Texas Outlaw

by James Patterson

  I feel my phone buzz and dig it out of my jeans. By the time it’s in my hand, I’ve missed the call. It was from Kyle Hendricks.

  “I better call back,” I say to Dad.

  There’s a stream up ahead with a big oak tree providing shade, so we stop there and let the horses drink. I dismount and call my lieutenant back.

  “You ready to get back to work, Ranger?” Kyle says as soon as he picks up.

  “So soon?” I say.

  “You want a longer paid vacation?” he says.

  “Just surprised is all.”

  “There ain’t much to investigate when the whole damn thing is on video,” Kyle says.

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  The truth is, I am disappointed. It’s been good for me to spend the last few days with my family. I want to go back to work, but not in a rush.

  “Don’t come to company headquarters,” Kyle says. “We need you for something else. You ever heard of Rio Lobo?”

  “The ghost town?”

  “No, that’s Lobo,” Kyle says. “Rio Lobo is a little town over in West Texas. Few hours from Fort Hancock.”

  Kyle says a town councilwoman has died under suspicious circumstances.

  “All evidence suggests natural causes, but the local detective thinks otherwise. They’ve asked us to send a Ranger.”

  All of this sounds very strange to me. Not that they would ask the Rangers for help. That’s what we’re here for. Texas has six Ranger companies, each assigned to a geographic region. Company F, housed in the Waco office, is nowhere near this town way over on the other side of the state, close to New Mexico.

  As if he can sense my confusion, Kyle says that the Ranger covering that area recently retired, and Company E, out of El Paso, can’t spare the manpower from an ongoing, enormous drug-trafficking investigation.

  “They asked if we had anyone to spare, and I volunteered you. I figured you’d want to keep a low profile right now.”

  I sense a subtext to Kyle’s words. It’s true I want to keep a low profile, but this assignment seems low stakes, the kind of job they’d typically assign to a new hire in need of field experience. He might prove himself, and even if he doesn’t, screwing up won’t be too much of a black mark on his reputation. There are other Rangers available to do this job. Which tells me something.

  My lieutenant is sending me on this job as a punishment.

  “Is there a problem?” Kyle says. “You got quiet there for a minute.”

  “Are you really this petty?” I say, even though I know I shouldn’t.

  I guess everyone is right—I am a hothead.

  “What did you say?” Kyle snaps. “Call you a hero and suddenly you’re too good for a small-town field assignment?”

  I bite my tongue. It’s what I should have done in the first place.

  Kyle says, “I’m giving you an order, Ranger.”

  I’ve been trying to walk the straight and narrow within the Texas Ranger Division. I’ve been careful not to piss anyone off lately. I need to do this job and do it to the best of my ability. And if spending a few weeks in the middle of nowhere is what it takes to mend fences with my lieutenant, that’s what I’m going to do.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to make my voice sound as earnest as possible. “I was out of line. I’m happy to do it.”

  “Good,” he says, his voice still trembling with anger. “You leave first thing in the morning.”

  Chapter 8

  THAT NIGHT, MY parents invite the whole family over for dinner. This is kind of a tradition for us. Whenever I’m going out of town on an assignment, everyone gets together. No one says it out loud, but I’ve always suspected they’re worried they might never see me again. Of course we all know from the recent bank incident that I don’t have to go to another part of the state to be in danger.

  As soon as Dad told her I was leaving, Mom called my brothers and then got to work making my favorite dinner growing up, country-fried steak and gravy. It takes her a good three hours to prepare, but once you’ve had my mom’s country-fried steak, you’ll never order those frozen squares restaurants try to pass off as homemade.

  My brother Chris and his wife, Heather, show up first, bringing along my nephew, Beau, who just turned three. Chris is the middle brother, the steadiest, the most reliable. The most like Dad. He helps Mom in the kitchen while Heather and I play with Beau, who is talking a blue streak these days.

