Cowboys are his weakness - A Harper Twins Mystery (M/FM)

[Stiletto Amore]

Cowboys are his weakness

The sun dipped low over the Kansas plains, casting long, amber shadows across the fields of golden wheat. The air was thick with the earthy scent of hay and the distant lowing of cattle. In the small town of Willow Creek, life moved at a leisurely pace, as if time itself had decided to take a nap. But for the teenage detective duo of Charlie and Thomas Harper, life was anything but slow. The siblings had a knack for stumbling into trouble—or rather, trouble had a knack for finding them.

In their quiet town, the Harper twins had become something of a local legend. Despite still being in school, they had carved out a reputation as sharp-witted detectives, the kind who always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Their knack for solving mysteries had turned them into local celebrities, with their names frequently appearing in the town newspaper—often alongside grinning photographs of them standing beside grateful shopkeepers, relieved pet owners, or, on occasion, rather stone-faced police officers.

Their cases ranged from the mundane to the extraordinary. They had recovered stolen heirlooms, exposed smuggling rings, and even located missing persons when hope had nearly run dry. Time and again, they cracked cases that baffled the local authorities, earning admiration from their adoring public and irritation from those who preferred their secrets to stay buried.

Not everyone welcomed their sleuthing, however. As their fame grew, so did the resentment from the town’s criminal element. To thieves, fraudsters, and would-be masterminds, the Harper siblings were a menace—interfering, meddlesome snoops—altogether too clever for their own good. What had once been dismissive amusement from seasoned criminals soon hardened into frustration and outright hostility. As a consequence, the Harpers were regular targets for kidnapping, though this seemed to do little to deter the young detectives.

Meanwhile, the town’s law enforcement found themselves caught between reluctant respect and outright annoyance. And no one voiced their irritation more loudly than Sheriff Briggs, the town’s gruff head of law enforcement.

Sheriff Mandy Briggs had never been entirely thrilled with the Harper siblings’ involvement in her investigations. A woman of austere beauty, she wore her uniform collar primly buttoned up at all times (in stark contrast to many of her more slovenly colleagues), while her long blonde hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail. A lover of rules and regulations, Sheriff Briggs had built her career on structure and discipline—two things the Harpers routinely disregarded in their relentless (some might say, reckless) pursuit of the truth. However, although their unorthodox methods infuriated her, even she had been forced to temper her frustration with a begrudging admiration. After all, they did get results, even if they had no business meddling in police affairs.

Despite their frequent clashes, Sheriff Briggs had become something of a reluctant guardian to the Harper siblings. Time and time again, the Harpers would conspire to get themselves kidnapped, and every time, Sheriff Briggs would be the one kicking down the door—arriving in the nick of time to save them from smugglers, art thieves, and even a pair of cannibal grannies.

It had reached a point where she often remarked that her job was to solve crimes, while theirs was to get kidnapped.

“One of these days, you kids are going to get yourselves into a real mess, and I won't be there to save you,” Sheriff Briggs would tease, though her grudging fondness for the pair was evident.

Charlie would roll her eyes, offering some cheeky remark in return, but the truth was, she rather enjoyed being rescued by the formidable sheriff and secretly relished the inevitable reprimands and lectures that would follow.

The sheriff, for her part, seemed oblivious to Charlie’s lingering gazes—or perhaps she simply chose to ignore them.

Mr and Mrs Harper, though supportive, often struggled to reconcile their pride with concern for their children's well-being.

“Can you two at least try to stay out of trouble this weekend?” Their mother would sigh, her voice equal parts exasperation and affection. “I swear, I’m going to turn gray before I’m even forty.”

Despite their fears and anxieties, the Harpers’ parents were fiercely supportive of their children. They had raised them to be independent thinkers, to question authority, and to stand up for what was right. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch them charge headfirst into danger.

