Free Kansas Troubles by Earlene Fowler

we’d know when the game was over. This was beginning to take on the suspiciously familiar aura of a snipe hunt, and I wondered if maybe it was some weird Midwestern initiation ritual. If so, Gabe was going to be one very sorry cop when I got him alone. I worried the chip in my hand, trying to decide if I should just show myself, give up my chip, and go snag one of the chocolate eclairs I’d spied in Becky’s refrigerator. But the competitive side of me refused to give in. I wasn’t about to let these Jayhawkers think Californians couldn’t cut the mustard.
    The low humming of crickets stopped. I froze, cautiously peeking around the corner of the shed. Something skittered around the dark trunk of a twisted cottonwood tree. I narrowed my eyes, trying to make out what it was. From behind, a strong arm grabbed me around the waist and lifted me up. A huge, rough hand clamped over my mouth.
    Adrenaline shot through my veins. I kicked out and flung my arms backward trying to get loose. My fist smashed into skin and bone. I heard a surprised yelp; then my attacker dropped me. Pain shot through my tail-bone when I landed hard on my butt. I scrambled up and faced my moaning assailant, furious when I saw it was Gabe.
    “What are you trying to do?” I screamed. “Scare me to death?”
    “I told you to leave the brass knuckles at home,” he said, rubbing his cheek.
    “Geeze Louise, Gabe, what did you expect, sneaking up and grabbing me like that?” I pushed his hand away and ran my fingers over his cheek where a small knot was already beginning to form. “Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine, but sneaking up is the whole point of the game.” He took my hand and kissed the knuckle. “Now, where’s your poker chip?”
    I looked around in the dark weeds. “It’s here somewhere. I dropped it when you grabbed me. Besides, I’m not about to give it to you.”
    “That means you’ve got to persuade me that I don’t want it.” He laced his hands in mine and pinned me against the wall of the shed.
    I struggled against him, laughing. “How am I supposed to do that?”
    “That’s your problem.”
    “I’m beginning to see the point of this juvenile game now.”
    “That’s why I made sure I found you before anyone else did.” He bent and kissed me.
    After a minute or so, we came up for air. He groaned softly. “This makes me feel like a teenager again.”
    “In more ways than one.” I bumped my pelvis against his.
    A low rumble came from the back of his throat, and he bent to kiss me again. I turned my head and laughed. “One kiss per poker chip, Friday. Those are the rules.”
    He released my hands and grabbed my face, turning it back toward him. “Who told you that? There are no rules in this—”
    Before he could finish, a woman’s scream echoed through the warm night air. Gabe’s face went rigid, listening, still holding my face in his hands. The scream was long and steady, with an edge of hysteria that told us it wasn’t the pretend shriek of a woman playing a game.
    “It’s coming from the tree farm,” he said.

THREE
    “LET’S GO,” GABE said, grabbing my hand. We ran across the field toward the screaming. As we passed the farmhouse, an elderly man in dark overalls and a stained yellow John Deere feed cap was coming down the front porch steps. He held a shotgun in one hand, a long black flashlight in the other. “Called the police,” he said. He tossed the flashlight to Gabe.
    “Thanks,” Gabe said, catching it with one hand. “Where?”
    “Sounds like the northeast corner. I’m guessin’ three, four rows up from the fence.”
    “Stay here with Otis,” Gabe commanded and disappeared into the rows of trees.
    “You the new missus?” the man asked. Close-set dark eyes studied me from under the yellow cap. He pulled absently at one large ear.
    “Yes, sir. Benni Harper.”
    “Good meetin’ you. Otis Spears.” He pulled a palm-sized flashlight out of his pocket. “Let’s go after the