  My brother Jake and his wife, Holly, bring their daughter, Jess, who just started crawling. Jake’s the youngest of us and the polar opposite of Chris—impulsive, wild, temperamental. If people think I’m a hothead, they’ll think Jake’s hair is on fire. But he’s not angry by nature. He’s sentimental and will tear up watching just about any sappy romance movie. Jake joins Mom and Chris in the kitchen, and I keep myself busy chasing after Jess and playing a tickle game with Beau that he just can’t get enough of. That kid’s got the best laugh.

  Dad adds a leaf to the dining room table to make room for everyone. At first, he sets an extra chair but then takes it away.

  “I forgot Willow ain’t here,” he says, carrying the chair back out to the garage.

  Willow’s absence becomes the topic of conversation. How is she doing? When is she coming back to visit? When can I make it up to Tennessee to see her?

  Everyone likes Willow; there’s no doubt about that. But there are differences of opinion about a future for the two of us—and everyone feels comfortable enough to express those opinions.

  “I can’t believe she wants you to move to Tennessee,” Jake says as he tries to get a spoonful of mashed potatoes into Jess’s mouth. “Being a detective in Nashville ain’t the same as being a Texas Ranger.”

  “You might find this surprising, Jake Yates,” Holly says to her husband, “but there are other places to live in this country besides Texas. Not everyone born in Texas has to stay here.”

  “It’s not like she’s asking you to give up law enforcement altogether,” Chris says.

  “You really think he should go?” Heather says, surprised by her husband’s position.

  “I’d do it for you,” Chris says, leaning over and kissing his wife on the cheek.

  “She does have a heck of an opportunity,” Mom says. “This is her dream. She needs to live it.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m not stopping her.”

  “But are you supporting her?”

  “Rory’s got a dream,” Jake says. “It’s called being a Texas Ranger. He needs to live it, too.”

  Dad doesn’t say much, but after dinner he asks me to come into his study with him. The walls are lined with bookcases, but memories outnumber books on the shelves: football trophies, framed drawings my brothers and I did as kids, souvenirs from family vacations, and photographs, lots of photographs. Pictures of us kids, as babies through to adults. Pictures of the grandkids. There’s a nice picture of Anne, my ex. Seeing it in here never bothered Willow because she knows how much my family loved Anne. And it’s hard to be jealous of an ex who was murdered. Besides, there are pictures of Willow here, too. A couple of her next to me at family outings and another solo shot of her onstage. It was taken at the Pale Horse, the local bar where I met her, but she looks like a star playing a stadium show.

  Dad and I are both staring at the picture. Dad was taken with Willow the first time he met her.

  “What do you think I should do, Dad?”

  “You’ve gotta decide that for yourself, Son. But a good woman ain’t easy to find. If you got yourself one, I think you ought to hang on to her.”

  These words evoke the mistakes I made with Anne. She divorced me long before she was murdered. She was a good one—the best—and I let her slip away.

  Am I really going to let Willow slip away, too?

  Chapter 9

  I’M ON THE road the next morning, bright and early. It’s a nice day for a drive, and the F-150 makes for a smooth ride. People who live elsewhere don’t al
ways realize just how big Texas is. To drive from the Louisiana border to the western tip, over by El Paso, takes just about as long as it does to get from Ohio to Florida. Fortunately, I don’t have that far to go, but I’ve got a long day ahead of me, that’s for sure.

  I pass thousands of cows, dozens of windmills, and two dead armadillos lying on the side of the road. The landscape changes around me. Texas could be five separate states. The eastern border resembles the Deep South, Louisiana or Mississippi. The Gulf Coast is a lot like Florida. Central Texas, with its lakes and rolling hills, feels like the Midwest, only hotter. And each successive mile in the north feels more and more like the Great Plains. West Texas, where I’m headed, is another world altogether. The humidity dries up. The grasslands turn to barren dirt and rolling hills of sagebrush and prickly pear cacti. And few people live in the small towns scattered across huge swaths of empty land. When I say small towns, I mean small—towns that make Redbud, where I grew up, look like a city. I’m heading to a county as big as Connecticut with a population less than ten thousand.

