Lone Star Redemption

by Colleen Thompson

  Fortunately, the cattle moved on, swishing their tails smugly.

  “I am so having a nice, juicy steak tonight, if I can find one...” she grumbled.

  The caterpillar mustache twitched. “I’m sure our host will be glad to hear that. Good for the cattle business, after all.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, wishing she could declare for vegetarianism, instead. But she’d been raised on good Texas beef, and she’d miss it like crazy if she had to give it up. “Well, all that aside, I think I saw a diner back in Rusted Spur. And I’m betting there’s a signal there, too, so I can hop on the web.”

  “Glad to hear it ’cause right about now, I could eat that cow whole.” Henry slanted her a look, reminding her she’d been in such a big hurry to reach the ranch, they’d had nothing since first thing that morning. Not that there had been a lot of restaurants to choose from once they’d left the state highway. “You’re sure the place’ll be open?”

  “Judging from the number of pickups parked out front earlier, I figure it’s the local hangout. Thank goodness it wasn’t boarded up like most of the other businesses in town.”

  “Town seems like a stretch,” said Henry, who was a city boy himself, born and raised in Chicago.

  Jessie had to agree with his assessment. When they’d driven through Rusted Spur forty minutes before finding the ranch, the winds had just begun to blow, making the depressing collection of weathered, mostly wood-frame buildings, older vehicles and a single, flashing red light look positively bleak. She hoped that she was wrong, that some unexplored cross-street would reveal a thriving downtown with actual human beings she could talk to. Because even if her sister had been a stranger here, Haley’s boyfriend wasn’t, which made it likely he had friends or family members who would know where he had gone.

  “It’s late for lunch and early for dinner, but let’s head that way, anyhow,” she suggested. “With a little luck, we’ll find some chatty local who’ll tell us about Frankie McFarland.”

  “Could be they won’t like outsiders,” Henry warned. “Especially not outsiders asking questions about a local boy.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” she said. “I’ll bet you a nice, crisp twenty there’s somebody eager to rat out old Frankie. Either because he’s a jerk—my sister’s boyfriends always are—or for the chance to be on TV.”

  “Not for some Dallas station they don’t even get here.”

  Henry’s cynicism reminded her of the other type of people news crews frequently encountered: those who called them vultures—or worse—and slammed doors in their faces. Thinking of Zach Rayford’s contempt, she decided to forget about the camera and the microphone and simply play up the worried-sister angle. Her reunion with her twin later would make for more compelling viewing, anyway.

  By the time they rolled into town, the storm had completely blown itself out, leaving behind a faint orange haze and chilly temperatures for late October.

  Before heading toward the diner, they took the time to drive around town and found a few more going concerns, including a feed cooperative, a small post office located inside a rundown grocery store and a combination car repair shop and gas station. A lone pickup crossed the intersection ahead of them and a couple of lean brown dogs trotted along a buckled sidewalk.

  “I’m starting to wonder if that storm blew us back in time,” said Henry as he peered at a long-since-closed theater. “This place looks like something from another century.”

  “Another planet,” Jessie agreed, thinking of the tangled freeways and shining skyscrapers of downtown Dallas.

  They easily found parking in front of a place called Tumbleweeds, which sported a peeling, hand-lettered sign proclaiming it the HOME OF THE PANHANDLE’S BIGGEST CHICKEN-FRIED STEAK!

  “I notice they didn’t bother to claim ‘best,’” she said, making a mental note to order something healthier than the breaded, fried and gravy-laden dish.

  After hiding the mini-cam in the rear hatch, they went in to scope the place out. At only a few minutes past four, the small, wood-frame structure was deserted save for a plump, dark-haired teenager cleaning tables and an older man Jessie assumed to be the cook, judging from his hairnet and apron, dozing as he leaned against the counter.

  The waitress put down the rag she’d been using and smiled at them with crooked little teeth. “Welcome to Tumbleweeds. Are y’all here for dinner?”

