girl.

I was the other girl, the one who went to prom in the bridesmaid’s dress her mother had spent good money on for her cousin’s wedding. The dress that was the wrong color, pastel, the wrong style, hoop skirt, and in general just so wrong she hid at her table, pretending she’d twisted her ankle to keep lasting photographic evidence from being created and made available to the yearbook staff.

High school and me—good times, not.

Luckily, at 29, I, Lucy Mathews, am totally beyond caring about such things.

I put on my blinker and turned my Cherokee’s wheel to the left, ready to enter the Helena Fairgrounds. The annual rodeo was in a little over a week, and I’d signed up for a booth to promote my antique shop, Dusty Deals, and, if I was lucky, sell enough cowboy memorabilia to pay for the booth and then some. I’d been focusing on buying anything rodeo, fair or livestock related for the past three months and had accumulated a nice little stockpile.

I was ready to introduce my shop to a whole new clientele.

Smiling at the thought, I almost missed... or more accurately hit... three small white bodies meandering across the drive. I slammed on my brakes, sending me and Kiska, my 110-pound malamute, whinging forward. My seatbelt kicked into action, jerking me back into the upholstery. Kiska whacked into the seat in front of him—the one I was sitting in—and two magazines I’d just purchased, for their promises of a 10-pound weight loss in 10 days, slid onto the floor and into a puddle of Diet Pepsi that I’d been meaning to clean up. Really.

Three boxes filled with cowboy gear (spurs, branding irons and horse bits) clanked from the rear. I cursed and rolled down my window to get a better look at what I had almost flattened.

Sheep. Three of them. At the sight of my blazing red rig barreling toward them, the fuzzy animals had done what any creature bent on its own destruction would do: they’d ground to a halt and now stood blinking back at me with slow, mesmerizing precision.

Who said you had to count the little buggers to fall asleep? My body swayed and my eyelids lowered.

A sharp bark startled me out of my sheep-induced daze.

Stupidly, I looked over my shoulder at Kiska, who was not a barker. He stared back, obviously innocent of the outburst, mouth open and tongue lolling. Realizing he was as stupefied by the woolly menace blocking our path as I had been, I opened my door to shoo the creatures from our path.

As my foot hit gravel, a black form streaked forward. A tricolored Australian shepherd raced toward me, letting out another short bark. Then, eyes on the sheep, it lowered its body to the ground.

The sheep blinked.

I made a move to wave, but the dog cut me off, rising from the ground and circling the animals so they slowly, as one solid unit, moved off the road and shuffled back toward the fairgrounds from whence I had to assume they had come.

I stood, hand still on my open door, unsure what to do next. A whistle sounded from behind the open gate of the fairgrounds. Looking up, I saw the perfectly curvaceous form of the woman I least wanted to encounter in the world, no, make that universe—Shelia Blake, ex-wife of Peter Blake, Helena Montana police detective and recent recipient of the title boyfriend o’ moi.

I glanced at Kiska, looking for permission to make a speedy if somewhat cowardly exit. He was, however, occupied staring after the shepherd and sheep like a tourist spotting his first buffalo in Yellowstone, or some equally rare and fascinating sight.

I humphed out a breath and prepared to hoist myself back into my rig.

Road’s clear, Lucy! C’mon in!

The yell stopped me cold. I’d been spotted, by Nancy Karl, the fairgrounds manager who I now remembered was expecting me.

Darn my luck.

With a grimace, I waved my arm in response, got back into my Cherokee and rolled the vehicle forward.

o0o

I parked under a tree, 30 feet away from the fairgrounds office and the shiny new trucks lined up in front of it. I wasn’t sure which of the $40,000 plus outfits was Shelia’s, but I did know how a side-by-side comparison of our two modes of transportation would go.

How a side-by-side comparison of anything of ours would go.

With another sigh, I opened the back passenger door and waited for Kiska to lumber out. To my surprise, he leapt down with uncharacteristic enthusiasm and agility.

