“How’re you holding up?” Ariana asks.
“The doctors say they’re not ready to release me,” Rory says, “but I’ll tell you what: I’m ready to get the hell out of here and get back to work.”
She can tell it’s taking all of his willpower not to yank out the IV and strap on his gun belt. One of the reasons he hasn’t is because Ariana keeps assuring him that everything is under control. In a few days there will be a big memorial for Kyle Hendricks in Waco, and she knows Rory won’t miss that no matter what the doctors say.
She sits down next to him and fills him in on the latest in the investigation.
When the EMTs found him, he had no heartbeat. They had to zap him with a defibrillator. And even after that, his chances were touch and go for a while as they waited to see if the decontamination treatment would take effect.
His family drove in and waited until he was awake and stable before heading back to Waco. His former lieutenant, Ted Creasy, kept him company for a while. Willow, who recovered quicker, having ingested a smaller amount of the poison, hardly left his side.
The first time he saw Ariana after waking up, he said to her in a weak voice, “You saved my life. Again.”
“Well,” she said, trying to make a joke out of it. “You’d wiped the slate clean, so I wanted you to owe me again.”
“I owe you double,” he said. “For me. And for Willow.”
Chapter 115
ON MY FIRST day out of the hospital, Ariana and I go down to the river to have lunch under the big oak tree. We watch as workers take down the McCORMACK COMMUNITY PARK sign and begin installing a new sign that says SUSAN SNYDER MEMORIAL PARK. When I first got to town, there were three guys—Alex Hartley, Skip Barnes, and the chief himself—all claiming they’d had affairs with Susan. It turned out all of them were lying. I have no idea if she was promiscuous or not—and I don’t care—but what I do know is that she really cared for this community.
She died to bring out the truth. The least they can do is name the park after her. I hope they name something after Ariana. She deserves it, too.
I’m not sure why, but along with our lunches, Ariana also brought a cardboard box with her. It’s about eighteen inches by two feet, and I have no idea what’s inside.
I still feel a little weak, but I’m getting better every day.
Most of the various agencies—not to mention the journalists—have cleared out, and Rio Lobo seems to be getting back to some semblance of normalcy. Several Rangers from the El Paso office remain, and they’ve pretty much taken over the investigation. When Kyle first sent me to Rio Lobo, he told me the El Paso company couldn’t cover it because they were working on a big trafficking case. Turns out the drug dealers they were looking for all along were the ones in Rio Lobo. Now that the two cases have merged, they don’t have much use for me. This was never going to be a long-term job. But it’s bittersweet to know I’m leaving soon. I’ve come to love this little town.
Ariana and I watch the reflection of the sunlight on the water. There’s so much I want to say to her that I don’t even know where to begin.
She does it for me.
Ariana holds up a note Willow left her and says, “Rumor has it you’re single.”
“I am,” I say, grinning sheepishly.
I stare into her dark eyes. She looks as beautiful as always, but I know her well enough to tell when she’s guarding her emotions. There’s something she’s not telling me.
“How about it?” I say. “Want to join the Texas Rangers and maybe date one while you’re at it?”
Ariana gives me a sad, sympathetic smile.
“I’m sorry, Rory. I can’t. Last night the town council voted to make me the new police chief.”
I try to appear stoic, but my heart is breaking.
“Congratulations,” I say. “I mean that sincerely. You’ll do the job better than anyone else could.”
“I hope you understand,” she says. “This is my home, and it needs me. Now more than ever.”
“Trust me,” I say. “I know the importance of home.”
The problem is I’m not sure where home is anymore. The town of Redbud has always been home. My parents’ ranch has always been home. But my little house on the property—that was something I shared with Willow. Even though she was in Nashville more than she was there, I still thought of it as our home.
I’ve known for a long time that I was going to be starting over. But for a while I thought I might be starting over with Ariana.
Not starting over alone.
Now I think about how strange it’s going to feel going back to Redbud, trying to step back into my old life as if I’m the same person. I don’t feel like the same person who drove into the town of Rio Lobo only a month ago. Ariana says she needs to stay in her home, but for me, for the first time in my life, I feel like maybe I need to find a new home.
Ariana picks up the cardboard box and hands it to me.
“Something to remember me by,” she says.
I open the box, and a big grin fills my face. Inside is a brand-new ivory-colored Stetson. I take out the hat and set it atop my head.
“How’s it fit?” she asks.
“Perfect.”
And it does.
Without another word, Ariana leans over and puts her lips against mine. She gives me a long, passionate kiss.
Then she breaks away and says, “Come on, cowboy.”
As we walk along the river, I can’t help but smile, thinking about what a great first kiss that was. And then a feeling of sadness rushes through me like a cold breeze.
Not only was it our first kiss—it was also our last.
Epilogue
I STEER MY brand-new Ford F-150 through the crowded parking lot of Isleta Amphitheater, a fifteen-thousand-person concert stadium south of Albuquerque. On the passenger seat next to me is the new Stetson Ariana gave me. On the floor, leaning against the seat, is the guitar and case Willow gave me.
The parting gifts of the two women in my life.
After I park, I walk through the crowds of people, make my way through the long line at the gate, and find a place to sit on the lawn, which overlooks the empty stage and the rolling desert hills behind it. It’s a beautiful venue for a concert. Everyone is decked out in cowboy hats and country music concert T-shirts. All I had to do was take off my badge, belt, and tie, and I fit right in. I might seem a little overdressed, but I don’t think anyone will notice. If anything makes me look unusual it’s the fact that I’m carrying around an old high school football jersey.
This morning, when I got into my truck—which my company commander had delivered to Rio Lobo yesterday—I had every intention of driving east toward Waco. But then I realized what day it was—checked and double-checked the date to make sure I was right—and I headed west and north instead.
