by Sharon Sala
“Hey, honey, need some help?” he asked.
Surprised by his unexpected appearance, she jumped.
“Oh, my goodness…you scared me to—”
Jimmy knocked her cold, then stuffed her inside the trunk. He gave the parking lot a quick glance, making sure he’d been unobserved, then got in the car and drove away.
He’d thought about killing her outright; then, for no reason, after he’d seen her up close, he’d changed his mind. Maybe it was because she’d been smiling at him when he decked her.
Whatever the reason, he decided to just dump her in some isolated place on his way out of town. He’d seen an old junkyard earlier, so he when he reached the area, he drove around to the back and pulled up to where a piece of the picket fence was missing. He sat for a moment, making sure no one was around, then popped the trunk and felt for her pulse. She was still alive. Whether she stayed that way was going to be up to her. Within moments, he dragged her through the hole in the fence and rolled her beneath the stripped and rusted body of a ’56 Chevy.
“1956…I hear that was a good year,” he said, laughing at his own joke as he jumped back into the car and drove away.
He had a general idea of where the McKay ranch was located. Now all he had to do was find it.
When the contractor began applying varnish to the woodwork, Cat was evicted from the house.
“Sorry, Mrs. McKay, but these fumes aren’t healthy for someone in your condition,” he said.
“But the windows are open, and I was going to—”
Wilson stuck his head around the corner. “Out. Now.”
Cat thought about arguing, then decided it wasn’t worth it. Besides, she’d never been pregnant before. For all she knew, they were right.
“Okay, okay. I’m going back to the house now, then.”
“Good idea,” Wilson said. “I’ll be along later. They’re setting the countertops, and I told the guys I’d help carry them inside. They’re heavy as hell.”
“You’re the one who decided on granite,” Cat said.
“I know, I know. But you’re gonna love it.”
Cat grinned. “Oh, I already love it. The stuff is gorgeous. Just don’t drop it on your foot.”
He made a face at her, then disappeared, leaving her to make her way back to the house alone. She never would have admitted it, but on a scale of one to ten, her energy level was barely a four.
When she got back to the house, Dorothy came out to meet her.
“Hi, honey. How’s it going?”
“Super. Everything is going to be so pretty. I still can’t believe all this is happening.”
“Like what?” Dorothy asked.
Cat shrugged. “You know…everything. I’ve gone from the biggest loner in Dallas to listening for the sound of one man’s footsteps. That house is just amazing. Truthfully, I’m so psyched about living there, I can hardly wait. I haven’t had a real home in so long that I’d just about forgotten what the word even meant. Add a baby to all that, and I’m still pinching myself.”
Dorothy laughed. “I see what you mean. Well, just so you know, Carter and I consider you a real jewel and the smartest thing Wilson Lee has ever done.”
Cat laughed.
Dorothy patted Cat’s cheek, then frowned. “You look pale. Why don’t you try to get in a nap before lunch?”
“I was going to help you,” Cat said.
“You can help later.”
“You talked me into it,” Cat said, and headed for the bedroom, unaware that Dorothy was right behind her.
“Hey, I promise I was going to mind. You don’t have to check up on me,” she said.
Dorothy frowned. “I’m not checking up on you. I’m fussing. I always fussed when my kids were sick. You don’t get to cheat me out of another chance. Now kick off those boots and get comfy.”
Cat did as she was told, then sighed with relief as she stretched out on the bed.
“Oh man, this feels good,” she said, and had started to pull the afghan up over her legs when Dorothy took it out of her hands and did it for her, then went so far as to tuck her in.
Cat was touched by her kindness. “You don’t have to do that. I’m pretty tough, you know.”
Dorothy’s eyes welled. “I know all too well how capable you are, my dear. But it’s the why of it that breaks my heart. You missed out on too many years of tender loving care to suit me, so let me do my thing, then we’ll both feel better.”
Those simple words had Cat in tears.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t cry,” Dorothy said. “You’ll have me bawling, and then Carter will get in a tizzy. He can’t bear to see a woman cry.”
Cat put her arms around Dorothy’s neck.
“Then I thank you for showing me what a mother’s love is all about.”
Dorothy hugged her fiercely, then kissed her cheek before moving away.
“I’m off to the garden,” she said.
“Happy picking,” Cat said.
Dorothy giggled as she left.
Cat closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered thinking of were the rows and rows of green beans that continued to reproduce faster than anyone could pick them, despite Dorothy’s diligence.
With the countertops finally in place, Wilson was anxious to get back to the house and check on Cat. Despite her arguments to the contrary, he was well aware of how much she was struggling with nausea. His mother had assured him that usually passed after the first three months. He hoped she was right.
When he drove into the yard, he saw his mother in the garden and shook his head. She was at it again. Lord, they were going to be eating green beans every day for the next year.
He stopped and got out at the garden, then took the bushel basket of fresh produce out of her hands.
“You plant a garden just like all us kids were still at home,” he said.
“I know. Old habits are hard to break. One of these days I’ll quit altogether, then get fat and sassy just sitting around doing my crochet and rocking my grandbabies.”