  “Sure thing,” Jessie said, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed that the girl—Mandy, according to the name tag on her apron—didn’t seem to recognize her, which probably meant she didn’t know Haley. But that didn’t mean the teen couldn’t be of help.

  An hour later, they came out, full of saturated fats, since there hadn’t been so much as a single veggie on the menu that wasn’t deep-fried or infused with bacon drippings, but little wiser than they had been.

  Although Mandy had seemed sympathetic when Jessie told her about her search, it was clear that she knew nothing about Haley. She had, however, told them that Frankie McFarland’s brother, Danny, worked at the nearby feed store. Searches on both names with her cell phone, which was working decently if slowly, didn’t turn up anything of use. Apparently, the McFarland brothers didn’t stay connected with their friends on social networks, either.

  Jessie and Henry had nearly reached the car when the girl from the diner came trotting out after them, her dark braid bouncing behind her and her round face pink with exertion. As soon as she caught her breath, she warned, “I didn’t want to say it in there with Crabby Leonard listening, but Danny’s nickname around town is Hellfire. On account of his temper.”

  “You mean he’s violent?” Henry rushed to ask.

  “He’s been tryin’ to pass himself off as respectable since he bought out the local watering hole, but everybody knows he’n Frankie have always been quick to take offense and even quicker with their fists. I’ve heard Sheriff Canter joke about naming one of his jail cells the McFarland Suite.”

  Jessie’s stomach twisted with sudden apprehension as for the first time it occurred to her that her sister might not be deliberately hiding from her family, but in trouble. The kind of trouble that came with being involved with a violently abusive man.

  An approaching rumble cut like a chainsaw through the small-town quiet. Swiveling her head, Mandy gasped and whispered, “Oh, gosh. Here he comes now. That’s Hellfire.”

  As a big chopper-style motorcycle came into view, the waitress glanced from Henry to Jessie and begged, “Please don’t tell him I said anything about his temper. Or that stupid joke the sheriff made, okay?”

  “It’s already forgotten,” Jessie promised.

  But she was talking to thin air, for Mandy was already hurrying back inside as Danny McFarland roared up, his ragged, reddish beard and hair wild in the wind beneath the level of the skull-and-crossbones bandanna he was wearing. A big man with a bigger belly, he hid a portion of his bulk beneath an oversize black leather jacket. As he dismounted, she saw the name Prairie Rose Saloon had been emblazoned across the back. Beneath those words, a rattlesnake, all coiled menace, gaped among yellow roses with wicked, blood-tipped thorns.

  As biker art went, it was impressive. But Jessie had neither the inclination nor the time to appreciate the view as Hellfire turned around to look her over. Though his eyes were hidden behind wraparound reflective glasses, Jessie’s skin crawled at the contempt that seemed to roll off him in waves.

  “Careful with this guy,” Henry warned, shrinking back as she stepped forward.

  Though Jessie had interviewed motorcycle “thugs” who’d turned out to have hearts of gold underneath their rough exteriors, her instincts screamed at her to retreat to safety. But McFarland was the only lead she had to follow, so she held her ground, even when he removed the glasses to reveal a pair of teardrops tattooed beneath his right eye. Teardrops that often signif
ied a stint in prison—or worse.

  In a moment, the mask shifted, morphing from simple toughness into fury before he burst out with, “You stupid bitch. You think anyone’s gonna be fooled by a freakin’ haircut and some fancy clothes? What’d I tell you about—”

  “Haley is my sister,” Jessie said, jolted by the knowledge that he’d mistaken her for her twin. That he clearly knew—and hated—her. “She’s also your brother’s girlfriend, from what I hear. Can you tell me where they went?”

  “Your sister? What the hell’re you trying to pull, girl?” He stopped abruptly to scowl at her, grooves furrowing his weathered face before blinking in surprise. “Wait a minute. You ain’t kidding, are you?”

  “Our mother’s— Our mom’s dying,” Jessie admitted. “She only wants to see my sister one more time.”