It made me rethink my insecurities. Kiska wasn’t intimidated. Why should I be?

I followed my dog, his tail waving like a flag over his back, to the building that housed the office, and to Nancy Karl, who stood waiting in front of it.

Shelia had, thankfully, disappeared.

You must be Lucy Mathews. The fairgrounds manager held out her hand to pump mine in a decidedly firm grip. I read about you in the paper—when that Indian trader got himself killed.

To be fair, the Indian trader in question—Native American collector to be politically correct—hadn’t exactly gotten himself killed. He was killed, a small but important difference in my mind, but not one I felt like pointing out to the sharp-eyed woman standing in front of me.

Nancy Karl was what my mother would term sturdy. An inch or five taller than me, she had broad shoulders and brown hair that was pulled into a low hanging ponytail with a silver and turquoise barrette. To my slightly educated eye, the barrette was old pawn silver, which in general meant older and more valuable than something you could pick up at a glass and chrome jewelry store of today.

Her jeans were clean, but worn at the hem, and her boots were low-heeled and decidedly scuffed.

She was, in other words, the real deal.

Behind her, from the enclosed privacy-fenced area that played host to Helena’s annual rodeo, a horse whinnied.

She raised her hand and made a circular motion above her head. Ignore everything going on here today. Schedule got messed up. I’ve been juggling sheep and rodeo queens all morning.

The statement brought with it a visual I couldn’t quite suppress. I smiled.

As if on cue, Shelia stepped out of the office building.

My smile faded.

Like Nancy Karl, she was wearing jeans and low-heeled boots. No one, however, not even my mother, would have termed Shelia sturdy. A horsehair belt with an over-sized silver buckle emphasized a slim waist—and the curve of both her hips and her chest. If it wasn’t for her hair, which was brown, she could have been modeling for the part of Cowgirl Barbie.

At least that’s what I thought until a younger, blonder version of Shelia followed her out onto the porch.

Shelia held one hand out to the girl, palm flat, the universal signal for stop. You can’t miss the luncheon, Randi. It’s required of all the queen candidates.

Randi, as I guessed the younger, blonder Shelia to be, crossed her arms under her breasts, making them look perkier than even the original Barbie could have hoped for. I told you. I have a doctor’s appointment.

Shelia shook her head and her brow lowered, not enough to cause an actual furrow, mind you, but her disapproval came across strong. Unless that doctor is performing CPR, you had better find yourself at the luncheon.

Randi pursed her lips, and for a moment, I thought she was going to argue some more, but Nancy’s cell rang, apparently reminding the pair that they were not alone. Both rodeo beauties jerked and slipped into practiced relaxed stances.

Lucy, Shelia murmured.

Caught up in my shock that Blake’s ex both knew my name and was addressing me with it, I barely noticed Nancy pulling her phone from her pocket and disappearing into the building. Randi glanced after her, then strutted toward the grandstand and the corral where the horse had whinnied earlier. Her jeans, I couldn’t help but notice, fit her like a glove, and her hips seemed to sway to some kind of internal theme song.

Shelia stared after the younger girl too, her brows again lowering while stopping just shy of a potential wrinkle.

Lucy! The enthusiastic cry jerked my attention away from the pair of rodeo queens just as a small body hurtled into my legs.

You brought Kiska. Is he herding? Alphie is. He’s the best sheepdog ever born. Peter Blake’s six-year-old son, Jeremy, stared up at me with eyes as wide as a pair of ironstone platters.

Kiska? I stiffened and darted my gaze over the parking lot. My laid-back companion was nowhere to be seen.

This was not good.

You saw him? I asked, trying my best to sound casual and not the least concerned about what my dog might have gotten his nose into—or his body rolled in.

He’s in the barn, with the sheep. He seems to like them.

Crap, probably literally, smooshed skin-deep into Kiska’s double-coated fur.

I’m sure Lucy didn’t bring... Kiska? Shelia raised an eyebrow at me in confirmation.

My lips feeling brittle, I smiled.

