Girls Just Wanna Have Guns (42 page)

Jesus,
swamp tours
. With her, leading people through the water with the alligators and the spiders and mosquitoes and . . . ohmygod, she’d been insane. She was already zooming off the cranky charts—she’d have gone completely into psychotically grouchy territory.

There must have been Divine Intervention going on when she couldn’t buy insurance.

And thinking of
psychotic
reminded her of Francesca all over again, which reminded her what she’d forgotten to ask. “Did you find the diamonds?”

“In the safe, where you said. Good job on faking the Geiger counter. When you made it ping on that specific purse, for a moment there, even
I
believed you. You heard, Francesca’s going to live?” Bobbie Faye nodded. “She won’t ever get out, though. If she hadn’t cracked emotionally, I’m not sure we could have nailed her. The forensic evidence against you would have given any jury reasonable doubt. Smart move to do that spell.”

She’d made Francesca break. Made her so jealous, that calculating reserve she’d had came crumbling down. She didn’t feel victory in that. Bobbie Faye had underscored how alone Francesca was—her mother had abandoned her, an indifferent dad. Their lives hadn’t been all that different after all. Bobbie Faye leaned back into the pillow. Grief overwhelmed her. So much loss, for nothing. She couldn’t even wrap her mind around the deaths, the mill burning, the chaos that was supposed to be her family. And she’d had to kill Mich. She turned that part of her mind off. She didn’t know how she was going to ever face that.

Trevor stood there, very businesslike, an abyss of two feet between them, and she couldn’t stand it. She needed him so very much, and that shocked her. She wanted to touch him, but at the same time, maybe he’d come to his
senses and decided that dating a one-woman-demolition-disaster was possibly a bad idea. Especially for a Fed. Maybe this was his polite way of saying good-bye, no thanks, see ya. Maybe she needed to let him know he didn’t have to stay out of guilt.

“I didn’t know that was the kind of spell Ce Ce was going to do, by the way. I thought she’d just do something simple that would still make Francesca jealous. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, or make you have to fake . . .” She let it drift off and studied her hands.

“You didn’t,” he said, and that growl was back and he kissed her,
claiming
, and she wrapped her arms around him, relieved to sink into that kiss. Not just relieved, she realized, but dizzy with him next to her. He looked down at her bandages peeking out from beneath her gown, and he traced the outer edge where the tape pulled at her skin. His breathing grew more ragged, and she understood, now, he was fighting to hold onto his control, that he was deeply upset that she’d been hurt. She laid a hand on his, stilling it until he raised his head, heartbreak in his eyes.

“My God, Sundance, don’t put yourself in danger again.”

“Don’t get shot at and we have a deal.”

They held each other’s gaze, and she wasn’t even sure if minutes had passed, or hours. Then she buried her face in his shoulder. She didn’t think she could hold it together any longer. Her heart ached, blistered, and all she wanted to do was lose herself in him, and it was like finding herself as well. She did not understand and the pain Cam had raised slashed the edge of her heart. Trevor held her, and her body hummed, her soul sang, and she cried.

Nina sat in the lounge area where she had a good view of Bobbie Faye’s door. It didn’t surprise her that Old Man Landry stood there, looking in the window. It also didn’t surprise her that he turned to leave without knocking.

“You want me to tell her you came by?” she asked.

“No,” he said, and walked away.

Trevor leaned back from Bobbie Faye a little, and she knew he was going to be direct. It was something of a relief to know that about him.

“I meant what I said, yesterday. I want to marry you. I know Cam wants you back, but I’m not letting you go. That’s going to be real hell for you, because of who you are. The guilt he’ll make you feel. I get that. And I’m still not letting you go.”

She felt so much it scared the hell out of her. She wanted
so much
, she almost couldn’t breathe, like all the emotion would rip her apart. She didn’t know what to say . . . all articulate thought had gone on strike, apparently, so she did the only thing she knew to do—she scooted over to give him room in the bed. He carefully climbed in and adjusted the covers as she snuggled into his arms, her head on his shoulder.

“Can you stay for a while?”

“I’m not going anywhere. Besides, I found that Wooing Manual.”

She angled her head back where she could see his mischievous grin. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a low, wicked rumble. “It’s got
pictures
.”

“Oh, my.”

“And I’m
very good
with pictures.”

The thing I’ve come to realize as an author is that there is no way possible to adequately thank everyone for the help they’ve given me for these books. If I tried to convey just how much I feel, and how appreciative I am, I’d have to go on and on and someone would need to smack me with the schmoopy stick. I mean, seriously, how do you express the feeling you get when you have a letter from someone who was enjoying the book so much that she took it into the shower with her, holding it just out of reach of the water? Or the reader who wrote that during an incredibly difficult time, while her mom was undergoing treatment for cancer, the craziness of the book made her laugh? How do you tell the librarians and the booksellers a simple “thank you” and impress upon them that they have rocked your world with their recommendations and handselling? I’m not sure, honestly.

Still, I’d like to include at least this short list, knowing I’m going to be horrified later that I’ve left off too many people.

On the technical side of things, many thanks go to: Luke Causey, a police officer, for not having your mom committed for all of the random “so, this gun, how does it work again?” e-mails. To Jake Causey, thank you for all of the car and motorcycle information. If there are mistakes, they are mine alone because, believe me, they tried to make the information clear. To A. S. King and Yvonne Hewitt,
for all your help with the Irish (Gaelic), your time and teaching are greatly appreciated. Rae Monet, who helps me keep the FBI information plausible . . . er, in the Bobbie Faye world—you rock. Sergeant Marcus Smith, of the Louisiana State Police, thank you for taking time to patiently answer the most outlandish questions, without sending someone to haul me in. Nancy Chesson—thank you for the incredible tour of Louisiana’s Old State Capitol and the look into the areas featured in the book; the staff there and the beauty you all have worked hard to preserve do our state justice. To the fine people who run both the Weapons_Info and Crimescenewriter sites, thank you for providing such a much-needed and incredibly useful service (and archives).

