Wild Horse Springs. Jodi Thomas
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turning back into the in-control sheriff. His lips pressed against her forehead in a quick peck. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You, too,” she whispered, swearing she could see passion sparkle in his blue eyes.
Then, with a very formal nod, he turned and walked away without a word.
Brandi grinned as she watched him climb into his cruiser and thought she’d add that Toby Keith song “A Little Less Talk and a Lot More Action” to her last set tonight. If the sheriff wanted someone wild and free, she could make it happen.
In a few weeks she’d drive away from this place. Maybe she’d take a memory of her own with her. But that was all she had room to pack.
A memory. Nothing more.
RAINY NIGHTS IN DALLAS were never as beautiful as they had been when she was a kid growing up at the lake house just outside Crossroads. There, the old cottonwoods whispered when the wind blew, and the rain tap-dancing on the water twenty feet from her window often lulled her to sleep.
Her hometown seemed a million miles away tonight. She stared out her apartment windows at the solid brick wall of the condo next door. No view.
If her pop wouldn’t think she was a failure, she’d load up all she owned in a U-Haul and drive back home. She could be there in five or six hours. She’d cook her father’s breakfast and then follow him to the county sheriff’s office, where she’d work all day organizing his files. They’d eat lunch at Dorothy’s Diner across the street and pretend she was sixteen again with the world waiting on her to grow up, and not twenty-five, waiting for the world to realize she was a failure.
Lauren pulled out her cell, thinking she could call her pop. It was almost nine. He’d probably be finishing up his day, heading home with his supper in a bag, looking forward to eating in front of the TV, which would be tuned to a football game. In an hour he’d be sound asleep in his recliner.
Pop was so predictable. When she was growing up, he cooked the same meals every week. Chili dogs on Monday, pancakes with burned sausage on Tuesday, grilled chicken and baked potatoes on Wednesday, meat loaf or spaghetti on Thursday. They had take-out pizza on Friday and leftovers, if there were any, on Saturday. Sundays they ate out or warmed up cans of soup. Oh, she almost forgot, they usually had hamburgers if he got home late. If she hadn’t learned to cook early, he probably would have stuck to that menu until she left for college. She was twelve before she knew appetizers could be something besides potato chips.
Now, their conversations were the same. For her, work was always great, yes, she was making friends, no, she didn’t need any money. For him, he’d tell her about the weather, talk about the folks in town who’d ask about her, and say no, he wasn’t lonely, he was doing fine.
Lauren shoved her cell back into her pocket. She didn’t call. Tonight she wasn’t sure she could stand to hear him tell her one more time how proud he was of her.
His Lauren was moving up, honing her skills as a writer. It wouldn’t be long until she finished a book and was on the bestseller list, he’d say. Crossroads just might have to open a bookstore in town with Lauren’s first book about to hit any day and Tim O’Grady working on his fourth novel.
She’d heard Pop brag to everyone, and she hadn’t said a word. She’d had three jobs in a year, all ending in being laid off. None in publishing. She was not moving up or working on her book. The chance of anyone from Crossroads filling a bookstore shelf was highly unlikely, with her manuscript unfinished and Tim’s novels all ebooks.
If the Crossroads Bookstore ever opened, the “local author” shelf would be empty.
Lauren jumped out of her self-pity when her phone buzzed.
Tim O’Grady’s name flashed along with his smiling face. She grinned and answered.
“Hello, Hemingway, don’t tell me you’ve just finished another book.” Lauren tried to sound happy. He always called to celebrate over the phone when he finished anything. The outline. The edit. The final draft.
She always acted excited, and she suspected he always tried his best to sound sober.
“Hi, L.”
For once he actually did sound sober.
“You able to talk? Not on a date or anything?” He paused. When she didn’t answer, he added, “And no, before you ask, the book’s not finished. Tonight I’m dealing with real life.”
“I’m home.” She dropped to the couch. “Alone. What’s up? Talk to me.” She needed a little bit of home, and talking to the boy she’d grown up next door to might help.
“I don’t know what you can do about it, but I need help. We’ve got a real mess here, and I don’t know how to handle it.”
“What’s happened?” She could feel bad news coming and wished someone would invent an umbrella that could protect her for just one breath so she would be ready.
“Thatcher Jones is in jail.” Tim said the words fast, as if he had to get them out of his mouth. “He’s eighteen, so no juvie for him. He’s locked upstairs at the county offices.”
“What! Does Pop know? What happened? Is he okay?”
“Slow down, L.” Tim’s laugh didn’t have much humor in it. “Of course your pop knows. He’s the one who arrested him. Which was lucky for the kid. Thatcher’s easygoing, but when he gets mad, he blows up. Your pop can handle him.”
“Facts, Tim, give me the facts.”
“You know that truck stop on the Lubbock Highway? The one where we used to stop because you couldn’t make it all the way home from college without a potty break, then you’d complain about how dirty it was?”
“I remember. It has a little grocery store on one side. Carries two cans of everything, including motor oil.”
“Well, I don’t know why Thatcher was out there. It’s the opposite direction from Charley Collins’s place, and he said he was heading home from school. You’d think Charley would be a good influence on him. But I guess some people are just destined to cross with the law.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. Charley Collins had been as reckless as they come when he was in high school. His own father disowned him, but Charley was a good man and so was Thatcher. “Tim, stop sounding like a line from a book. Get back to what happened to Thatcher.”
She swore she could almost hear Tim nodding. “Right. Thatcher was in the store out at the truck stop with a backpack full of groceries that hadn’t been bought. He said he was bringing them back, but old Luther, who owns the place, didn’t believe him. Called Thatcher nothing but a lying thief. Said he’d known three generations of his people, and they were all trash.”
“What happened next?”
“Thatcher swung. Knocked Luther out, I heard.”
Lauren closed her eyes, almost able to see the scene in her mind. “Go on,” she whispered into her phone.
“Thatcher was the one who called 911. When the sheriff and medics got there, Luther said he was pressing charges for assault and robbery. The medics took Luther to the clinic to be checked, and your dad took Thatcher to jail.”
“No!”
Tim swore. “Believe me, L, your pop wasn’t happy about it. He looked like he was thinking of strangling the kid for making him do it.”
“When did this happen?”
“A couple hours ago. When I heard the sirens, I drove over to the county offices thinking whatever was happening might give me a plot idea. I could hear Thatcher yelling the minute I walked in the door. He was mad and scared and all wrapped up in nervous energy.”
Tim finally paused.