...to the fairgrounds to herd sheep. Huskies pull things. They don’t herd. Her smile was warm, but then it wasn’t directed at me.

Like a robot, I opened my mouth to run through my explanation that Kiska was not a husky and explain a few key differences between the two breeds, but Jeremy was already talking.

He tilted his head in a superior, knowing manner that made me want to jerk him to my chest in an appreciative hug. He’s a malamute, Mommy. Did you see how big he is?

It was true. Kiska was big. Some might even say... fat, but Jeremy’s tone was so full of pride, I let that little quibble with his description slide by.

He is that. Shelia raised a brow, and I felt my backside bristle. But that doesn’t mean he can herd sheep. She looked at me, an apology written on her face. "No insult of course. I’m sure he’s good at something."

My back teeth ground together.

He is. He’s good at all kinds of things. He saved Lucy from a killer and chased off a burglar. He’s great.

My dog, apparently sensing praise intended for him was being wasted, strolled out of the metal barn that housed livestock during fair events.

From ten yards away I could see clumps of something brown decorating his fur.

Kiska’s gaze lit on Jeremy and he grinned. Then, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, he bounded forward.

The bounding knocked any thoughts of ill will for his wandering ways out of my mind. Kiska didn’t bound. The fact that he moved this quickly toward Jeremy melted my soul.

He really liked Blake’s son.

And Jeremy liked him. The boy held out his arms and met Kiska halfway.

It was a sight that would cause any mother’s heart to soften—except apparently Shelia’s.

What— She reached out as if to pull Jeremy back, but it was too late. Boy and dog were wrapped around each other, sharing an exuberant greeting and whatever solids Kiska was carrying around on his coat.

Shelia shook her head in quick, short movements, as if trying to dislodge the image before her from her brain. What has he been in?

Sheep crap. He found the fresh stuff too. A woman strolled out of the barn. She was wearing knee-high rubber boots and a T-shirt bearing the image of a border collie eyeing an obviously mesmerized sheep. Her dirty-blond hair was tucked under a canvas cap and sunglasses hid her eyes.

I thought about turning Bucky on him. A border collie, very like the one on the woman’s shirt, appeared as if by magic at her side. The dog sat in a perfectly square sit and stared forward, like a soldier awaiting command.

I shuffled a bit side to side. Dogs that under control made me nervous. I preferred a little more casual outlook on life from my furry companions.

I glanced at Kiska. His white belly, which was in full view, sported a particularly large splotch of sheep dung.

I can turn the hose on him if you like. The border-collie woman looked from me to Shelia. Both of them.

Hmmm. A malamute encrusted with sheep dung or a wet malamute encrusted with sheep dung? Tough choice.

I’ll take mine as is, I replied, then glanced toward the office, willing Nancy to reappear and save me from any further discussion of... anything.

Jeremy followed Kiska’s example and rolled onto his back. Belly up, he exclaimed, Take him? You aren’t leaving are you? But you have to sign him up for herding.

Sign him up? You’re signing him up for the herding competition? Border-collie woman’s eyes rounded.

I was a realist. I knew Kiska, amazing example of his breed that he was, was not gifted with the herding gene. Actually— I began.

Border-collie woman placed her hand against her cheek. I’ve never seen a malamute in the herding corral. I’ve heard they are—

Kiska’s the best. Jeremy’s adoring gaze again broke off whatever unchristian thoughts might have been forming in my brain at what I guessed was going to be the woman’s next word.

At herding? The woman’s disbelief was palpable.

At everything!

Even to me, Jeremy’s praise was getting a tad out of hand. "I wouldn’t say everything, Jeremy, I replied as modestly as I could. Every breed has its strengths."

A whistle cut through my eardrums, and the Australian shepherd we’d seen retrieving the sheep from the parking lot earlier shot out of the barn toward us.

Shelia lowered her fingers from her lips and patted her chest. The dog leapt forward, into her arms. She spoke from around the dog. That’s enough, Jeremy. Not all dogs can herd. As Lucy says, it doesn’t mean Kiska doesn’t have other... talents.

