Rustler's Moon

by Jodi Thomas

  Carter and his dad crawled out of the cave and made their way along slippery rocks and muddy paths to an old trail pounded down by deer. His father swore most of the way, claiming his head hurt. Carter remained silent, but he kept glancing back to make sure one of the ghostly stick figures wasn’t following them.

  When they finally made it to the flat land above the cave, he remembered seeing a rock corral about two feet high and twenty feet square. He asked his dad why the rocks were there, and his old man simply told him to get in the car.

  Carter drove away from the canyon on a road that was simply two ribbons of crushed grass winding around bunches of short trees heavy with fruit. It was dark by the time they pulled onto a farm-to-market road.

  For years afterward, Carter would ask his father where the cave had been, but he either simply liked pestering Carter, or couldn’t remember. The old drunk died never revealing even what canyon they had been in that night.

  As he grew, Carter never mentioned the stick characters on the canyon wall to anyone, but they haunted his dreams. He and his mother moved south to Galveston about the time he entered his teen years. Carter went to college, then to Vietnam. The stick men followed him halfway around the world. He married and raised three daughters, but two things he never did—he never forgot what he saw in the cave, and he never took one drink of alcohol.

  The year he retired, his wife, Bethie, died. His daughters were in Dallas, all with lives of their own. Carter thought about it for a month, then he sold his house in Galveston and bought a small RV and a good pickup to pull it. One bed, a tiny kitchen and the world’s smallest bathroom. Just enough room for Carter and Watson. In the winter he parked at an RV village in Granbury located smack in the middle of his three girls. He played golf on warm days and poker on cold ones. He did odd jobs his daughters needed done around their homes and waited for spring.

  From the Ides of March until the first snow, he relocated to the Texas Panhandle and searched for what he remembered seeing as a boy. If it took him the rest of his life, he’d find that wall inside the hidden cave. Maybe it would be a great archaeological discovery. Maybe it wouldn’t. But before he passed on, he was determined to find that cave and see those strange stick figures one more time. They were a part of his childhood, a part of his nightmares, and he needed to know they were real. They’d followed him in his thoughts and dreams through his whole life. The hollow eyes mirrored his childhood—the good, the bad. A part of what he was. A memory he needed to know had been real when so many memories had faded to may-have-beens.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Wilkes

  BY SUNDAY NIGHT, Wilkes felt as if he was wearing out the Saltillo tile in his big house worrying about Angie. She had two phones with her at the cabin, and he hadn’t bothered to ask for either number. If he drove over there without calling, he’d probably frighten her to death. If he waited here, he’d die of stress fretting over the little museum curator.

  Something about her drew him. Maybe it was simply that she needed him, and no one had needed him in a long time. After the breakup with Lexie, he’d pushed everyone away and given up on trying to understand women.

  But worrying about Angie was starting to look like his part-time job.

  He didn’t want to admit how attracted to her he was. The smell of her hair. The way she sounded when she whispered. He wouldn’t mind listening to that all night long. And her eyes. Even her wild hair was growing on him. It felt so good when it had brushed his jaw. He’d like to dig his fingers deep into the curls.

  Wilkes swore. He was sounding like an idiot picking her body parts apart as if she were a Lego doll.

  Finally, he grabbed his keys. Maybe he couldn’t go to her place and he couldn’t call without a number and he wasn’t about to ask the sheriff, but he could drive around. If he found a black Mercury, he’d confront the driver. Knowing Angie, the stalker was probably some asthmatic, underweight accountant who’d fallen in love with her at her last job and hadn’t had the nerve to tell her how he felt. Maybe it was the coward Mr. Jones who’d broken up with her as she was packing to take a new job.

  Wilkes wouldn’t mind putting a few dents in that guy’s head. Angie might not be his usual type of woman, but she had her own beauty, and the guy should have seen that.

