Lindy chuckled. “I understand. You’re a good friend to him.”
“He deserves the world. Cole is a great guy. Any girl would be lucky to have him.”
“I get it. He’s Mr. Perfect.”
Jordan disagreed. “No one’s perfect. But to the right girl, Cole is Mr. Near Perfect.”
Lindy glanced at the clock and saw the time was up. “We’re all done. Take your time getting up and dressed. I’ll wait downstairs with a glass of water for you.”
Jordan sat up on the table with the sheet clutched around her. Her gaze was poignant when she stared into Lindy’s eyes. “I care about Cole. I want the best for him. He’s crazy about you. I can read it all over his face. But if you don’t feel the same way, please tell him now. You must know about Rachel. Promise you won’t lead him on. I don’t want to see him hurt again.”
Lindy’s heart skittered to a stop. She gulped at Jordan’s directness. “I promise.”
Jordan’s response was a broad smile. “That was a terrific massage. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Lindy walked to the door. “See you downstairs.”
“Maybe we can have lunch together sometime,” Jordan said, causing Lindy to halt her steps. She turned. It would be nice to have a girlfriend again. But… Don’t push it, the voice inside warned.
“Maybe,” Lindy replied before stepping into the hall. There were only so many promises a girl could make in one day.
Twenty-One
After lunch, Lindy grabbed her purse and walked down the hill to where her car was parked behind the barn. With a break in her schedule, she’d decided to go to town and buy a new taillight cover and bulbs. If she got back in time, she’d join the wranglers and guests in their excursion to White Oaks, the ghost town not far away. Until then, everyone had a couple of hours of free time to rest before that activity began.
Humming and feeling good, Lindy detoured away from the barn so she could visit Butch and Sundance. As usual, the miniature donkeys made her laugh with their silly antics.
Gazing beyond the creek and the cottonwood trees, she could see the Tammen parents lounging in lawn chairs outside the little red schoolhouse reading, while the children tossed a ball back and forth. Her gaze then swung in the other direction, where Richard and Nelda Caldwell stood at the fence watching the horses graze in the big pasture.
The ranch would have been serene except for the sounds of hammers, drills and saws assaulting her ears. She peered across the way to see Cole’s truck parked in front of the third cabin. To her eye, it appeared to be finished on the outside. Neither he nor his men were in sight, however. The racket was coming from inside the cabin, which meant they were working on the interior. Lindy stood there for a couple of minutes wishing Cole would step outside the door. With a longing to catch a glimpse of him, a steady ache pulsed through her body.
She glanced at her watch and then gave Butch and Sundance a goodbye scratch between their tall ears. Just as she turned to walk to her car, a clattering noise from inside the barn drew her attention. She heard someone say, “Shit.”
“Dalton?” She called the wrangler’s name as she strode into the barn.
A figure stepped out of the shadows and said, “It’s me.”
Jumping and gasping, Lindy’s hand went to her throat. When she recognized the person, her thumping heartbeat decreased. “Hunter, you scared me.” She glanced around to see that he was alone. “Are you all right? I heard a noise.”
He bent to pick up a shovel that had apparently fallen off a nail in the wall and then rubbed his arm. “This fell and hit me on the shoulder.”
“Oh. Are you hurt?”
“No. Not really.”
She saw a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his fingers. Her radar went off. “What are you doing in here?” she asked, already knowing the answer. “Guests aren’t allowed in the barn without a wrangler.”
When her gaze flew to the cigarette, Hunter flicked it to the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of his tennis shoe.
“Throw it in the trash can,” she said, pointing to the can at the entrance. “We don’t want the barn to burn down.”
Hunter picked up the extinguished butt and tossed it in the receptacle and lowered his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Lindy stepped to him and spoke in a calm tone. “That’s not a regular cigarette, is it?”
Hunter’s eyes fixed on hers, but she didn’t see anger in them. Just sadness. He shook his head.
“Is it marijuana?”
“Yeah.”
Lindy inhaled deeply. Images of her working as a substance abuse counselor in Sacramento rolled through her mind like a slow motion picture. She’d helped so many young men and women before the nightmare.
A kaleidoscope of pictures spun through her mind, flashing the series of events that occurred that tragic night.
Group night at the community center. Five addicts. A tall albino man walking in wearing a long coat. Apologizing for interrupting. Him whipping open his coat. Pointing two guns at the group. Blasts that sounded like bombs going off. Screams. Cries piercing her ears as she ran. A bullet shattering her arm. Blood. Will he kill me? Keep running!
Lindy squeezed her eyes shut for a second, remembering what had transpired next. Despite being shot, somehow she’d been able to escape out the back door and call nine-one-one on her cell phone. Miraculously, a squad car had been patrolling the area and captured the killer, Steven “Skin” Neal, a white supremacist gang member. But Terrell, Marquis, Reggie, Chung-Ho and Juan had all lost their lives.
Snapping back to the present, Lindy said, “How old are you, Hunter?”
“Fourteen.”
“When did you start smoking weed?”
His eyes bulged in surprise, probably from her use of the slang word. “I haven’t been smoking long.”