  “Well, I can tell you, Rusted Spur’s the last place you’re gonna find that girl, or my brother, either. Now you get on down the road, too—if you want to stay alive.”

  Jessie’s jaw tightened. Does everyone in this one-horse town intend to threaten me? Nevertheless, she stood her ground, insisting, “I can’t go anywhere without Haley.”

  McFarland looked from her to Henry and back again, his lip curling to reveal tobacco-stained teeth. “Maybe then you won’t be leaving. Alive, anyway.”

  Jessie didn’t give an inch, demanding, “Where is she, Hellfire? Where’d your brother take her?”

  As the biker’s gaze turned dangerous, Henry grabbed at her arm. “Let’s get out of here, Jessie. I’ll drive this time if you want.”

  Jerking her arm free, she didn’t budge and didn’t take her eyes off McFarland for a second.

  Without further warning, he surged toward her, faster than she would have imagined such a big man capable of moving. With a cry of alarm, she backpedaled, choking with fear and nausea as her hands came up to ward off his attack.

  Chapter 3

  Zach was astonished at how swiftly his mother jumped up and trotted upstairs to the landing. Showing no sign of illness, she knelt before Eden and wrapped the tiny girl in her thin arms.

  “No, sweetheart. You remember,” she insisted. “Your mama’s job has her flying overseas now. That’s why she had to leave you with me.”

  Zach’s gut tightened as his suspicion deepened. Was she reminding Eden of a truth—or coaching the child to stick to some story she’d come up with?

  Looking frightened, the girl stared into his mother’s face. “I want to stay with you, Grandma, and Uncle Zach, too, and my pony. Please don’t make me go back there. I don’t want to leave.”

  “I promise, baby, you don’t have to. Your mama signed the papers so you can stay with us forever.”

  “And get my puppies, too, soon as they’re ready to leave their mommy?” Eden asked, brightening at the mention of her favorite subject.

  Zach’s mother shot him an aggrieved look, since he’d been the fool who’d taken her with him to see his friend Nate, a bachelor who was even more clueless than Zach was when it came to four-year-olds. Not only had he shown Eden the litter of fluffy Australian shepherd pups in the barn, he’d encouraged her to cuddle and play with them, then pick out the one that she liked best.

  When Eden, who was as crazy about animals as Ian had been at her age, had been unable to choose between a merle female and a male tricolor, Nate had joked, “Then why not take both, Eden? This week only, they’re free to pretty girls.”

  Zach was still mad at the big idiot, though the two had been fast friends since high school. It wasn’t so much that Zach minded the idea of getting a dog for the ranch—especially one from Nate’s Bonnie, one of the smartest, most intuitive animals he’d ever known—but puppies were a lot of work. Besides, his mother, who had always firmly believed that animals belonged outdoors, had been quick to remind him how Eden had cried herself to sleep for days when they wouldn’t let the pony come up to bed with her at night.

  When his mama didn’t answer right away, Eden said, “I already thought of the best names for them. The girl’s gonna be Sweetheart and the boy is Lionheart. Sweetheart’ll kiss me when I’m lonesome and Lionheart will chase away the scary dreams at night.”

  “Those are good names.” As Zach followed Eden and his mother upstairs, he was troubled by the girl’s mention of the night terrors that had her waking up screaming several times a week. During the daylight hours, she seemed happy enough to ride sweet old Mr. Butters under his watchful eye or to curl up on his mama’s lap and listen to the same children’s books she’d once read to him and Ian. And he’d never once heard the girl ask about the mother who’d abandoned her. And she never mentioned Ian, either, or showed any interest in looking at old photos of her father.

  Her alleged father, he reminded himself, realizing there was not a shred of proof other than a stranger’s word. How could he have been so gullible as to accept it at face value? Was he as addled by grief as the mother who had raised him? Or maybe it had been her improvement, the swift change from deep depression to life and purpose, that had convinced him. A man saw what he wanted to, when his heart got in the way.

  Looking deeply troubled, his mother said, “You can bring home the puppies, darling. As soon as they’re big enough...”