  Halfway to town, Wilkes realized that any way this turned out tonight, he’d be playing the part of a hero or the fool. He might be confronting a bad guy who preys on shy, short women, or he could be getting between two lovers making up after weeks apart. Problem was, Wilkes wouldn’t know which until it was over.

  He told himself to calm down as he drove through town, circling the parking lots of every place that was open. If he saw no old Mercury, he would go back home. If Angie needed him, all she had to do was look up the Devil’s Fork Ranch in any old phone book or online.

  As he drove, he thought about how Angie hadn’t kissed him, even when he’d asked her twice if she wanted to. Something was definitely wrong with the girl. He’d been told a few times that he was a great kisser, but in truth he was so out of practice he may have lost his edge.

  If Wilkes were being honest, he’d also been told he was not so good at staying around by the few women he’d taken out since he’d been back. His last three-date girlfriend told him he had the shelf life of squash. But he’d been faithful to one woman once, and she’d dumped him. He didn’t plan to ever get that involved with a woman again. To say Lexie Davis had stomped on his heart was an understatement. When she’d written to tell him she’d found someone else soon after he’d left for the army, Wilkes was lost. He’d built his whole life, his future, his goals, his dreams around her.

  Every time he went out with a new woman, part of him would begin to calculate how long it would be before she left so that he could leave first.

  So far, the plan had always worked. Only, Angie Harold wasn’t following the rules of the game. She didn’t seem to be falling for him, but then again she’d kissed him all out that first time in the museum.

  He told himself he could handle one night with her, he might be willing to go for two or three, but she’d have to understand that there would be no love involved. It hurt like a cannonball to the heart.

  But the way she kissed could almost make him forget the pain.

  * * *

  PULLING OUT OF CROSSROADS, Wilkes decided to drive over to the Two Step Bar thirty miles away. Only locals knew about the place, and Sunday nights at the bar were usually slow. Sports played on every TV. He always felt lonely there, but at least he was lonely in a crowd.

  Sunday nights Ike Perez and his wife, Velma, always served homemade tamales with a southwest sauce hot enough to take the hair off a trucker’s chest. They were one dollar a tamale, usually ordered by the dozen, and the beer was a buck a bottle.

  Surprisingly, tonight the Two Step was packed. The only thing that would have made the crowd better would be if Ike allowed dancing. But Ike and Velma were Southern Baptist. And while they might serve beer, they drew the line at dancing on Sundays.

  Wilkes looked around and spotted Yancy Grey talking to an old man at a corner table. He wound a path to his friend. Beer and football might take his mind off the little curator.

  For a moment his brain went rogue and pictured Angie in bed. Not a possibility, logic screamed. He wasn’t into breaking hearts. Hers or his. The two of them would never work. But one night might be a paradise he’d spend years reliving.

  He rubbed the bruise Angie had given him on his side as a reminder of their first meeting. A man would have to have a death wish to take Angie to bed. Wilkes told himself the only reason he was worried about her might be because curators willing to come to Crossroads were not easy to find. If he didn’t watch out for her, with his luck, he’d have to serve on the committee to find another one.

  Lying to himself didn’t work any better than usual.<
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  Yancy stood as Wilkes neared, dragging a chair over. “Have a seat, Wagner. I’ve got someone you’ll want to meet.”

  Wilkes didn’t want to meet anyone, but company while drinking always seemed like a good idea. He shook hands with the old man sitting with Yancy.

  “Carter Mayes is exploring the canyons,” Yancy said by way of introduction. “He claims there’s a cave with stick men painted high on the walls.”

  The old man looked up, his eyes filled with hope, but he didn’t say a word in greeting. “I spent five years in the Palo Duro and three in canyons east of here. My dad took me camping somewhere near Crossroads about seventy years ago. We parked up top on grassland by a road, and it wouldn’t have been too far down or a hard climb. I was just a boy, and Dad was too fond of drinking to camp far from the car. One rainy night, I saw the painted men on a cave wall we took shelter in.”

