Sunrise Crossing

by Jodi Thomas

  He was alone at thirty-two and wise enough to realize that it wasn’t a bad place to be. The old folks at the Evening Shadows Retirement Community, where he worked, would have thrown him a birthday party if they’d known, but they were all tucked in their beds by dark. They counted away what was left of their lives, but Yancy wanted to count forward.

  He’d been with the retired teachers for seven years now, repairing their homes, managing the twenty-cottage complex that had started as an eight-bungalow motel set in a town where two highways crossed. The school system had originally bought the old motel, hoping to offer small homes to new teachers, but those retiring from teaching had wanted to stay in town and together.

  Yancy drove the old residents to the doctor and picked up their prescriptions. He cared about and for them. He repaired everything around the place and built a new cottage now and then when a single teacher needed a place to live out his or her days in peace.

  In return, they all loved him and tried to pass down their wisdom. Cap taught him carpentry and plumbing, and Miss Bees had taught him to cook. Leo was a wizard with money and had him investing, and Mrs. Abernathy had even tried to teach him to play the piano. No matter what project he took on, Yancy knew there would be someone waiting to advise him on every detail.

  Yancy sometimes thought he’d gone from high school to grad school in the years he’d been employed by the teachers. They were a wealth of knowledge, and he was a ready pupil.

  But when it came to women, nothing they said worked. He hadn’t had a date in months, and the two he’d had last year had convinced him that being single wasn’t so bad. There seemed to be no family for him, past or future. No girl wanted to be seen with an ex-con, handyman, drifter, no matter how nice he was or how much her grandmother bragged about him.

  Looking up, he saw the old gypsy house a quarter mile away, far enough from the lights to not be in town and close enough to not be completely outside it. His place. Nestled among the barren elm trees, the house still looked haunted, even if he had framed up the second floor and repaired the roof. The trash and tumbleweeds were gone, but no grass or flowers grew near the porches. Like him, the place didn’t quite fit in among the others in town.

  Yancy had built a workshop behind the hundred-year-old crumbling remains so that he could rebuild the old house better than it had been built a century ago. The workshop looked more like a small barn, with a high roof and a loft for storing supplies. Inside, the bay was big enough to hold six cars, but he’d set up long worktables and saws he’d bought at flea markets and yard sales.

  This crumbling home and five acres of dirt surrounding it might not look like much, but it was his, all his. A grandmother he’d never met had left it to him, along with enough money to pay the taxes for years. He didn’t care that he had no relative to ever send a birthday or Christmas present for the rest of his life. This was enough.

  Last Christmas, the ladies at the Evening Shadows had held a fund-raiser in his barn. They’d hung quilts to cover the walls of tools and shelves, then loaded the tables with homemade sweets and crafts. He swore everyone in town had come and bought an armful, whether they needed a new tissue-box cover or reindeer coaster set or not.

  He’d loved helping the ladies out, but was glad when his shop was back in order. Old Cap had taught him that there needed to be a place for everything, and Yancy believed he could have located, with his eyes closed, any tool on his walls.

  From the first day he found out the place had been willed to him, Yancy had decided to start remodeling from the inside out. When he finished, the place would shine. He’d move into a real home for the first time in his life. The house might have held only sadness and hate thirty-one years ago when his mother lived here during her pregnancy, but he’d rebuild it with the love of a craftsman who’d learned his skills in prison and had dreamed of a project like this one.

  The workshop door creaked a little when he opened it.

  Yancy smiled. He liked the sound; it was like the place was welcoming him.

  As he did every other night, he tugged off his coat, hung it on the latch and began to work. Tonight he’d sand down aged boards that would eventually be polished and grooved to fit perfectly in the upstairs rooms of the house. He’d turned the four little rooms downstairs into one open space, with a kitchen on the back wall and a long bar separating it from the living space. The bar had taken him three months and was made out of one piece of oak.

  He’d bought a radio months ago, thinking that music might be nice while he worked, but most nights he forgot to turn it on. He liked the silence and the rhythm of the midnight shadows, and he liked being alone with his thoughts and dreams. Seven years ago, when he’d arrived, he’d had nothing but a few clothes that were left over from before he’d gone to prison. Now he was a rich man. He had a job he loved and he had the silence of the night in which to think.

  As he began to sand the wood and carve away the stress of the day, the loneliness of his nights and the worries he always had about the tenants he cared for all slipped away as his muscles welcomed the work.

  This was what he needed. A passion. A job. A goal to move toward. When he finished, he’d have pride in what he’d done, and no one could take that from him.

  After a while, he heard a sound above his head. A slight movement, as if someone had shifted atop the loose boards stacked along one side of the loft.

  Another sound. The creaking of the flooring.

  As he had each time for a week when this had happened, he didn’t react. He simply kept working. If the invisible visitor had meant him any harm, he would have known it long before now. Maybe some frightened animal had taken shelter from the last month of winter, or maybe a drifter just wanted a warm place to rest before moving on. He’d been there in his teens. He knew how much a quiet, safe place could mean.