The city of Lake Charles, LA—thank you for your support and for not minding too much that I moved things around in the last book. I sort of did it again.

The readers:
Thank you
. If I have in some small way made you laugh or enjoy a distraction from the tension or hectic life we all face, then I am incredibly lucky and I am very grateful that you invited Bobbie Faye into your world.

The booksellers and librarians: I am in awe of your generosity in giving a new author a chance, and in the wonderful support you’ve shown me.

Allison Brennan, for all the belief and encouragement—you have been a rock (a five-carat flawless gem) and an amazing friend.

Kim Whalen, my agent—your sense of humor and support have kept me sane. (Well, more than anyone would have thought possible; I’m not guaranteeing I was entirely wrapped to start with.)

Nichole Argyres, my extraordinary editor—thank you for all your hard work and for seeing the potential even when I wasn’t so certain. And to Kylah McNeill, for so much help with all of my annoying questions, thank you.

Matthew Shear, Anne Marie Tallberg, John Karle, Michael Storrings, Joe Goldschein, Kathryn Parise, Gretchen
Achilles, David Cain, Elizabeth Curione, and the rest of the staff at St. Martin’s Press: You are amazing. There are so many things each of you talented people did to make the first book a success, it would take ten more pages just to list them all. Thank you for all of your terrific support and enthusiasm.

Pamela Dumond and Christina Donatelli and Julie Burton and Michelle Montgomery—you were amazing in your belief in the book and seriously, I think you bought half the books sold. And to Emilie Staat, who got me through that first signing without letting me spontaneously combust, thank you. (I am amazed you survived.)

To my friend and mentor at LSU and extraordinary writer, David Madden: You paved the way. Thank you.

Beta readers (in the order that they were subjected to my constant crankiness . . . ) CJ Lyons, Lori Armstrong, Patricia Burroughs, Emilie Staat, Tamar Bihari, Diane Patterson—thank you for reading and letting me bounce “what if?” questions off you. In all of the many times I bugged you, none of you tried to have me killed. That I know of. Which is kinda amazing, really.

My relatives have been flat-out awesome, including many of my extended family. I am, frankly, relieved and not just because several of my aunts (both sides) took me aside to let me know that they hadn’t minded the cursing, but also because when you’re from the South and you have a chaotic family and sometimes you have characters do not-so-smart things in the books, you hope that your family isn’t holding a grudge and secretly planning your demise or having a little white coat with the shiny back clasps specially made.

To Amanda Eschete, my daughter-in-law, and to Nicole, my youngest son’s fiancée—it’s a joy to have you both in my life. I couldn’t have asked for better additions to our family. To new addition Angela Grace, who never ceases to make me smile, I can’t wait ’til we can read books together. To my sons and in-laws (Patsy and Marion), thank you for
everything. And to my mom and dad, Al and Jerry McGee, words here would completely fail. You have always been a shining example of tenacity and love and hope.

Finally, for my husband, Carl: You already know you are the world to me, and my best friend, and the one who makes me laugh the most. Thank you.

Read on for an excerpt from Toni McGee Causey’s WHEN A MAN LOVES A WEAPON—the next Bobbie Faye Novel, coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks!

“Bobbie Faye—keeping paramedics employed since 2005.”

—bumper sticker

Bobbie Faye Sumrall lay flat on her back on the thick blue mat in the sparring ring, and if she weren’t so exhausted, she’d kill him. If she could just roll over and push her rancid sweaty self up, she’d crawl out of the room, pride be damned, and find the gun. It might take days to load because she’d probably have to load it with her teeth, her arms were so tired, and then she’d probably have to prop the damned thing up on something and ask Trevor to please move within range because she was too worn out to aim properly. And then she’d shoot him, assuming she had the strength left to pull the trigger.

If she thought hard enough, maybe she could come up with a good argument that “lying in a slobbering heap” was the same thing as “being prepared for the next disaster.” There had to be some rationalization
some
where she could use, dammit. Because Trevor seemed to believe that another disaster was imminent and that she needed to be all prepared and shit.

He leaned over her and the light from the rafters of the old converted barn gave him a halo. He grinned, white teeth against tan skin, biceps bulging and forearms cording as he crossed his arms against his tight black t-shirt, and his wavy brown shoulder-length hair fell into his sinful blue eyes. The
least
he could have done was broken a sweat.

“You’re improving,” he said. “You almost managed to land a kick that time.”

“I hate you.”

His grin went from merely smug to completely obnoxious. “You did not hate me before breakfast. Which reminds me, we need to add strawberry jam to the shopping list.”

Her eyesight fuzzed for a moment as her brain just skipped right on away from the subject of how much of a pain he was being, making her work out for hours every day, and frolicked over to exactly what he’d done with that strawberry jam. Now her favorite food on the planet. She hadn’t even known you could
do
that with a topping, and she had a friend who ran an S & M magazine.

“We could have stayed in bed all day,” she pointed out. “I’m on vacation. You’re on leave. Allllll weeeeeek.”

“And you,” he said, squatting next to her, “are still hesitating. You’re not firing as fast, you’re not hitting as fast, and you’re thinking too damned much.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever actually accused me of thinking too damned much.”

He glowered at her.

He was right. What was worse was that he knew that she knew that he was right. She really
really
hated that.