  Wilkes shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like that, but you might ask my uncle Vern. I’ve seen old maps of roads back before the Second World War scattered around his place.”

  Carter Mayes nodded. “I’ve collected quite a few maps myself, but there are still some private roads through ranches that I might not know about.”

  A waitress passed by to take their order. It wasn’t too hard. Beer and tamales were the only two things offered. All she needed was a count.

  Wilkes ordered a dozen for the table and a beer. Yancy already had a bottle of Coke sitting in front of him, and Carter had water. Wilkes changed the subject. “Didn’t I see you parked at the museum, Carter?”

  Carter nodded. “It’s an easy walk down into the canyon from there. I go down to the last viewing overhang and take pictures, then blow them up on my laptop, looking for any caves. ’Course, the museum wouldn’t have been there when I was a kid.”

  Wilkes wasn’t interested in caves or stories of cliff paintings. “Did you happen to notice a strange car parked out by the museum?”

  Carter nodded again. “I sold cars for a living for forty years. I spotted it Thursday night when I came up top. It wasn’t dark yet, and I wondered what a car like a Mercury Marauder would be doing parked off the road by the trees.”

  “Was the curator’s old junker of a van still in the parking lot?”

  “It was. I’m surprised that thing runs. I can hear the rattles in that engine from half a mile away. In fact, Angela was walking to her van when I climbed up. I waved to her and followed her out of the parking lot Thursday night. The Mercury pulled in behind me. When he honked at me for not making the light on Main, I looked back. Couldn’t see him clearly, but it was a man and from the way he was waving his fist I’d swear he was cussing me out for not rushing through the light.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I sat through the green light, too. He tried to go around, but there were cars on both sides of my camper.”

  Yancy shook his head. “What would you have done if he’d got out of his car? Some folks get killed because of road rage.”

  Carter smiled. “I would have sicced my dog, Watson, on him. Town’s only got one light, might as well enjoy it.”

  All three men looked down at the dog asleep beside Carter’s chair. Wilkes chuckled, guessing that Carter had unknowingly kept the stalker from following Angie’s van.

  As the food arrived, Wilkes asked if Carter had a cell phone.

  “Of course. My daughters insist if I’m going to explore, I always carry one.”

  “Mind calling me if you see that car again or any trouble near our curator?”

  Carter took a bite of his tamale, then downed half his water before saying, “I will.”

  “Thanks.” Wilkes didn’t want to go into details so he changed the subject again. “Carter, if you want to drop by my place tomorrow night, I’ll have my housekeeper make something not as spicy and we’ll talk to Uncle Vern about your cave. No one around knows this part of the country better than he does.”

  “I could drive him out,” Yancy offered as if Carter didn’t have his own transportation.

  “Good idea. I’ll set another place.” He thought for a moment and added, “Why don’t you stop by and pick up Angie, too. She’d probably like hearing about a secret cave. Pick her up at the museum and I’ll drive her home after dinner.”

  Yancy grinned and nodded once as if he’d figured something out.

  Wilkes didn’t wait for the question. “No, I’m not seeing her. We’re just friends, I think.”

  Carter snorted. “What is this, grade school? In my day, if a man liked a woman, he just grabbed her and kissed her. If she didn’t run, he married her.”

  “Nowadays they call that assault,” Wilkes answered. “I have a firm rule. The woman has to kiss me before I make a move. Then I know she’s interested and I’m in control.” He didn’t want to admit that he’d broken that rule with Angie three minutes after he met her.

  Carter laughed. “Having three daughters I appreciate the thoughtfulness, Wilkes, but it makes you sound like a bull just circling the corral waiting to be roped. Any man who thinks he’s in control where women are concerned needs to think again.”

  “Not me,” Yancy broke in. “Since my last and only love left me six months ago, I’ve been circling the corral with the lasso around my neck just hoping someone will pick up the lead.”

  “You sound desperate, son.”