  Yancy was lost in his work an hour later when a loose board shifted above and tumbled down.

  A little squeak followed.

  Yancy waited, then said calmly, “If you’re trying to kill me, you’ll need to toss down something bigger than a two-by-four.”

  “Sorry,” came a whisper.

  “No harm. I’ve known you were up there for a while. Want to come down and say hello?”

  No answer.

  “I got a thermos of hot coffee I haven’t had time to drink. You’re welcome to it.”

  “You’re not calling the police?”

  “Nope. Sheriff probably has his own coffee.”

  Yancy thought he heard a hiccup of a laugh.

  A slight woman dressed in jeans and a blue-checked flannel shirt moved down the ladder. Her long, dark braid brushed her backside as she lowered from step to step.

  “I didn’t mean to spy on you,” she said, without looking at him. “The barn wasn’t locked, and I just wanted to be out of the cold a few nights ago. It smells so good in here I’ve found myself coming back.”

  “It’s the fresh-cut wood. I love the smell, too.” He went back to work. “So, you walk at night also? It’s a habit of mine.”

  She nodded. “I don’t usually come this close to town, but walking seems better than trying to sleep.”

  “I know what you mean.” He handed her the thermos. “Coffee’s strong. It was left over from where I work, but it’s hot. Should take off the chill.”

  She untwisted the lid and poured herself half a cup. “I like the sounds of the night and the way I can walk without having to speak to anyone. I can just walk and be a part of the land, the trees, the air.”

  “You don’t like talking to folks?”

  “Not much. I’ve just said more to you right now than I’ve said to anyone in days.”

  He grinned, thinking no one at the retirement home would believe this story when he told it tomorrow. A pretty woman, about his age, with hair as black as midnight, hiding
in his loft. And even stranger, she said she didn’t like to talk but yet she still talked to him.

  He liked the idea that they shared a love for walking the shadowy roads and also for not having much to say. He was usually the one folks skipped talking to. “You’re welcome here anytime. I’m Yancy Grey and I’m remodeling—or probably more accurately, rebuilding—the old Stanley house.”

  “I know. I can see that.”

  She had a soft, easy smile, but sad eyes. Old-soul eyes, he thought, like she’d seen far more sadness than most. He remembered a few people in prison like that and had watched sad eyes go dead, even though the person looking out of them was still breathing.

  “You live around here?” Yancy knew he would have remembered if he’d seen her before. At first glance she looked more like a sixteen-year-old kid, but in the light, she seemed closer to her late twenties.

  “I have to go.” She backed toward the door. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  He saw panic in those beautiful winter-blue eyes. He forced himself not to react. One more question and he knew she’d bolt.

  “No bother.” He turned back to his work. “It was nice to have the company, even if I did think you were a rabbit.”

  She whispered, more to herself than to him, “How would a rabbit get up there?”

  He shrugged. “How would a pretty lady? Come back anytime, Rabbit. No questions, I promise.”

  She took one more glance around the shop. “I like this place. It makes me feel safe. My father had a shop like this one.”

  “You are safe,” he added, knowing without asking that her father must be dead. If he’d been alive, she wouldn’t be searching for a safe place. “Drop by anytime. Only, beware—I might put you to work.”

  She ran her small hand over the wood he’d just sanded. “I’d like that. I grew up helping build things. Some folks said my daddy was an artist, but he always said he was just a carpenter.”

  Without a word, he handed her the sander and went back to work. She stood on the other side of the workbench for a few minutes, then began to polish. For an hour, they simply worked across from each other. Her skill was evident, and he found himself wishing that a woman would touch him as lovingly as she touched the wood.

  When he lifted the final board, she set her tools down and whispered, “I have to go. Thank you for this calm evening, Yancy.”

  “You’re welcome, Rabbit. Come back any night.” He sensed what she might need to hear. “I could use the help, and I promise, no questions.”

  She slipped through the doorway so silently he almost thought he’d imagined her.

  Folding up his toolbox, Yancy turned out the light. He’d enjoyed her company, even though he knew nothing about the woman, not even her name. For all he knew, she could be crazy. Maybe she’d run away from prison or a husband who beat her. Or maybe she was a drifter, just waiting to steal everything she could get her hands on. If so, it wouldn’t be too hard; he’d never bought a lock for the barn.

  But she had no car. She couldn’t have come far walking and she wouldn’t be able to carry off too much. She also had no wedding band, so no one was probably waiting up for her. He sensed that she was as alone as he was.

  He reached for his coat and wasn’t surprised to find it missing from the latch.

  As he started back toward his little room behind the activity hall of the Evening Shadows Retirement Community, he smiled, glad that Rabbit was warm at least. At her size, his coat would be huge, for he had to be over a foot taller than her and probably weighed double.

  Maybe he should have more questions running through his head, but the only one he could think of right now was, could he call what they shared tonight a date?

  Yancy swore to himself, thinking how pitiful he was to even consider the question. She was probably just lost, or maybe hiding from something, and definitely a thief—she’d stolen his coat. Not dating material even for someone as desperate as he was to just do something as ordinary as holding a woman’s hand.

