Knowing the futility of it, she typed in another search and her heart beat a little faster. Unbelieving, she stared at her screen. She’d found a casual mention of wildcatter Davis “Driller” Montjoy in an article about Lone Tree’s history. A cross-reference at the end directed her to another site.
The page popped up on her screen, and she couldn’t hold back the smile. The text contained a brief narrative about a housekeeper who’d saved Driller’s life. Her great-grandfather, at the age of thirty-five, had suffered an attack of appendicitis. No big deal now, but Annelise understood the nearly hundred intervening years made a huge difference in medical care—and its availability.
Driller’s timing couldn’t have been worse. According to the article, a tropical storm had blown through the area several days before, and the then dirt road had become impassable, literally cutting them off from town and the only doctor.
Lucky for old Driller, his housekeeper had nursed at a Dallas hospital before coming to work for him. She’d performed a crude appendectomy right there at the house. Annelise cringed at the thought, then saved the information on her computer.
She stood, stretched, then walked to the fridge and pulled out a soda. After rubbing the ice-cold can over her cheeks and neck, she popped the top and took a long drink. Blowing a strand of hair from her eyes, she went back to the computer. If she and Ron had missed this article, maybe they’d overlooked something else.
After giving it another hour, she signed off. No amount of crawling around on websites had unearthed anything more.
But…she had something. Finally, an avenue to explore. Excitement crept through her again as she played with this new information. While she still didn’t have a concrete lead and no actual name or address to visit, this was a start, wasn’t it?
Antsy, unable to stay in her apartment, she grabbed her helmet and motorcycle keys and headed out of town. Time to get off her duff and go Montjoy hunting.
Every day since she’d hit Maverick Junction’s city limits, she’d promised herself she’d drive over to Lone Tree. Yet something always got in the way. She’d had no idea simply taking care of the basics of life could be so time consuming. And the job at Whispering Pines took up a lot of her hours. Maybe that had been a mistake.
Way down deep inside, though, she knew she wouldn’t do it any differently given another chance.
She headed south, the vista unchanging except for random patches of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush. Geez, Louise, could it get any hotter? Dust devils swirled along the side of the road, and a sense of urgency and expectation whipped through her.
When the Lone Tree city-limits sign came into view almost an hour later, she gave a whoop of joy. That died fairly quickly, though. Looking around, she had a pretty good idea why they’d named it Lone Tree. Hardly more than a wide spot in the road, the town’s starkness intimidated her.
She drove slowly down Main Street on her Harley. None of Maverick Junction’s charm overflowed into Lone Tree. No awnings welcomed shoppers respite from the sun. No pretty flowers smiled from barrels along the sidewalk.
One thing for sure, though. She didn’t need to fight for a parking spot. Pulling alongside the curb, Annelise released the kickstand and stared up and down the street, trying to decide where to start now that she’d arrived. Amazing to think Grandpa had actually been born here, started school here. She’d never known her great-grandfather, but from the stories told about his almost obsessive compulsive need for perfection, he had to have been more than happy to see the backside of this town.
A sleek black cat slunk in and out of doorways, wrapping itself around a light pole. Did it have a home, she wondered, or was it a stray? The cat made its way to her, and Annelise threw a leg over her bike and knelt beside it to rub its chin. No, this feline definitely wasn’t homeless. Up close, it appeared well fed and way too well taken care of to be living on the streets.
Speaking of well fed, after she’d tossed the pizza she had made for her and Cash, she never had eaten lunch. She frowned, thinking about her first few minutes in Maverick Junction. She’d headed into Sally’s Place, and that’s where she’d met Cash.
Her stomach plummeted. Cash was so angry with her, and she could blame no one but herself. She should have been upfront with him—or at least confessed at his cabin who she was. She couldn’t have handled things any worse if she’d tried.
Cash wasn’t the reason she’d come here, though. She’d driven to Lone Tree for her grandfather. His life depended on her finding his sister. Why not start with the local café? She could squash her building hunger while, hopefully, ferreting out information.
She hung her helmet on the sissy bar and removed her small purse from the saddlebag. Two doors down, the Cowboy Grill appeared to be the only choice for Lone Tree restaurants. Without giving herself more time to think, she walked inside. She saw no one. Not another soul. Not sure what that said about the food, fearing the worst, she reminded herself it didn’t matter. She hadn’t expected a five-star restaurant. She almost laughed. Good thing, that.