Wilson grinned. His mother’s body shape had been ample for years, but she wouldn’t be Mom otherwise.
“Dad won’t care how fat you get, and you’re already sassy.”
Dorothy punched him on the arm, but she was smiling. She knew he was right. She and Carter loved each other to distraction, which had often been a cause of embarrassment for their children as they were growing up. Now they just teased them about it, but with love and no small amount of envy.
“Where’s Cat?” Wilson asked, as he set the basket of beans in the shade on the back porch.
“She’s taking a nap, I hope. Go see if she’s awake. If she is, I’ll make lunch. It’s about time.”
“Where’s Dad?” Wilson asked.
Dorothy shrugged. “He said something about going up to the north pasture to check on the momma cows and calves. Now that I think about it, he’s been gone a long time.”
“Give me a few minutes to look in on Cat, and then I’ll go check on him.”
Dorothy hesitated. “He’s been operating on his own for a long time. I’m not sure he’d appreciate being ‘looked after.’”
“Whatever you think,” Wilson said. “We sure don’t want to put a burr in his britches.”
“Exactly,” Dorothy said, as they went into the house together.
Jimmy Franks saw the name McKay on the mailbox just as he drove past it. He slammed on the brakes and drove onto the shoulder of the road to let the semi behind him pass, then backed up to make sure.
He was right. The mailbox was clearly marked “Carter McKay.”
So this was the right location. Now what? He thought about just driving down the driveway and getting it over with in a burst of firepower. He could picture how it would go down. Whoever he saw first would be the first to go down.
Then he frowned. This was Texas. Every rancher in the state kept weapons. If there were very many people at the ranch, he could get himself shot before he ever
even saw Wilson McKay.
Better to take it slow.
Do it right this time, then maybe head for Mexico—or better yet, he might check out New York City. The farthest he’d ever been was Arizona. He could hire out as a mechanic and get lost in America. People did it all the time.
Yeah. That was a better plan.
He put the Honda into gear and began to drive, this time looking for a side road that would take him in on the back side of the McKay place. He had no idea how big the property was, but he figured he would be okay if he just took the next left and saw where it took him. After that, he would play it by ear.
Henry Ralphs was looking for a part for a 1975 Buick and cursing beneath his breath. He was sick and tired of trying to keep his dad’s old car running. Even though his old man could afford to buy two new Buicks, he refused to part with a cent other than what it took to keep the old one running.
Henry was of a mind to quit right now, and go back and tell his dad that it was time; parts were no longer available. But he’d never been a good liar and knew his dad would see right through him.
“Son of a squeaky bitch,” he mumbled, then almost fell on his face as he stepped sideways on an empty beer can. It rolled as it went flat, almost taking him with it. “That’s all I need,” he said, and kicked at the empty can as hard as he could.
It ricocheted against the rusted-out body of an old Chevrolet, then hit the ground a few yards away. He’d started to walk away when he heard what sounded like the faint mewing of a cat.
As cranky as Henry was about working on his daddy’s car, he was a softy when it came to animals. He thought about some small abandoned kitten starving to death out here, and stopped and went back, calling as he walked.
“Here…kitty, kitty, kitty. Come here, kitty.”
The sound came again, but this time it stopped him cold. He was no longer hearing kittens. Someone was calling for help.
He began running, looking under car bodies and around piles of rubble.
“Keep yelling,” he called out. “I’m trying to find you.”
“Help…help…I’m here.”
He saw movement beneath another rusty car body and rushed forward.
“Oh, dear God,” he whispered, as he saw a young girl trying to crawl out from beneath the old wreck. Her head and face were bloody, and she was covered in dirt and grass.
He dropped to his knees and helped her the rest of the way out. “Come here, sweetheart…I got you. I got you. My name is Henry. What’s your name?”
“Tita Little.” Then her face crumpled, and she began to cry. “I want my momma.”
“I know, honey, I know. We’ll get you to your momma real soon. Just sit still and let me get you some help.”
He yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and quickly dialed 911. Within six minutes, the old junkyard was crawling with police and a pair of EMTs.
A policeman was walking beside the gurney as they wheeled the young woman toward an ambulance.
“Who did this to you?” he asked.
“I don’t know. A man…a biker guy. You know. Bald. I’d never seen him before.”
“Did he touch you? Sexually?”
Near hysterics, she covered her face. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. My car…I think he stole my car.”
“What make and model?” the policeman asked.
“A gray 2001 Honda. It has a vanity tag. My daddy gave it to me.”
At the word “daddy,” her tears began to fall faster.
“The tag…what’s on the tag?” the policeman asked.
“It says HER TOY, only it’s written like one word.” She sobbed again.
“Did you call Momma and Daddy? Did someone call my momma and daddy?”
The policeman felt sorry for the kid and patted her arm as they loaded her into the ambulance. “Yes, miss. They’ll be waiting for you at the hospital. You’re going to be okay. You’re a lucky little lady, okay?”
“Okay,” Tita said, and then the doors closed and she was whisked away.
Henry Ralphs went home with good news and bad to give his dad. He’d just saved a young woman’s life, and like it or not, his dad was going shopping for a new car.