“Have you seen those commercials on TV about what drugs can do to your brain?”
“Yeah. Like I said, I don’t smoke much.”
“Glad to hear that. Many people believe pot is harmless. But it’s more addictive than you might realize. Besides the obvious health and emotional problems it can cause, pot changes the way people think. It prevents them from realizing their full potential.”
His brow wrinkled in question. “What do you mean by that?”
She used his expert balloon shooting as an example that would mean something to him. “If you’d been high when you were target shooting yesterday, you probably wouldn’t have done so well. Short-term effects of smoking pot include loss of motor coordination and a distorted perception of sight and touch. Do you know what the long-term effects are?”
“Cancer,” he answered. “And screwed up nasal passages. Headaches. Chronic cough. Forgetfulness. Problems with relationships.” He shrugged. “I took a health class in school.”
She smiled. “You really did well yesterday with the shooting. Have you done anything like that before?”
Hunter shoved his hands into his pockets. “No. That was my first time.” A hint of a smile creased his mouth. “It was okay.”
“Is there a shooting range you can go to back home?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I can ask my dad.”
“I bet he’d like to go with you. Maybe there’s even a club you could join.”
Hunter shrugged again.
Lindy debated on asking him about his mother. In all her years of counseling addicts, she’d learned that directness usually worked best. “Hunter, how would your mother react if she knew you were hiding in a barn smoking dope?”
He froze like a statue. Then in a soft voice, he said, “My mother’s dead.”
Her heart squeezed with sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss. How long has she been gone?”
“Four months.”
“Were you close?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a special relationship, one between a mother and son. I’m sure you miss her terribly.”
He shuffled from foot to foot and g
ulped. “Yeah. She was pretty cool. For a mom.”
Lindy bit her lip and thought about how much she missed her own mother. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you and your dad.”
“Coming here was Dad’s idea,” Hunter said. “He thought we needed to have some fun. My mom died of cancer, and she suffered a lot.”
Lindy nodded her understanding. “Is it working? Are you having fun?”
“I guess. A little bit.”
In typical teenage fashion, he wasn’t going to admit it even if he was having the time of his life.
“Do you have kids?” he asked, stunning her with the personal question.
“No. Not married. No kids.”
“You’re easy to talk to,” he said. “And a good listener.”
Her heart flew into her throat. “Thanks, Hunter. I used to work at a job where I could help people sort out life’s troubles. I usually did a little bit of talking and a whole lot of listening.” Lindy placed her hand on his shoulder. “Since we’re sort of friends now, I wonder if you’d do me two little favors?”
He narrowed his eyes and said, “Like what?”
“First, lay off the weed while you’re here at the ranch. Can you do that?”
A sly smile slid her way. “Yeah, I guess so. What’s your second favor?”
“Do you have a photo of your mom at home? Something small that you could carry around in your pocket?”
He thought a minute. “Sure. There are a lot of pictures in the photo album.”
“Great. Then my second favor is this. When you go home, pick out your favorite photo of your mom. Put it in your pants pocket. Move the picture from pants to pants when you change clothes. And the next time you feel like lighting up a joint, take out the picture and talk to your mom.”
He shook his head, uncomprehending. “A one-sided conversation? What should I talk about?”
“Anything you want. Tell her about your day. What you ate for lunch. What you and your dad are going to do on the weekend. Whether you’re going to come back to New Mexico and become a cowboy when you’re older.”
They both chuckled, and then she grew serious again. “When you’ve told her everything you want to say, ask her if she’d like to share a drag on your joint.”
Hunter laughed out loud. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, I’m not.” She challenged him with a piercing gaze. “If weed is okay for you, it should be okay for her. There shouldn’t be any double standard, right? After all, if it makes you feel better and forget your troubles for a while, think of how it would have benefitted your mom.”
Dumbfounded, he remained mute for a long time as he stared into space. When he finally said, “I get it, Lindy,” she nodded firmly. Her breast swelled with pride and satisfaction.
Hunter stepped out of the barn and into the sunshine. “Hey, Butch. Hey, Sundance,” he said, strolling toward the donkey pen. Before he reached the fence, he turned and smiled at Lindy. “What you said makes sense. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She walked around the corner with her head bent in thought and smacked into Cole. Bumping against his hard muscular frame sent her senses reeling. “My gosh! I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m sorry.” He touched her arm and their gazes fused. She felt her heart thrash in her chest. She’d wanted to see him and here he was.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m headed to town to buy a new taillight cover.” As he stared at her, she wondered how much of her conversation with Hunter he’d heard. Her heart started beating fast. “I see you and the guys are working on the cabin today.”
“We’re making some progress.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Are you going to be back in time to go to White Oaks this afternoon?”
“I’m hoping to be.” Despite her fear about what he might have heard her tell Hunter, she suddenly felt like a lamp was lighting up her insides. “Are you going?”
“I’m thinking about it. But I’m not riding in the hay wagon. Maybe you and I can ride together.”
She smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Then it’s a date?” His blue eyes sparkled with anticipation.
“It’s a date.” She glanced at her watch. Talking with Hunter had put her behind schedule, but it had been worth it. It felt good to help. Running errands in town wouldn’t take long. “I’d better get going,” she said, removing the car keys from her purse. “See you later?”