  Her voice faltered, and she suddenly dropped to her rear on the hallway’s carpeted floor.

  “Mama?” he asked, taking her sagging shoulders to keep her from falling onto her side. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, my,” she managed, lifting a hand to her head. “It’s just my medication—I’m afraid it’s made me dizzy.”

  He helped her to bed then, but as Eden “tucked Grandma in,” he thought he glimpsed a measure of shrewdness in his mother’s eyes, a look that more than half convinced him she was deliberately exaggerating whatever symptoms she’d been feeling.

  And even more deliberately avoiding the hard questions that she knew he must ask.

  * * *

  Sheriff George Canter stepped down from his Trencher County SUV, wearing a khaki-colored uniform and a look of disapproval. A tall, chiseled man whose broad-brimmed hat shaded his eyes, he made a beeline for Jessie, who’d been waiting with Henry in the car outside the diner for almost an hour.

  “He looks madder than McFarland,” Henry said. “Maybe we should just forget this and move on.”

  Wondering how the cameraman had survived decades in their line of work without a backbone, Jessie silenced him with a look. Once she’d slipped her phone back into her pocket, she climbed out to meet what passed for law enforcement in this one-horse town.

  “Sheriff Canter. Good to see you.” She barely restrained herself from adding, finally.

  He studied her carefully before replying, “So you’re the little lady who felt the need to drag me halfway across the county because she got herself pushed.”

  Jessie struggled to hold her temper in check.

  “Where I come from,” she said tightly, “a shove is an assault.”

  He snorted. “Turns out we got the memo on that all the way up here in Rusted Spur, too, Miss Layton. But at best, it’s only a Class C Misdemeanor, hardly worth the effort to write the ticket, by the time all’s said and done.”

  “He knocked me to the ground, Sheriff. I thought he was going to stomp my head in with those studded boots he was wearing.” She shuddered, remembering how he’d stopped short at her scream.

  “But he didn’t really hurt you, did he?” The sheriff removed his hat to push back thick, dark hair with splashes of silver at the temples. A handsome man who looked to be in his early forties, he narrowed his dark eyes.

  “Not really, no, but he threatened to—”

  “And where the hell were you, sir, during all this?” Canter challenged Henry, who had gotten out of the car.

  Flushing fiercely, the smaller man admitted, “I was
going for my phone. I’d left it in the car, you see, and— I did tell him to back off.”

  The sheriff made a scoffing sound and shook his head in disgust, clearly unimpressed with the cameraman’s conduct.

  “Listen, Sheriff,” Jessie said. “Danny McFarland threatened to kick my teeth down my throat next time, if I didn’t get in the car and go back to wherever it was I came from.”

  “To your TV station back in Dallas,” Canter supplied, the creases in his forehead underscoring his disdain.

  Fury fading, she blinked at him in surprise. Though she’d given the dispatcher her name, she hadn’t mentioned a word about where she lived or her profession. She’d been hoping to enlist his help in the search for her twin, but in her experience, small-town law enforcement often hated big-city reporters, too many of whom were quick to paint the local cops as ignorant yokels.

  “You’ve been talking to Zach Rayford,” she guessed. For all she knew, the rancher and his mother were his cousins, old friends or the elected sheriff’s main campaign contributors.

  Canter shook his head and smirked. “Might surprise you to know we’ve got the internet at my office. When it’s working, anyhow. Your name caught my attention, so I did a quick search. Didn’t take me twenty seconds to come across your picture on your station’s website.”

  “So I’m a reporter. That doesn’t give some tattooed thug the right to knock me down and threaten my life.”

  “Threaten that pretty smile, you mean,” he reminded her. “Let’s get your story straight.”

  She glared, unable to believe this. “Seriously, Sheriff, what exactly is your problem with me?”

  He stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “Well, maybe you look a little too much like your sister,” he conceded. “And maybe that just makes me want to slap a pair of cuffs on you and drag you down to my jail, out of habit.”