  Yancy nodded his head. “Oh, I am. I do have a few strikes against me, so I can’t afford to play it cool. I live in a retirement community with a dozen old geezers looking out for me. I was in prison once, and my eyes don’t match. If a girl even glances my direction, I’m slicking my hair down and smiling using all my teeth.”

  Wilkes laughed and drained his second beer.

  Yancy nodded at him and added, “If a good-looking cowboy like you can’t find a woman, maybe we should all just give up women and start roaming the canyons like Carter.”

  Wilkes laughed and the conversation turned to legends. He told the old story about how Colonel Mackenzie came up on a tribe of Comanche warriors. They’d left their horses on the plains to graze and slipped down to the floor of the canyon to set up a winter camp.

  “Mackenzie didn’t have enough men to round up the horses and climb down the canyon walls to attack the Comanche. He knew if he didn’t control the horses, the Comanche would ride away and the Indian Wars would continue. So, he ran the horses off the walls of the canyon. They tumbled hundreds of feet to their deaths.”

  “I’ve heard that legend.” Carter nodded soberly. “Folks say on cloudy nights you can still hear the horses’ screams echoing off the walls.”

  Wilkes sat back in his chair. “They say that act saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives, both Comanche and settlers.”

  “The night I found my stick men in that cave, I heard howling all night long.” Carter lowered his voice, and the younger men leaned in to hear. “I thought it was the wind. I held the light on the figures, afraid they’d come for me if the cave went dark. When we climbed out the next day, I don’t think we even had a trail to follow for a while. Then my dad found a path that looked like animals made it.”

  Wilkes ordered another round of beer, planning to drink all three himself. “Uncle Vern told me once that he found a rock corral near where Ransom Canyon wiggles along the north side of our place.”

  Yancy frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Early Mexican ranches raised sheep. With no wood for fences handy, they built rock corrals. When the ranches were burned out, the sheep could have run into the canyon. If a small herd lived wild, they could have made a trail up and down. Up to graze, down to hide out.” Wilkes was just guessing. Sheep in this part of the country wouldn’t have much of a chance to survive with all the wolves and coyotes around. “Maybe that trail you found was a sheep trail.”

&
nbsp; “You think your uncle can remember where the stone corral was? I remember seeing one once.”

  “He might. You can ask him tomorrow night. I think I’ll head on home.” Wilkes stood waving the three beers he’d ordered away and dropping a ten-dollar tip. He hadn’t had near enough to be drunk, but he’d had too much to force his mind to stop thinking about Angie.

  He climbed into his Tahoe thinking that half the women in Crossroads were more his type than the little curator. She didn’t know how to dress or fluff her hair. Every female in Texas was born knowing how to wear boots and jeans. You’d think Angie would look around and notice jeans are worn tight, not baggy.

  He headed straight toward the lake and her tiny little cabin. He decided it was simply to check to make sure no Mercury was parked anywhere near, but in truth he wanted to see her.

  Maybe he’d just ask for her phone number so he could check on her. That made sense, but tonight his sense seemed a quarter shy of a dollar even though he’d only had a couple of beers.

  When he came down the hill to the lake, he passed the sheriff’s place. All the lights were on, but he didn’t see Brigman.

  A few minutes later when he pulled onto the dirt road that wound around trees and natural rock formations to get to her cabin, Wilkes relaxed. No Mercury.

  There were lights on inside the cabin, but when he knocked, no one answered.

  “Angie!” he called. “It’s just me checking on you.”

  It occurred to him that she might not know who me was, but he’d feel like an even bigger fool yelling out his own name.

  He knocked again.

  No answer.

  He walked around the cabin looking in every window like an impatient Peeping Tom. No one inside, but the cabin still had its usual explosion of color. Huge Texas Star and pinwheel-patterned quilts hung on the walls. The old leather couch he’d seen two nights ago was now covered with an afghan, and the table he’d seen by the front window now looked elegant covered in antique lace.