1

      Split Creek, Texas

      Wednesday, May 13

      4:30 p.m.

      “Where’s Faith?”

      Her father’s slurred question warned Michaele Ramey of two things: first, that despite her attempts to keep an eye on him, the son of a bugger had gotten hold of some hooch again; and second, that, as usual, her sister Faith’s word wasn’t worth squat.

      Too annoyed to risk answering right away, she rolled out from under the ’56 Chevy Cameo, and used her cleanest knuckle to carefully rub at the rust particles in her eyes. “There’s a hole the size of an egg in her muffler,” she told Pete Fite, the watchful owner of the old vehicle. “But I can’t patch metal that’s turning into confetti. You’ll need a new one.”

      The chicken farmer bowed his head, which had Michaele thinking that the fifty-nine-year-old was beginning to bear a strong resemblance to the poultry he raised on the forty-acre farm on the south side of town. He had the same wide-spaced, blank eyes, the same sharp, beaklike nose, and damned if he wasn’t scratching his boot at the concrete floor of the garage the way those razorial critters did when searching for food.

      He slowly shook his head. “Can’t afford that. Just wrap something around it to get me through inspection. I’ll look into buying a new one as soon as I send off the next truckload of hens.”

      This time Michaele used the back of her left wrist to wipe at the sweat trickling down her throat. “Why not the next egg shipment? I saw that batch of tired hens being hauled out of your place last week. You won’t have another load for a while, and I’m not a magician. Make it the next egg check, Pete.”

      Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of overalls that all but swallowed his skinny frame, he gaped. “You’d leave a man with nothing to live on!”

      “Oh, stop.” Michaele pulled off the baseball cap she’d been wearing backward while under the truck and slapped it against her jeans to shake off any lingering debris, replaced it, and tugged the bill low over her narrowed eyes. “Just sell me the damn thing, already. You’ll only let it sit and rust until it’s nothing more than a weed-covered snake den—”

      “Where’s my baby?”

      The new whine from her father drew Pete’s attention, but when Michaele continued to act as though she hadn’t heard anything, he tugged at his earlobe and shrugged. “How much did you say you’d give me for her?”

      They went through this every time he came in, which was becoming more frequent thanks to the increasing number of potholes on his lengthy, unpaved driveway. What’s more, he knew what he had in the Cameo, as did Michaele. Chevrolet hadn’t made over 5,000 of them in ’55, and fewer than 1,500 in ’56. Considering the growing love affair going on with the American pickup truck, this one would be worth a tidy bundle if sold for parts; a small fortune if restored properly, something Pete had neither the skill nor finances to do. Michaele wanted a chance to try.

      “A thousand,” she replied. “Less the cost of a new muffler.”

      Although that was a couple of hundred dollars more than she’d offered last time, he managed to look offended. “Can’t replace her for that!”

      “You want to pay liability insurance and the registration fee on something that’ll be illegal to drive in a few days, go ahead. I suppose once you get tired of collecting tickets, you can always use your ’73 Ford.”

      “Not likely. It’s got two flats.”

      “Mike!” Buck snapped, his bloodshot eyes finally focusing on her. “You hear me, girl? Where’s Faithy?”

      Michaele shot her father a cold look. Despite his grip on the door frame, he wobbled dangerously, and she found herself half wishing he would topple face first onto the garage floor and knock himself out.

      “I’m with a customer,” she said sharply.

      Buck squinted. “Well, shoot, that’s just ol’—” he hiccuped “—Pete. Pete, you seen my little girl? Got a call for her inside. She’s u-usually back from school by now.”

      Yeah, right, Michaele thought sourly as she pushed herself to her feet. Only if the sneak couldn’t find somewhere to hide until closing. More often than not, her younger sibling didn’t show until Michaele was home putting dinner on the table.

      Pete scratched at his thinning silver hair as he pondered Buck’s question. “Nope. Can’t say I have.”

      Exasperated with the whole situation, Michaele snapped, “For heaven’s sake, Buck, you know Pete lives south of here. Faith commutes to and from Mt. Pleasant, which is north. Tell whomever’s on the phone that she hasn’t arrived yet and hang up so someone with a real problem can get through!”

      She turned back to the town’s newest widower. She knew he was in no hurry to leave and would rather spend the rest of the afternoon shooting the breeze with her; but she had too many problems of her own to be swayed by compassion. “Sorry,”