  As I drive, I start to feel better about the trip. So what if Kyle is sending me on a wild goose chase as some juvenile punishment. Maybe I can actually help the folks in this town.

  The Rangers bring big-city police services to the small towns of Texas. Kyle said I’m to report to a Detective Delgado. The presence of a detective tells me the police department is bigger than some. I’m sure this Detective Delgado can use the help. He’s probably used to investigating robbery and vandalism. I doubt he’s ever had a murder case in his life.

  Besides, my girlfriend is halfway across the country, so it’s not as if I’m missing out on spending time with her.

  Speaking of my girlfriend, I glance at my phone and notice a text from her. Careful to keep one eye on the road, I bring the phone up so I can read the text.

  I’m going to be on Bobby Bones this morning. Premiering my new single. Tune in…but don’t be mad!

  I don’t know why on earth I would be mad at her. The fact that she’s going on one of Nashville’s biggest syndicated country radio shows is a huge deal. She and I have listened to the show together while making breakfast or sitting on the porch. Millions of people listen to it. I couldn’t be more proud. I’ve heard all the demos of her songs, so I’m curious to know which one they chose for the single.

  I scroll through the stations, looking for the morning show. Just my luck I’d be in a part of Texas that doesn’t get it. But then I come across Willow’s familiar voice, that sexy, raspy twang I’ve always been in love with. My heart swells as I hear her—that’s my girlfriend on the radio!

  She’s talking about the new song, saying that she and her producer had the album nearly wrapped and decided they needed one more track.

  “I wrote it as a joke,” she says. “We were just goofing around. But it’s got a great beat. I think people will really like it.”

  Bobby Bones asks her if the song is autobiographical.

  “Well, I am dating a Texas Ranger,” she says. “Everybody knows that.”

  I suddenly go from excited to nervous. Is Willow’s new song about me?

  “A real-life hero,” Bobby adds. “He’s the one who stopped that bank robbery in Texas the other day, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. And he’s wonderful. Our relationship is nothing like the song. I’ll tell you that. If he’s listening, I hope he gets a kick out of it.”

  “He hasn’t heard it yet?” asks Amy, the cohost of the show.

  “Nope,” Willow says.

  Everyone in the studio laughs.

  “His name’s Rory, right? Rory Yates,” Bobby says. “This one goes out to Rory Yates in Texas. This is Willow Dawes’s new single, ‘Don’t Date a Texas Ranger.’”

  “Oh, shit,” I say aloud.

  I turn up the radio to listen. It’s the first time I’ve ever dreaded hearing Willow sing.

  Chapter 10

  WILLOW CAN WRITE slow ballads that will break your heart, and she can write fast-paced barn burners that get people up on the dance floor. This is the latter. The song starts with the sound of boots stomping on floorboards in rhythm with hands clapping, followed by a quick, heavy guitar riff. The beat is catchy. No wonder they wanted to release this right away.

  My dread is momentarily washed away by pride and admiration at Willow’s talent. Willow starts singing and I’m even more in awe—that voice!

  He’s a tall drink of water with a sexy Southern drawl.

  Your knees will go weak when you hear him say “y’all.”

  With a cowboy hat, big boots, and a gun,

  Does he look like trouble or does he look like fun?

  Tall, dark, and handsome, he don’t have much to say,

  But he’ll arrest your heart and lock it right away.

  I’m feeling relieved. It doesn’t sound too bad. Just good fun, as Willow said on the radio.

  Whatever you do, don’t kiss his lips,

  Don’t slow dance with his hands on your hips.

  If he asks you to dinner, you better say no.

  He’ll only break your heart somewhere down the road.

  Then the chorus starts.

  You’ll be dying to flirt,

  But don’t even start.

  Watch him ride off into the sunset.

  Don’t let him steal your heart.

