Page 6 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Cowboy

“Daisy—” I start to say.

“Ask him,” my mother sneers, pointing at Zane.

I shove our marriage license into his hand, grabbing his attention.

“Daisy Vincent,” he says, and it rolls off his tongue like this isn’t the first second he’s known my whole name. “Daisy Marie Vincent. My little hellion.”

“Doesn’t matter if he knows her name,” my stepfather spits. “The brat still stole my truck.”

The deputy pulls himself up tall. “That’s a serious charge, Mr….”

“Garrow. Neil Garrow of Grassland, Wyoming. This is my wife, Peggy. Daisy isherdaughter. I didn’t get her until it was too late, or she’d have turned out different.”

Zane wraps his arm around my shoulders, drawing me into his side. “You can take the truck, Garrow.”

“And let her off scot-free? I don’t think so. Officer, I want these two charged with the theft of my truck.”

The deputy looks back and forth between us. “Do you have proof of ownership, miss?”

I shrink back, Zane’s arm the only thing keeping me firmly in place. “I assumed it was in the glove box.”

Neil laughs harshly and pulls out his wallet, waving his registration papers in the air. “I have them.”

“I just borrowed it because there was no other way off your?—”

“All right, we’ll work this out down at the station. Mr. and Mrs. Garrow, please step aside. Daisy Vincent, you’re under arrest.”

Zane steps between us, putting his back to the deputy. “Do not say anything, Daisy. You understand me? Nothing. Zip those pretty lips and let me handle this.”

“Make sure they see the marriage license,” I say in a rush as the deputy pulls me out of the motel room.

Zane’s fist tightens around the paper in perfect synchronization with the cold metal of the handcuffs closing around my wrists.

We’re transported to the police station in separate vehicles, my mother and step-father in hot pursuit.

When we first get there, I’m taken into an interrogation room, but I remember what Zane said, and I don’t say anything at all.

My lips are zipped.

After an hour, they put me in a holding cell that smells like my cowboy, and I realize they had him waiting here while they were grilling me. And now he must be in that room. His turn to be questioned for a crime—crimes?—that he had nothing to do with.

Nervous butterflies riot in my belly.

Ugly guilt twists there, too, lower down.

But every few minutes, when I catch the sound of my mother screeching at someone about how they need justice—ha!—the guilt recedes, beaten back by those butterflies flying faster, desperately trying to get free.

Just like me.

Iwasright to leave. My method of departing…I could have made different choices. If I had, then I wouldn’t have involved Zane in any of this.

Zane Andrew Lowry. That was the name on his driver’s license. He’s ten years older than me, although he seems like many decades more mature.

You met him, so to speak, because of a bar fight.

Well, more mature in some ways.

These back-and-forth thoughts consume me so much that I don’t notice Zane being brought back to the cell. Not until the key is turned in the lock and the heavy metal door slides open.

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