Rustler's Moon. Jodi Thomas
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her nothing but trouble for two hundred miles. Two days later in Georgia she’d traded in the junker and her old two-wheel trailer to a mechanic for a van in a town too small to have a stop sign. The guy said he’d mail the title to the van, but she had given him a fake name and address.
What if the van had been stolen? The law could be about to arrest her, and she had no proof she bought the van.
Angela stared at the patrol car as it pulled in beside her van. Her freedom had lasted less then a week. Maybe her uncle had put out a missing person alert? That wouldn’t surprise her. Her aunt probably told everyone Angela was so lost in grief she wasn’t to be left alone.
A man in a uniform unfolded out of his car. She expected him to pull his gun as he walked toward her. After all, she’d run away from home at twenty-seven. Something all her relatives would swear quiet Angela would never do.
“Pardon me, miss,” the man said as he neared. “This place has been closed for months. We got a no-trespassing sign at the turnoff, but you must have missed it.”
In her shorts, no makeup and her strawberry-blond hair in a day-old ponytail, she must look more girl than woman. The echo of her mother’s familiar speech about how Angela was too chubby, too squat to wear shorts, circled through her tired mind.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t notice the sign.” She straightened, trying to look at least five foot five, though she knew she missed her goal by two inches.
She moved toward the lawman trying her best to look like a professional. “I’m Angela—”
Hesitating, she tried to remember the last name she’d used on the application. It slipped her mind completely. “Smith.” Angela mentally shook her tired brain awake. “Jones.” Of course. How hard could that be to remember?
There, she’d gotten it out. After not talking for three days, words didn’t want to form in her brain.
She stared at his name tag. Sheriff Brigman looked as if he easily read the lie that lay in her mind like oil slush. He pulled off his Stetson stalling for time, but she didn’t miss the way he looked her up and down from ponytail to sandals.
“Welcome to town, Mrs. Jones. Kirkland told me you were coming.”
A hint of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. He reminded her of a sheriff from the Wild West days. Well built, a touch of gray in his sideburns and stone-cold eyes that said he’d finish the job, no matter what it took, whether it was catching the outlaw or satisfying his woman.
She mentally slapped herself. No time to flirt or daydream. Angela had to think of what to say. Was it too early to ask for a lawyer? Should she start confessing? But to what? She wasn’t even sure what crimes she’d committed. Running away at her age didn’t seem to be illegal, and she’d read somewhere that you can go by an alias if you were not doing anything wrong.
When she didn’t offer any comment, the cop in the Stetson added, “My guess is you couldn’t wait to see the inside of this place. Did you just get to town?”
She nodded, thankful he didn’t add “Dressed like a fifteen-year-old.” With luck, he hadn’t noticed she couldn’t remember her own name. Maybe he thought she had early onset Alzheimer’s.
“Yes, sorry, I’ve been driving for twelve hours, so I’m a bit scattered. I wanted a quick look at the canyon before dark. It’s beautiful out here near the edge.”
Brigman nodded as he watched the last bit of sunlight running over the canyon walls turn the rocks gold. “I like to check on the museum this time of day. It kind of reminds me of a great painting. No matter what kind of day I’ve had, all is calm out here.”
“I can see that.” She’d feared she would miss the ocean and the beautiful sunsets at Anna Marie Island, but Ransom Canyon had its own kind of wonder. She had a feeling the canyon would grow on her.
“You know, Mrs. Jones, your office has a great view.” He pointed to a huge window on the second floor of the big barn of a building.
Angela smiled. “No one told me that, or I might have driven all night.”
They both started walking toward the parking lot.
“Your husband driving the moving van in?” Sheriff Brigman had an easy way of asking questions as if he were just being friendly.
“I’m not married,” she said, then remembered the application listing her new name as Jones.
“When I interviewed over the phone with Mr. Kirkland, I was two days away from being married.” She did her best to look brokenhearted, but it wasn’t easy, since she’d never once given her heart away. “The night before the wedding, we called it off.”
The sheriff studied her as if planning to wait for more information.
“We didn’t work out. My fiancé didn’t want to move.” She shrugged as if fighting back tears. “When we broke up, I thought a clean getaway would be best, so I went ahead and came to Texas.” Since fiancé Jones never existed, it wasn’t really very painful to walk out on him. “I’d already changed my email and accounts over to Jones.”
Brigman raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning to keep his name?”
Angela fought down a nervous giggle. “I’m sentimental about names. Turns out his name was the only thing I liked about the man. As soon as I settle, I’ll change everything back. Of course, my driver’s license is still in my maiden name.” This whole thing was getting mixed up in her brain. At this point any way she could climb out of this little lie was probably going to end up making her look like an idiot.
Thank goodness they had reached her van. A few more lies and the sheriff would probably figure out she was on the run and have her arrested or committed.
“Have you been by your new house yet?” he asked as he opened her car door.
“Do you know where it is?” Mr. Kirkland had mentioned that he’d email her some information, but she’d forgotten to look.
“Sure.” He grinned, looking younger. “This is a small town, Mrs. Jones, I mean...”
He waited for her to fill in the blank.
“Harold,” she answered.
The sheriff nodded once. “Kirkland said you wanted to rent a two-bedroom furnished place that allowed cats. Half the Chamber of Commerce started looking for something special. We don’t get many professional curators around here. I could show you the one we picked for you and the runner-up, Miss Harold. I’ve got keys to both.”
“Please call me Angela, Sheriff.”
He touched two fingers to the brim of his Stetson in a salute. “All right, Angela. Why don’t you call me Dan. Which do you want to see first, a nice little house between the two churches in town or a cabin house on the lake? The church house has more room, but the lake house backs into the shoreline.”
“I’ll take the lake house,” she said immediately. She almost hugged him. Water. She’d be near water.
“Follow me, then.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” she said. “If you’ll give me the key, I can probably find it.”
“No trouble. You have to pass my house at the lake to get to yours. Showing you the place isn’t out of my way home at all.”
As the sheriff’s car led her through the small town of Crossroads, Angela fought down another wave of panic that seemed to be coming over her as often as hiccups. This open country where anyone could see for miles in every direction didn’t seem like a very wise place to hide. Probably half the people in town would know where she lived. How could she have ever thought she’d be safe here?
What if Anthony came after her? If he found her? If he or one of his associates had killed her father and made it look like a robbery, maybe they’d kill her, too. They might think her father