Carter was tightening the barbed wire on a loose section of fencing when he saw a small calf suddenly stop playing and stare off into the distance.
He knew cattle well enough to know how curious they were, but he thought nothing of it until he realized he was hearing a car engine. He looked up just as a small gray car topped the rise on Mel Tupper’s side of the fence and started down the hill toward where he was working.
His first instinct to be wary. Mel had been dead for three years, and his place was for sale. It was probably a Realtor showing the property to a potential buyer. But as the car got closer, he realized that there was only one person inside. By the time he could see the driver’s face, he was at his truck.
This man didn’t look like the kind of fellow who was looking for a working ranch. Not with all that black leather and chains.
Carter opened the truck door, then stood behind it, making a show of pulling out a water jug, while he slid out a rifle from behind the seat. He knew the rifle was loaded. He kept it that way for shooting at the occasional coyote or feral dog that showed up to mess with the new calves.
With the door as a shield, he took a drink of water while keeping an eye on the driver, who was now walking toward him.
Carter put down the water jug and stepped out from behind the door with the rifle cradled in his arms.
“That’s far enough,” he said softly. “State your business.”
Jimmy Franks’s heart skipped a beat. His pistol was in the pocket of his jacket. He should have known better than to walk up on a man without speaking first.
“Hey, hey, sorry mister,” he said, and tried a smile, unaware that it made him look more like a weasel caught with a chicken in its mouth than someone friendly. “I was looking for the McKay place, but I think I took a wrong turn. They told me back in Austin how to get here, but they said the place was a distance off the road. It appears I’m not good with directions.”
Carter’s eyes narrowed. His name was on the mailbox right out on the side of the county road, and if this man had come from Austin, he would have driven right past it.
“Can’t you read?” Carter asked.
Jimmy frowned and jammed his hands in his pockets, taking comfort in the gun beneath his palm.
“Hell, yes, I can read. What kind of a question is that to ask a man?”
“A real logical one, considering you drove right past the mailbox that said McKay, then took a road that had Mel Tupper’s name on it, and drove right past Mel’s empty house with a For Sale sign out front. Then you took off out into the pasture like you owned the place, and now you try and tell me you’re looking for the McKays. I think it’s time you state what business you have with them before I give the sheriff a call.”
Jimmy had been watching the man’s face while he was talking, and it occurred to him that he looked a lot like Wilson McKay, only an older version.
“Are you Carter McKay?” he asked.
Carter shifted the rifle, and his hand moved to the trigger. “Who wants to know?”
“You’re Wilson’s old man, aren’t you?” Jimmy said.
Carter’s stomach suddenly knotted. Jimmy wasn’t the only one making a connection. Wilson had shown him and Dorothy a picture of Jimmy Franks when they’d found out he’d abandoned a stolen car in Austin. Admittedly, that man was supposed to be dead, but other than the fact that this man was bald, his face and the one in the picture were the same.
“And your name is Jimmy Franks. I’d heard you were dead. Maybe I need to see what I can do to rectify that situation.”
Jimmy knew it was over. He pulled the gun from his pocket as Carter swung the rifle toward him. In his panic, the first shot went wild, sailing over Carter’s head and out into the pasture, sending the herd of cattle into a stampede.
Carter was ducking as he pulled the trigger. His first shot went into the ground between Jimmy Franks’s feet, but that was too close for comfort.
“Holy hell!” Jimmy shrieked, and made a run for the car as Carter shot again. The second bullet hit the front of the Honda right beside Jimmy’s hip.
He swung back toward the rancher and fired again, but Carter was already in his truck, where he threw the shift into Reverse and drove backward as fast as he could. A short distance away, he swung the truck around and stomped the accelerator.
Jimmy chose a similar strategy, getting back in the Honda and heading for the highway as fast as he could. He’d fucked this up royally. Now they knew he wasn’t dead. Now they would be on the alert again. Damn, damn and double damn.
While Jimmy was making a run for it, so was Carter. All he could think was that he needed to get to the ranch and warn Wilson that Jimmy Franks wasn’t dead.
Dorothy was sitting outside on the porch, rocking as she worked up the latest bushel of green beans, readying them for canning while poking at Old Tom with the toe of her shoe. The cat returned the favor by batting at the ends of her shoelaces.
She was smiling as she looked up and saw Carter’s truck come over the hill and start down the road toward the barn. Her first thought was, Oh good, he’s back in time for lunch. Then it hit her how fast he was driving. That wasn’t like Carter at all.
She watched for a moment, then called out to Wilson.
“Wilson! Come here!”
Wilson was helping Cat put lunch on the table when he heard his mother call, and from the tone of her voice, he knew something was wrong.
He and Cat looked at each other; then he hurried outside with Cat right behind him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She pointed. “Carter! He’s coming too fast. Something is wrong.”
Wilson’s frown deepened as he watched the dust boiling up behind his dad’s old truck.
“What’s going on?” Cat asked.
Dorothy’s hands were clenched into fists. She didn’t answer.
Cat moved up behind Wilson.
“Honey?” she said, sounding worried.
“Dad doesn’t ever drive like that.”
