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her. “I imagine so. Too bad I never mastered that cheerleader kick thing.”
    “Inborn ability. How long has it been since you’ve seen this cowboy?”
    “Years and years.”
An eternity ago.
    “You still care about him?”
    “No. Not like that. But this whole thing is gnawing at me. He’s not a killer. It can’t be him. It’s a mistake.” She thought about Tucker’s sudden arrest.
Who called the law on Tucker? Why? And what was the evidence that tipped the scales?
    “Cole Tucker seemed okay to me,” Cherise said. “Cute too. But you read all the time about these seemingly normal guys. They have families, they lead the Boy Scouts, the whole nine yards. And they turn out to be mad-dog killers.”
    “Not this guy.”
    “Whatever. Anyway, I only met him that once and I can’t get the headlines out of my mind.”
    “Me neither. And there will be people who’ll swear they always knew something was wrong about Cole.” Lacey pushed her hair away from her face.
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because someone always says that. ‘I could see it in his eyes. He had killer eyes.’”
    Cherise nodded. “Monday morning quarterbacks.”
    “And then they’ll say, ‘He was always so quiet. It’s the quiet ones who surprise you.’”
    “I think you’ve been writing too much about murder. You’re creeping me out, Lacey.”
    Cherise sipped her blue martini—to match her boots—as another man smiled at them. Denver wasn’t like D.C., where most men seemed to be afraid of women, or too in love with themselves and their own self-importance to think of the opposite sex. Nope, here in the West, men weren’t afraid to look at women. Especially women wearing boots.
    I should have worn my cowboy boots. The ones Vic broke. Coincidence?
    *   *   *
    After a single blue martini Cherise was a relentless chatterer, even in the taxi on the way home. Even when Lacey leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes and tried to ignore her talkative little sister.
    “Show me that thing Tucker taught you,” Cherise was saying.
    “What thing?” Lacey opened one eye.
    “You know. How to throw a lasso. I’ve always wanted to do that.” She mimicked the motion of throwing a rope.
    “Those cowboy boots are really going to your head.” Lacey yawned. “And I don’t remember how.”
    Lacey hadn’t exactly forgotten, but it wasn’t like she’d had much chance to practice lasso throwing in Washington, D.C. It was just one of those things, a memory of Tucker. Riding and roping were second nature to him. Not only was he a born cowpoke, he’d won his share of awards in local rodeos when he was a teenager.
    “Come on, I’ll show you,” Tucker had said, on one of their first dates. It was definitely not dinner and a movie.
    He had put his arms around Lacey to show her how to tie the honda, the loop at the end of the rope, and the stopper knot. He singed the end of the new rope to secure the knot. The rope looped through the honda, forming a kind of noose that was thrown with one arm high and circling. The warmth of his arms and the giddy feeling of an unexpected first love were a sharper memory than Lacey wanted to recall. She closed her eyes again to blot it out.
    “I was never very good at it,” Lacey said. She had captured a few tree stumps in her time with Tucker. That was about all. Tucker had turned her loose on roping a real live calf once, and it was that calf’s lucky day.
    “When we get home, show me,” Cherise begged her. “Please.”
    “Sure,” Lacey said. “Show you another lethal trick? Why not. Maybe you can rope Tommy What’s-his-name, the quarterback.” The cab pulled up to the house. Cherise jumped out, leaving Lacey to pay the driver.
    “There are ropes in the garage,” Cherise yelled, sprinting for the garage door.
    Lacey trudged over the winter-yellowed lawn after her perky sibling. “It’s got to have the right weight, you know.”
    “Lots of rope. Take your pick,” Cherise