Charlie Harper had a presence that commanded attention despite her diminutive stature. Standing at only five feet, three inches tall, she made up for her lack of height with sheer force of will. Her sharp green eyes and determined expression hinted at a fierce intelligence, while her warm, approachable demeanor made her easy to trust. Her sleek black hair, cropped into a sharp bob, framed her face with geometric precision, the blunt cut accentuating her high cheekbones. Thick black glasses perched neatly on the bridge of her nose, lending her an air of scholarly authority—bookish, yet undeniably self-assured.

Charlie’s style was a deliberate departure from the prairie dresses and denim of her neighbors, embracing a gender-fluid aesthetic pitched somewhere between Annie Hall and Velma Dinkley. She favored high buttoned blouses and tailored trousers, a wardrobe her brother teasingly called "substitute teacher chic." Today, she wore a snug rust-colored turtleneck sweater, paired with an oversized brown tweed blazer complete with elbow patches. Her high-waisted, wide-leg olive trousers were cinched with a thin leather belt, and polished oxblood loafers completed the look.

Thomas Harper, on the other hand, had the effortless charm of someone who had spent his life coasting on his easy smile and undeniable good looks. Tall and lean, he carried himself with the casual confidence of an athlete, his movements purposeful but relaxed. His striking blue eyes, the color of a summer sky just before a storm, were framed by thick lashes that made half the girls (and several of the boys) in town swoon. His sandy blond hair, perpetually tousled as if he had just stepped off a windswept prairie, only added to his boyish appeal. Dressed in his scout uniform—khaki shorts, a short-sleeved shirt neatly tucked in, and a red-and-white scarf tied smartly at his throat—he looked every bit the picture of a wholesome, all-American youth. But there was a sharpness in his gaze, a keenness that hinted at a mind that never truly rested.

The siblings’ latest adventure had led them to the outskirts of town, where a string of counterfeit banknotes had left local businesses furious and baffled. The Harpers had been following a lead that pointed to an abandoned barn on the edge of a dense wood, where they suspected the forger had set up his printing press.

The barn loomed before them, its weathered wood bleached gray by years of sun and wind. The door creaked ominously as they pushed it open, revealing a dim interior filled with the scent of ink and paper. A single shaft of sunlight pierced through a hole in the roof, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air like tiny fireflies.

The siblings stepped inside, their eyes adjusting to the dim light. The barn was cluttered with old farming equipment, broken crates, and piles of hay. But in the center of the room, partially covered by a dusty tarp, was something that didn’t belong.

"Look at this," Charlie whispered, her voice tinged with excitement. She pulled back the heavy sheet to reveal a large, industrial printing press, its gears still warm to the touch. Stacks of counterfeit banknotes lay neatly arranged on a rickety wooden table, the crisp, fraudulent bills almost indistinguishable from real currency.

Thomas let out a low whistle, running a hand through his sandy blond hair.

Charlie ran her fingers over the machine, her mind racing. "This is it, Thomas. This is the proof we needed. We’ve solved another case."

Suddenly, a slow, mocking clap echoed through the barn, sending a chill down both their spines.

"Well, well," a smooth, menacing voice drawled behind them. "What do we have here?"

The siblings spun around to find themselves face-to-face with the forger himself.

He was a strikingly handsome man in his late twenties, with tousled dark hair, piercing green eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass. His thick, perfectly groomed black mustache twitched as he smirked. He wore a faded denim shirt, rolled up at the sleeves to reveal tanned, muscular forearms, and his boots were scuffed but well-made. He looked more like a matinee idol than a hardened career criminal.

"The Harper kids," the man growled, his voice low and smooth. "Should’ve known it would be you two. Always sticking your noses where they don’t belong."

Thomas took a step forward, his jaw tight. “We know what you’ve been doing,” he said evenly. “It’s all over Mr Harris.”

The forger chuckled, shaking his head. “Is that so?”

Thomas swallowed, his posture stiffening under Harris’s gaze.

The forger moved slowly, reaching for his belt and pulling out a length of rough hemp rope. He locked eyes with Thomas first, his smirk widening as he saw the young man’s muscles tense.

"Hands behind your back, boy!" he ordered.

Thomas nodded and presented his hands for tying.

Rather than resisting, he looked almost eager to get trussed up.