  But, considering all her possible shortcomings, she was still the best time he’d had with a woman in months.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DEPUTY FIFTH WEATHERS rushed into the county offices on Main Street in Crossroads, Texas, as if he were still running offensive tackle for the Texas Longhorns.

  Grinning, he realized it had been four years since he’d graduated. He was forty pounds leaner and long past talking about his football days, but now and then he yearned to run with the crowds roaring once more.

  He headed straight for the sheriff’s office. All hell was about to hit and he hadn’t even had breakfast.

  He’d overslept, again, and that was something Sheriff Brigman thought should be a hanging offense. Plus, even though he’d worked until long after midnight, the report due today still wasn’t done.

  Pearly, the county’s receptionist and secretary, who sat just right of the main entrance, always jumped when Fifth walked past. She was a thin, little woman who’d probably blow away if he sneezed, and in the two years he’d been working with the sheriff, she’d never smiled at him.

  The first six months he’d been in town she’d asked weekly when he planned to leave. Lately, the question hung silently between them like last year’s Christmas tinsel caught on a slow-moving fan, fluttering silently as it circled.

  He nodded at her.

  At six feet seven inches, Deputy Weathers wasn’t likely to sneak up on Pearly, but she frowned like she could see doomsday coming when his shadow blocked the sun.

  “There you are,” she snapped. “The sheriff’s looking for you.”

  Fifth moved closer to her massive desk. If he got any nearer than five feet, it always made Pearly start to fiddle with her shawl fringe like she planned to unknit the entire thing if he came within touching distance.

  “You all right, Miss Pearly?” he said in a tone he hoped sounded more kind than threatening.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. “You just startled me. Someone should have put a brick on your head ten years ago, Deputy Weathers.”

  Fifth gave up any attempt at conversation and headed toward the sheriff’s office. He couldn’t help it if his father had cursed him with height and his mother hadn’t been able to think of a name for her fifth son, so she’d just called him a number. Everyone had crazy families. His was simply supersized.

  “Sheriff Brigman is not in there,” Pearly announced, about the time he reached the door. “He’s out on the Kirkland Ranch. Said to bring the missing-persons flyers for the past month and maps of the county. Wants your help as soon as possible, so I’d suggest you start backtracking all the way to your car.”

  Fifth thought of asking her why she hadn’t let him know right away. She could have radioed the cruiser he drove, called his cell or dialed the bed-and-breakfast where he’d overslept this morning. But he knew what Pearly’s answer would be if he asked: she always said that she’d been about to. The woman’s about to list would last her into the hereafter.

  He turned and walked back past her desk, trying not to notice how she leaned away like he’d accidentally knock her down on his way out.

  A few minutes later he climbed into his cruiser, wondering why some people treated men over six-six like they were alien invaders. Men who were six-four were apparently fine, but grow a few more inches and you’re out of the normal zone. It also didn’t help that deputies in Texas wore boots and Stetsons. That added another three or four inches.

  When he’d played football in college, his height hadn’t been a problem. But now anyone lower by a foot seemed to think he might just accidentally bop them on the head. He’d made it through the academy and had served two years as a deputy without accidentally killing anyone.

  As he drove toward the Double K Ranch that had been in the Kirkland family over a hundred years, Fifth Weat
hers tried to relax. He’d been in Crossroads since Sheriff Brigman was shot and almost killed two years ago.

  At first it had been just a job, a chance to step out of a big office and work with a sheriff everyone in Texas respected. But lately, it was more than that. He was starting to care about the people. He’d matured from a green rookie looking for excitement to a seasoned officer who hoped never to have to pull his weapon again.

  That is, if shooting a snake counted as a first time.

  For the most part, the folks in the county were good, honest citizens who loved to tease him once they figured out he was on the shy side. The grocer offered to stack his daughters if Fifth would take both of them out. The Franklin sisters, who ran the bed-and-breakfast, were always trying to match him up with one of their relatives because they claimed the family tree could use the height. And from what he’d seen, Franklins tended to grow out instead of up.

  Fifth wouldn’t have minded having a date. It had been a while. But even in college, when girls flocked around athletes, he hadn’t gone out much. He’d always felt awkward and never knew the right thing to say.

  He blamed his mother for his awkwardness around women. You’d think with a dozen pregnancies she could have popped out one girl so her sons could learn to relate.

  When he turned onto Kirkland land, Fifth put his problems aside and was all business. If the sheriff was here, there must be something wrong. Staten Kirkland was a good man who ran his ranch like a small kingdom. He wouldn’t be calling the law in on something minor.

  Dan Brigman was on the porch talking to the rancher. All signs that Brigman had taken four bullets in an ambush were gone: the sheriff looked fit and strong; his hair had grayed to the color of steel, and his eyes always seemed to look right into the heart of folks. Fifth could think of no better goal than to model his career after this legend of a man.

  “About time you arrived,” Dan said with a hint of a smile that told Fifth he wasn’t in any serious trouble this time.