Exit Wounds - J. A. Jance [54]
The door from Butch’s garage opened, and all three dogs careened into the family room. Lady sidled up on the couch, where she cuddled next to Joanna.
“There you are,” Butch said as he and Jenny walked into the room. “When we didn’t see any lights, Jenny and I decided you still weren’t home.”
“I was tired and fell asleep,” Joanna said. “Did you get some boots?”
“We’re booted,” Butch replied. “What about dinner? We ate, did you?”
“Haven’t, but I will,” Joanna told him, heading for the kitchen. “I’m famished.”
“You’re feeling all right, then?” Butch asked.
She paused long enough to give him a kiss. “It’s called ‘morning sickness’ for good reason,” she told him.
He studied her face. “You look upset.”
“I suppose I am,” she agreed. “At least four people are dead so far. On three of them, we’re making very little progress.”
Eight
Early the next morning, the smell of Butch’s coffee brewing in the kitchen sent Joanna scrambling out of bed and into the bathroom. A miserable half hour later, when she finally dragged her body into the kitchen, Butch took one look at her pale face and shook his head. “You look like hell,” he told her.
“Gee, thanks,” she muttered. “I can’t tell you how much better that makes me feel.”
“Do you think it’s worth it?” he asked.
“Being pregnant?” she returned. “Ask me that again in a month or so when I’m no longer barfing my guts out.”
Butch came across the room to give her a gentle squeeze. “I have water on for tea. Want some?”
“This morning, tea doesn’t sound any better than coffee.”
“If you’re not careful,” he warned, “you’ll go into caffeine withdrawal, and then you’ll really be in trouble—headaches, mood swings…”
Joanna hitched her way up onto one of the barstools at the kitchen counter and then glowered at him. “I’m not having mood swings,” she retorted.
“Oh, really?” Butch said with a grin. “In the meantime, as requested, here are your English muffins, madame.”
After delivering her breakfast, Butch turned back to the cooktop. Using only one hand, he expertly cracked two eggs at a time into a heated frying pan. While Joanna watched, he deftly flipped the eggs in midair and then, after a few more seconds over the heat, slid the over-easy result, with yolks perfectly intact, onto a waiting plate. A former short-order cook, Butch Dixon was disturbingly adept in the kitchen, enough so that watching him at work made Joanna feel inadequate. She herself had attempted that midair egg-flipping trick on only one occasion—with disastrous results for both egg and cooktop.
“I wish I could come with you today,” Butch said thoughtfully, placing his own plate on the counter and settling on the stool next to Joanna’s. Worried about the state of her innards, Joanna kept a close eye on her remaining muffin.
“The problem is,” Butch continued, “I promised Faye that I’d help out at the booth. She’s concerned that the girls will need some male-type extra muscle while they’re setting up.”
Faye Lambert was the leader of Jenny’s Girl Scout troop. The girls, working on raising money for their second annual end-of-summer trip to southern California, had made arrangements to sell sodas and candy bars during Bisbee’s Fourth of July parade and at the field-day events to be held later in the afternoon at Warren Ballpark.
“Jenny’s shift in the booth ends at noon,” Butch added. “That’ll give us plenty of time to come home, have lunch, change clothes, load Kiddo into his trailer, and head for the fairgrounds in Douglas.”
“You don’t mind doing all this?” Joanna asked. “The booth, horse wrangling, and all that?”
Butch shook his head. “Not at all,” he said. “When I was growing up, I always wanted to be a cowboy and a dad. Now I’m getting some practice in both with Jenny. Sort of like a preview of coming attractions,” he added