The rough texture of the rope against his wrists sent a jolt of excitement through Thomas, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile.

Charlie shot her brother a look that said, could you at least try to look like you're not enjoying this? But either Thomas didn't notice, or simply chose to ignore her.

He could feel the man’s warm breath on the back of his neck as he worked, pulling the rope tight. Thomas’s wrists were bound firmly, the knots unyielding, and he couldn’t help but admire the man’s skill.

“There,” the forger said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Now, sit.”

Thomas obeyed happily, lowering himself to the dusty barn floor. The forger’s hands gripped his shoulders, guiding him down. Thomas’s cheeks flushed as he felt the man’s strength. He quickly looked away, hoping the forger wouldn’t notice the faint blush creeping across his face.

The forger crouched in front of him, his piercing green eyes locking onto Thomas’s.

“Now, put your legs out and your ankles together.”

Thomas’s heart skipped a beat, as the forger retrieved a further length of cord.

"I hope you're taking notes" Harris remarked, addressing Charlie.

Charlie’s hands curled into fists. "Go boil your head."

The forger chuckled as he began to bind the boy's ankles.

Thomas kept his gaze fixed on the ground, his jaw clenched, determined not to let his excitement show. But when the forger’s fingers brushed against his calf, he couldn’t suppress a small, involuntary shiver.

The forger raised an eyebrow but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he finished tying the knots and stood, brushing off his hands. “There. All nice and snug.”

Thomas was mindful to agree.

"Now, as for you, Missy..."

The forger’s smirk widened as he stepped closer to Charlie, his piercing eyes locking onto hers. She stood her ground, her chin lifted in defiance.

Charlie Harper was no stranger to this kind of situation—being tied up was something of an occupational hazard for the plucky teen detective community—but she refused to let him see even a flicker of fear.

The forger smirked as he rummaged through the cluttered cabin, finally spotting an old coil of rope in the corner. He turned to Charlie, his voice laced with mock politeness.

"Be a dear and fetch that rope for me, would you?"

Charlie crossed her arms, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Why don't you bite me."

The forger chuckled, shaking his head. "Suit yourself. Just means I get to do things the hard way—hands behind your back, sweetheart,” said Harris, his voice low and smooth.

Charlie flipped him off.

"I won't ask again," He warned.

With a deliberate, almost regal movement, Charlie slowly brought her hands behind her back.

"What, no witty rejoinder?" He teased mirthlessly.

"Can you just get on with it?"

"Gladly," The forger chuckled.

He stepped behind her, his boots crunching on the dusty barn floor, and she could feel the heat of his body as he moved closer. She stiffened slightly as his hands brushed against hers, the rough calluses on his fingers rubbing against her skin as he began to wrap the rope around her wrists.

He took his time, pulling the coils tight, each tug of the rope digging into her skin. Charlie clenched her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her complain.

She tested the bindings subtly, flexing her fingers and shifting her wrists, but the knots held firm.

“Now, sit down,” he ordered.

As she settled onto the dusty barn floor, the forger crouched beside her, his movements smooth and unhurried. He reached for her ankles, his hands brushing against the inside of her thighs as he began to bind them. Charlie’s breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to stay still, her expression stoic.

“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” he remarked, his voice teasing as he tightened the rope around her ankles. “Cat got your tongue?”

Charlie shot him a glare, her green eyes blazing behind her glasses. “Maybe I'm just allergic to ass-holes,” she snapped.

The forger chuckled.

“There,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “All done. It wasn't so bad after all, was it?”

Charlie glared up at him, her green eyes blazing behind her glasses.

"You've got quite the reputation in the criminal fraternity, you know," Harris snarled.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? Are you all part of some villain support group? Do you rent space in a church basement? Anonymous crooks sitting in a circle, sipping bad coffee, complaining about how two teenagers keep outsmarting them?"

Harris smiled but didn’t rise to the bait. "Something like that. Let's just say, I’m just the latest in a long line of people who’d love to see you two silenced. Speaking of which..."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a red bandanna.

Charlie’s stomach dropped.