She was right, of course. Kiska did have other talents, plenty of them. And he was a malamute, bred to pull. There was no reason whatsoever to be embarrassed that he couldn’t go all Harold the Hypnotist and confuse a few sheep into walking into a fence.

Above her dog’s perfect, clean, fluffy coat, Shelia smiled at me.

I looked at border-collie woman. How much to sign up?

o0o

After signing Kiska up for the contest, which included paying a $50 fee—money I’d set aside for a professional sign to put on Dusty Deal’s booth during the fair—I left my sheep-dung-covered dog collapsed on the front porch and went inside the building that housed the fairground’s office.

Nancy was in the back part of the building, in the actual office, talking on her cell phone. Her back was to me when I entered.

No, you can’t come home.

Sensing I was hearing something not meant for my ears, but also not wanting to get caught sneaking out the door, I shuffled my feet on the born to ride, forced to work welcome mat and pretended I’d just entered.

Nancy spun in place. Her eyes locked onto me, but I could tell she was too deep in her conversation to register who I was or why I was there.

You know why. She turned back around and, her voice lowering, added, I can’t talk any more now. There’s someone in the office. After a few murmured goodbyes, she clicked off her phone and turned back to face me. Sorry, my son. He’s 16 and started at boarding school this month. It’s his first time so far away from home and the transition has been... tough for him.

Trying to look understanding, I nodded. For all of you, I’m sure. I had no idea if sending a 16-year-old boy off to boarding school would be hard for the parents or not, but it sounded like the right thing to say.

Her eyes lowered and her lips pressed together. For a moment I thought my guess was wrong.

Then she looked up and her face was cheery, false cheery, but still it beat the emotion I’d noted a second before.

So, you need... She let the words trail off, confirming she’d completely forgotten who I was.

To sign the contract for the booth, I prompted her. And you’d said I could go ahead and store some stuff here? I wanted to unload the three boxes I had and bring more things over in the days to come. Then, hopefully, by the time the fair was over, I’d have very little to pack back up and take to the shop.

She waved a hand in front of her face. That’s right. Storing stuff is fine too. No one is using the building for the next week. She pulled a sheet of paper off a stack and motioned me into a chair.

Ten minutes later, after dropping another $300 and resigning myself to PB and Js for the next two months if this marketing risk didn’t pay off, I headed out the door to collect my dog and head home.

Kiska had moved to a warm spot in the sun, allowing the sheep poop to harden into a nice crunchy shell.

I left him there while I drove the Cherokee to the metal building that would house my booth, along with nine others.

Nancy was standing next to the door, waiting for me, when I arrived. We keep it locked. Of course, other people may bring things to store too.

I was fine with that. I’d had some bad experiences a few months earlier, but crime wasn’t high in Helena, and the building wasn’t going to be open to just anyone. The odds of anything being stolen were low, and besides, while I would try and get decent money for the gear, nothing in these boxes had cost me a ton.

Nancy helped me haul the boxes inside and tuck them into a corner where they would be both out of the way and not obvious to everyone who entered.

When I returned to my rig, Kiska was standing beside it. He shook, and clumps of dry dung clattered to the ground around him.

Nancy sniffed. How long’s the ride home?

I sighed. Too long, but there was no way I was taking up Margie’s—border collie lady had introduced herself while I signed the entry papers—offer of a hose. I could handle the stench for a few minutes, especially if my choice was that or suffering the humiliation of letting Nancy and possibly Shelia witness Kiska’s reaction to a bath.

Let’s just say he believed in voicing his outrage, loudly and in ear-piercing shrieks.

I opened the rear passenger door, waited for Kiska to place his front half in, and then hoisted his lower half up too.

With all four windows wide open and both my and my sheep-dung-loving malamute’s heads hanging out to catch the breeze, we headed home.

Chapter 2

Five hours later, Kiska was herbally fresh, and I was deaf from his righteous indignation,