“Later,” Cole said, touching the brim of his baseball cap.
****
Cole waved as Lindy stuck her arm out the window and then drove away. After having accidentally eavesdropped on her conversation with the teenage boy, his head swam with more questions. Lindy had spoken with such confidence and authority, but also with loving compassion.
What had she meant when she’d told Hunter she had worked in a field that involved helping people sort out life’s troubles? Surely she wasn’t talking about her job as a masseuse.
He entered the barn to collect the snippers he’d left in the tack room earlier. It was the reason he’d come up here in the first place. Spying on Lindy had been unintentional.
“Aw, hell,” he grumbled, grabbing the snippers and stomping out of the barn. His plan to learn more about her through Jordan had backfired. And overhearing Lindy talking with Hunter only confused him more.
There was only one thing he was sure of, and that was the way he felt when he was with Lindy. What difference did it make where she was born or what political party she belonged to? It didn’t matter whether she’d been a securities broker in Chicago before they met, or a go-go dancer in Alaska. Doubt and suspicion be damned. He had fallen for her, and he wanted her to know.
Cole’s determined strides ate up the space between the barn and the cabin. His gut tightened with expectation. He couldn’t wait for her to return to the ranch, because tonight everything between them would change.
Twenty-Two
Tonight is the night, Skin thought as he patiently stood in the chow line holding his plastic tray and waiting to be served the morning slop. All the plotting, testing, learning how to pick locks and forge keys… The preparation, perseverance, and dreams of revenge would all conclude with this final act. Tonight was the night he’d set out to make Joy Elliott pay. And while he was at it, he’d humiliate the warden, the guards, and all the other assholes in this dump by executing the most daring escape in the history of the prison. It was a win-win situation.
As Skin approached the buffet warmer, his gaze met that of the server standing behind the sneeze guard. The heavily tattooed man was dipping mushy oatmeal into bowls. He was another prisoner who worked in the kitchen. Skin had spoken to him a couple of times in the yard and discovered the two shared a mutual contempt for all ethnicities and races other than the white race.
For enough money to keep him supplied in cigarettes for a month, Tat, as he was called, had agreed to supply Skin with a key ingredient from the kitchen—an ingredient that would play a major role in Skin’s ability to carry out his plan. Yesterday, Skin had informed his accomplice to be prepared to provide him with what he needed today in the breakfast line.
Although it was so insignificant as to be non-discernable to anyone else, Skin saw Tat nod his head, affirming the plan was in motion. Skin moved his tray under the sneeze guard and Tat dished a ladle of oatmeal into his cereal bowl. With a slight of hand equal to any fine magician, a small glass vile dropped from Tat’s palm onto the tray. Skin covered it with his napkin and moved down the line. He wrinkled his nose at watery eggs and a bruised banana. Once he was sitting at a table, he nonchalantly slid the vile into his pants pocket and went about eating breakfast.
Mid-morning, his cellmate, Roy, opened his baggie of granola, a food item that was on the approval list of things allowed in the cell. Roy complained that it was his last bag, which Skin had known from keenly observing Roy’s habits on a daily basis. Roy’s aunt brought him his favori
te snack each time she visited, and he munched on it at the same time every morning like clockwork, driving Skin insane with his incessant crunching and the smacking of his lips.
Skin rose from his bed and stood in the middle of the room and began some body stretches. The glass vile rested snug in his pocket against his leg. His heart began to pump wildly when Roy slid a handful of granola into his mouth. Skin glanced over his shoulder to see there was not but a cup of what he considered no better than birdseed left in the bag. In order for the first step in his plot to work, there needed to be granola in the bag.
Also like clockwork, Roy suddenly jumped off his bed and made an announcement. “I gotta pee.” With his back to Skin, Roy unzipped his trousers and stood at the toilet and began to hum.
The breath Skin had been holding expelled quietly. With no time to spare, he slipped his hand into his pants pocket, pulled out the vile, popped off the top and slinked like a stealthy leopard to Roy’s cot. While Roy was taking his leak and staring at the photo of a Playboy centerfold taped above the john, Skin poured the vile of raw chicken juice over the granola in the bag. A few drops were all it would take. Before long, the tainted food would make Roy deathly sick.
Skin was stretching his calves when Roy zipped up and returned to his cot.
Within the hour, Roy was writhing on his bed, clutching his stomach and burning up with fever. “I’ve got cramps,” he moaned. “And I’m gonna puke. I feel like my insides are on fire and my head’s gonna explode.”
“Guard! Guard! Sick man!” Skin banged on the cell bars.
After Roy was transferred to the infirmary, Skin was allowed out of his cell, where he was accompanied to the prison woodshop to spend forty minutes as a reward for recent good behavior. Seven other men received the same benefit. All were watched over by one guard, so it was easy for Skin to carry out step two in his scheme—stealing the few tools he’d need for the task ahead.
****
Lindy stepped into the auto parts store not knowing where to begin to look for a taillight cover and bulbs.
“Can I help you?” asked the man behind the counter.
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