However, instead of simply shoving the cloth gag into her mouth as she feared, the forger folded it carefully before tying a thick knot in the centre.

He held it up for Charlie to inspect, allowing her dread to build.

"Open wide, honey," he said with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Oh, come on—"

Before she could finish, he shoved the knotted fabric between her lips, forcing it past her teeth and pulling it tight at the back of her head.

"There! Much better," he gloated as he tied a stringent double knot in the scarf.

"Don't I get one of those too?" Thomas asked casually.

The forger grinned. "Your sister’s got a sharp tongue, kid - and I’d rather not listen to her yap all night. You, on the other hand, seem to know your place."

Thomas shrugged. "That’s fair."

Charlie let out a series of indignant mmph's, that sounded like someone trying to simultaneously yell out terms like 'sexist', 'chauvinist', 'anti-feminist', 'woman-hater', 'male chauvinist pigs' and 'F- the patriarchy' through a mouthful of toffee.

"Hey, I didn’t say I agreed with him," Thomas protested.

The rustler stood over them, a smug grin on his face. "You two think you’re so smart, don’t you? Always meddling in other people’s business. Well, let’s see how clever you are when you’re locked in here all night."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the barn, the heavy door slamming shut behind him. The sound of a padlock clicking into place echoed through the dim space, leaving the twins alone in the growing darkness.

Thomas sighed, sitting back. "Well, that could have gone better."

"Mphh mphhkk!?!" Charlie said, rolling her eyes.

"Actually, now that I think about it," Thomas said, "it’s actually kind of peaceful with you not being able to talk for once."

Charlie let out a furious, muffled noise, her cheeks reddening as she glared daggers at her brother.

Thomas’s grin widened. “Aw, don’t be like that, sis. You look positively adorable with a gag in your mouth—like a little baby chipmunk.”

Charlie’s response was another indignant mmph, her eyes narrowing.

Thomas grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

“Alright, alright,” he said, softening his tone. “Let’s get that gag off you, shall we? I can’t have you suffocating on my watch - Mom would never let me hear the end of it.”

He scooted closer, using his teeth to tug at the edge of the gag. It was a slow process, and Charlie couldn’t help but let out a few muffled complaints.

“Stop fidgeting,” Thomas muttered around the cloth.

Charlie responded with another muffled grumble, but she stopped squirming. After a few more tugs, the gag finally slipped free, and Charlie took a deep breath.

“Finally!” she exclaimed. “I thought I was going to suffocate.”

Thomas leaned back, a smug grin on his face. “Dramatic as ever, I see. You were fine.”

“Easy for you to say,” Charlie shot back. “You didn't have an oily rag stuffed in your mouth."

"I'm sure he was only joking about that," Thomas replied.

Charlie blinked at her brother, her green eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “Wait. Are you seriously defending him right now? The guy who just tied us up and left us in a dusty barn to rot?”

Thomas shrugged, his cheeks flushing slightly.

She gasped, eyes going wide with delight. “You like him!”

Thomas groaned. “Charlie—”

“No, no, this is amazing.” She was grinning now, shaking her head in disbelief. “You were into that, weren’t you?”

“I was not—”

“Oh, please,” Charlie interrupted, voice dripping with amusement. “You practically presented
yourself to him like some lovesick debutante.”

“That is so totally not what happened,” Thomas gritted out.

“Uh-huh. And I suppose the dreamy-eyed blushing was just your allergies acting up?”

Thomas’s face burned. “You heard me sneeze earlier.”

"You know, this sweet and innocent choir boy act would be a lot more convincing if you weren't wearing those tight shorts,.." Charlie cackled.

Thomas shot her a glare, though there was no real heat behind it. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“And yet, you still love me,” Charlie replied teasingly.

Thomas sighed. “Unfortunately, I do."

"So, shall we see if we can find something to cut ourselves loose, or shall we wait here for your new boyfriend to come back?"

Thomas pretended to think for a moment. "I guess we should at least try to get free - if only for appearances’ sake."

Charlie grinned. "That’s the spirit. Now, see if you can reach the knife in my boot,.."

Fin.