I’m not really sure what I’m doing here. I told myself on the drive that I just want to see her perform, that I’m here to support a friend. But I think the truth is I’m just not ready to go home yet.
Willow will be the first opening act. After her, Brandi Carlile will play a set. And then the headliner, Dierks Bentley.
Willow has her work cut out for her. As the first act, when she comes onstage, people are still filing into the stadium. Half the people aren’t paying attention. But she doesn’t let this stop her. She struts out onstage as if she’s played to crowds this big a million times. From where I sit, she looks no bigger than one of the action figures my nephew, Beau, plays with. But even this far away, her stage presence is unmistakable.
She gets the crowd’s attention right away by playing a Shania Twain song and following it up with one by Taylor Swift. Her band is fantastic, and I know I’m biased, but I think her renditions are just as good as the originals.
Maybe better.
After she plays the cover songs everyone is familiar with, the crowd is hooked, and she segues into some of her own songs. No one in the audience has ever heard them before, but e
veryone—in the chairs up front and at the back of the lawn—is standing up, moving to the rhythm of the songs. People clap their hands and, once they get the hook of the chorus, try to sing along. As Willow prances around onstage, the sun sets behind her, casting a beautiful reddish glow over the hills.
I’m overwhelmed with emotion. I can’t express how proud I am of Willow.
How impressed.
It’s just a matter of time before she’s the one headlining shows like this.
Toward the end of the set, Willow says to the crowd, “Have y’all heard my song ‘Don’t Date a Texas Ranger’ on the radio?”
The crowd erupts in cheers and applause.
“You know I was dating a real Texas Ranger, right?”
Again, roars of approval.
“I’ve got some sad news,” Willow tells the crowd. “We broke up.”
The audience gives a collective “Oh” of surprise and dismay. Willow tells the audience that in real life her ex is a terrific guy. She only wrote the song for fun, and her boyfriend had been very supportive of her releasing it.
“He knew it was going to be my first hit,” she says.
As she’s talking, her band discreetly leaves the stage. A roadie carries out a wooden chair and sets it in the center of the stage. Then another brings out an acoustic guitar and hands it to Willow.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, sitting on the chair with the guitar across her lap, “but I’m going to do the song a little differently tonight.”
With that, she starts to pick the strings. It’s the same song, only much slower. The version of the song playing on the radio is a fast-paced boot stomper. This version is slow and melancholic. The lyrics, when performed this way, are more haunting.
She sounds heartbroken.
Tears spring to my eyes.
The audience loves the performance. People in the crowd hold lighters and cell phones in the air, illuminating the darkness. The only light onstage is a single spotlight on Willow.
She sings the lyrics exactly as I’ve heard them before, but when she gets to the last chorus, she changes them, saying in an almost conversational voice,
Take it from me, ladies,
I should know.
If you ever have the chance,
You should definitely date a Texas Ranger.
The crowd goes wild, laughing and clapping, as Willow strums the last notes of the song. She stands, bows, blows a kiss to the crowd. And she walks offstage.
I applaud like a madman. Tears stream down my cheeks.
That’s my girl, I think.
That was my girl.
As the stagehands are setting up for Brandi Carlile, I walk down through the crowd and find a security guard standing in front of a backstage door.
I ask him if there’s any way he can give the jersey to Willow.
“Are you that Ranger she was singing about?” the guy asks. “I seen you on TV. Man, you’re a freaking hero. Mad respect to you, my friend.”
He offers to take me backstage to see Willow, and I consider it for a moment. But I’m afraid what might happen. Seeing her onstage—seeing what a star she’s going to be—I know I need to let her go. Dating me is only going to hold her back from her dreams.
“Just make sure she gets the shirt,” I say, handing over the jersey she inadvertently left at the hospital. “She’ll know who it’s from.”
I push through the crowd as Brandi Carlile begins to play. I consider staying for her set and Dierks Bentley’s. I’m sure they’re great. But I’m emotionally drained.
I climb into my truck and head off into the darkness.
I drive through Albuquerque and travel east for a while, but I suddenly get an urge, and I decide to turn off the highway. I find a dirt road that stretches into the hills, and I park somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I sit on the tailgate and look up at the stars. I take out the guitar Willow gave me and pluck at the strings.
I play “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” singing about how cowboys are never at home and they’re always alone. But as I play under the canopy of stars, without another soul around for miles, I don’t feel sad about being alone, starting over on my own.
I’m alive—that almost wasn’t the case.
And I can’t help but feel that Willow or Ariana—or maybe both of them—will be a part of my life again someday.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Captain Kip Westmoreland of the Texas Rangers.
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About the Authors
James Patterson is the world’s bestselling author and most trusted storyteller. He has created many enduring fictional characters and series, including Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club, Michael Bennett, Maximum Ride, Middle School, and I Funny. Among his notable literary collaborations are The President Is Missing, with President Bill Clinton, and the Max Einstein series, produced in partnership with the Albert Einstein Estate. Patterson’s writing career is characterized by a single mission: to prove that there is no such thing as a person who “doesn’t like to read,” only people who haven’t found the right book. He’s given over three million books to schoolkids and the military, donated more than seventy million dollars to support education, and endowed over five thousand college scholarships for teachers. The National Book Foundation presented Patterson with the Literarian Award for Outstanding Service to the American Literary Community, and he is also the recipient of an Edgar Award and six Emmy Awards. He lives in Florida with his family.
Andrew Bourelle is the author of the novel Heavy Metal and coauthor with James Patterson of Texas Ranger. His short stories have been published widely in literary magazines and fiction anthologies, including The Best American Mystery Stories.
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