But somebody had to be here. A waitress or a cook? A busboy? Somebody. This felt creepy, like being the sole survivor after a nuclear attack. Or falling into the pages of a Stephen King novel.
Forcing herself to move farther inside, she headed for the counter, a place she always avoided. If she really wanted to chat, though, she needed to step outside her comfort zone—as if she hadn’t already. Taking a seat at the bar, she plunked her purse down on the stool beside her.
“Hello?” she called. “Anyone here?”
A gruff-looking guy with a day’s heavy stubble and a food-smeared apron swung out from a side room. He grabbed a plastic-coated menu from a stack and plopped it down in front of her.
“Sorry. Didn’t hear you come in.” He nodded at her. “What’ll you have to drink?”
“A huge glass of ice water, please.”
“Got that. Though if we don’t get rain soon, that might change.”
Within seconds he returned with a gigantic red pebbled-plastic glass, condensation trailing down its sides. He set it in front of her. “Don’t guess I’ve seen you before, so welcome to Lone Tree. Name’s Oliver.” His voice sounded like a garbage can rolling across a gravel pit.
“Thanks, Oliver. I’m…Annie.” Annelise smiled, unaccountably comfortable with this rough-edged, burly man. Hope sprouted inside her. Maybe she’d get lucky with Oliver, and he’d have some information that would help her. Since she seemed to be his only customer, they should have plenty of time to chat.
“Well, Annie, looks like you’re stuck with me.” He waved his counter cloth toward the window. “You hit smack-dab in the middle of our downtime. I sent Judy out to run a few errands, so I’ll be the one takin’ your order and doin’ the cookin’.”
“I’m good with that.” She took a long drink of water, then turned her attention to the menu.
Very similar to Sally’s, it had a few Lone Tree twists. Ollie’s half-pounder took center stage. Annelise decided to forgo that and ordered a turkey sandwich with a side salad.
Waiting for her meal, she focused on the song coming over the small radio on the back counter. Reba. One of the songs she’d listened to earlier with Cash. Score one for her quiz.
Tranquility settled over her. The hurt from her argument with Cash, the niggling doubts she’d not find her relative, the anger her parents and grandfather undoubtedly sent her way—all of it scurried off to a dark corner of her mind. She hadn’t a doubt that this diner, with Oliver at the griddle, was exactly where she was supposed to be right at this moment. It felt safe, a place a person would want to spend time.
Leaning her elbows on the counter, she watched Oliver. Efficient and competent. He’d obviously been doing this a long time. No wasted effort. Every move purposeful.
And maybe, just maybe, he knew her lost aunt—or knew something about her. If not, well, she’d enjoy herself and the summer afternoon.
She’d call Sophie later
for an update on her grandfather.
Oliver set a plate in front of her, and she was embarrassed when her stomach rumbled.
“Sorry.” She laughed. “I had half a donut for breakfast and skipped lunch. This looks great.”
It did. Two slabs of homemade-looking bread piled high with shaved turkey, tomatoes, and lettuce. Yum.
“You passin’ through?” Oliver asked, hands on hips, watching as she took her first bite.
Nodding, she chewed and swallowed. “Yes, I am. Actually, I’m working as a ranch hand at Whispering Pines over in Maverick Junction.”
“Boy, you’re a long way from there. You drive all those miles for a late lunch?”
She shrugged, chewed another bite, and calculated how best to broach her subject. “I had the day off. After I took care of some things this morning, I thought I’d take a ride.”
He glanced out the window and whistled. “That’s some sweet bike. Nothin’ better than a hog.” He swiped at the already clean counter. “What brings you to Texas? Obviously, you’re not from these parts.”
She grinned. “What was your first clue?”
He grinned back. “You don’t exactly sound like a native. I’d say you’ve got a little Boston in you.”
“You’d be right.” Oliver had handed her the opening, and Annelise ran with it. “Actually, though, my family used to live here in Lone Tree. So in a roundabout way, I am from here.”
She hesitated. Here was the root of her problem. If she gave him her last name, it wouldn’t be long till he told someone who told someone, and quicker than a Tom Brady smile at a cocktail party, the press would be breathing down her neck. If she didn’t give her name, how could she get help tracking down her relative?
“Any of your people still around?”