  Take it from me, ladies,

  I should know.

  If you don’t want to end up living with a stranger,

  Don’t date a Texas Ranger.

  She draws out the words in that last line. There’s a nice guitar solo, then she starts in with another verse.

  He’s gone for weeks while you’re all alone.

  He’s hunting bad guys and you’re waitin’ by the phone.

  Trust me, ladies, he’s too good to be true.

  He’ll be married to his job, not married to you.

  Willow sings through the chorus a few more times, and then she’s back in the studio, laughing and basking in the admiration of Bobby Bones.

  But my mind is elsewhere.

  The comment about waiting by the phone isn’t fair. She’s gone more than I am—I could write a song called “Don’t Date a Country Singer.”

  Really, though, it’s the last line: He’ll be married to his job, not married to you. That’s the one that stings. Not because it’s true in the case of Willow and me. Neither of us works nine-to-five, so we’ve had an unconventional relationship from the start. What hurts about the line is that it’s true of my previous relationship.

  With Anne.

  Willow probably didn’t think anything of that line when she wrote it, just looking for something that rhymed with true, but Anne could have written that autobiographically. In fact, she said as much in her diary, which her mother let me read after Anne died, hoping I’d find some clues to her murder.

  Ever since then, I’ve tried not to be that guy. I’ve tried not to be the guy married to his job who lets a good woman slip through his fingers. For the first time since Willow brought up the detective opening at the Nashville Police Department, I think that I should apply.

  Five minutes after Willow completes the interview on The Bobby Bones Show, my phone buzzes with an incoming call from her.

  “Are you mad?” she says. Despite the good humor in her voice, I can tell she’s anxious to hear what I have to say.

  “No,” I say. “I loved it.”

  Honestly, the song is harmless enough. But here I was keeping a low profile, and now there’s a song inspired by me that a million people just heard on the radio. I can already hear the other Rangers giving me a hard time about it. And the last thing I need is some perp jawing at me during an arrest about how I need to take better care of my woman.

  Willow explains that she had just been messing around during sound check one day, making up lyrics as she went along. Her producer heard it and wanted her to finish the song.

  “I didn’t think we’d end up putting it on the album,” sh
e says, “but once we finished, I knew it was going to be my first single.”

  “It’s going to be a hit,” I say, and I mean it.

  We talk for a while longer. I hadn’t told her yet about my reassignment to Rio Lobo, so I explain that I’m driving across Texas as we speak.

  “They shouldn’t have you back on duty this fast,” she says.

  I don’t tell her that Kyle is punishing me.

  “It will be fine,” I say. “Besides, I need to get out of town for a while before everyone I know gives me shit about being in your song.”

  “I’m serious, Rory. Do you think you’re ready to be back on duty?”

  “It’s a little town in the middle of nowhere,” I say. “How dangerous could it be?”

  Chapter 11

  I FIND MYSELF driving on back roads that twist through the rolling hills. I go for miles without seeing another car—just sagebrush and the occasional fenced-off pump jack levering up and down, pulling oil out of the earth. Off to my left is a narrow oasis dotted with big cottonwood trees and shrubs. That’s the route of the namesake of the town, the Rio Lobo, I assume. I can’t see the river, but in these parts, a waterway would be the only explanation for a meandering ribbon of lush vegetation.

  Around six o’clock in the evening, the road and the river converge at a little town probably no bigger than a few square miles. I drive clear through and out the other side before I realize I’ve seen the whole thing. There are two stoplights.

  I circle back and take a second tour up and down the main roadway. The architecture is a mix of old brick with a distinct Spanish influence (picture the Alamo Mission) and New Mexico–style adobe. The houses are mostly single-story, with shallow roofs and sometimes colorfully painted walls.

  I pass by the school, which likely contains every grade—K through twelve. Behind the school are a baseball diamond and a football stadium that don’t look half bad for a town this small. A fenced-in lot holds several school buses, which rural kids probably ride more than two hours a day.