Her mouth went dry, and she took another, much-needed drink of water. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, if you’re interested in findin’ out, I know an old gal who might be able to help you. I’m no good with names, but I can tell you who is. Miss Thelma Hanson. She lives a couple miles outside of town on the old family homestead. Miss Thelma and her family have been here since before Texas was a state. If your kin lived here, she’d know about it.”
Hope stirred in Annelise. “Oh, I’d love to visit her.”
“Miss Thelma’s gettin’ on, so it might be better if you called instead of surprisin’ her.”
She nodded.
“Let me give you her phone number.” He scrawled it on his order pad and tore off the page, handing it to her. “Here you go. Tell her Ollie down at the Cowboy Grill told you to give her a call.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.” Surprised, she looked down at her plate—her empty plate. She’d eaten every crumb.
“Want some dessert? My wife made a lemon meringue pie today. Ain’t nobody makes them better.”
“Oh, I’d love a piece, Oliver, but I’m too full. Maybe next time.”
“Good enough. Look forward to seein’ you again and hearin’ what you find out from Miss Thelma.”
“Why don’t I give you my phone number, too, just in case you think of anything else that might help?”
“Sure thing. I’ll stick it in the register here.”
She grabbed a napkin and jotted down the number for the cell Cash had given her. “Here you go.”
Annelise paid for her meal and thanked the owner again. Tucking the slip of paper in her purse, she stepped out into the Texas heat. Eyeing the sky, she figured Miss Thelma would have to wait. As much as she wanted to head over there right now, it was too late to visit her today. It would take a good hour to get home. Considering the wild game, the livestock, and armadillos that made a habit of wandering onto the roads, she didn’t want to tackle the trip in the dark.
Did Thelma Hanson hold the key to her family’s history? No Texas waltz here. Anticipation did a lively Irish jig in her stomach.
How would she stand the wait? It was like being handed a beautifully wrapped gift and then told you had to hold it for a day or two before opening it.
Whatever gem lay inside would still be there, though, wouldn’t it?
Chapter Eleven
The morning sun barely skimmed the treetops when Annelise turned off the highway and onto Hardeman Lane. Cinders crunched beneath the wheels of her Harley. Pausing on the side of the drive, she breathed deeply and revved her bike. Not yet seven o’clock and she was already tired. Between her fight with Cash and the new lead from Oliver, she’d barely slept. Her mind refused to leave either alone.
How would she make it through the workday ahead? But then, maybe she wouldn’t have to. Cash might send her packing the minute he laid eyes on her. No going back. One more breath, then she drove through the massive wrought-iron archway announcing Whispering Pines Ranch.
How had things gotten so messed up?
Well, at least she had a backup plan for the day in her hip pocket. If Cash refused to listen to reason, she’d drive to Lone Tree this morning. To Ms. Thelma’s.
And be sorrier than she could say.
Heading down the long driveway, dust boiled up behind her. She slowed to a crawl and studied the huge red barn, the weathered sheds, the paddocks with horses already grazing.
The big white house sat at the end of the lane, pots of geraniums marching up its wide steps. Roses trailed over a trellis and added another splash of red. The old house looked like it wanted to wrap you in a warm hug. The same sure couldn’t be said for the woman who lived inside. Vivi wasn’t likely to be putting out the welcome mat for her anytime soon.
Yesterday, she’d been all fired up, excited about making her new home truly hers. The fact that Cash had shown up, stayed to help, and share the day had been, well, the absolute icing on the cake. Until their fight.
After they’d finished slinging hurtful words at each other and he’d left, she’d switched the radio from his country-and-western station back to her classical music. Even though her heart hadn’t been in it, she’d knuckled down and plodded on, putting the apartment together.
What a shame. The makeover deserved more than a halfhearted effort. She’d wanted it to be perfect, the paint along with every single piece of furniture, every doodad, every piece of fabric.
She’d agonized over the color, then given into whimsy. Tiffany’s in New York was one of her favorite places in the world. The amount of time she’d spent there, the money she’d left there, the number of little blue bags she’d carried out—embarrassing.
This morning, though, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, she woke up, feeling as though she was inside one of Tiffany’s jewel boxes. Trimmed in cream and oh, so fresh smelling. It made her smile. Sunlight crept through the gauzy ivory curtains and reflected off the secondhand crystal lamp she’d placed on the now cream-colored nightstand.
Dottie, dressed in a more subdued than usual pink and white housedress, had wandered upstairs last night, her arms filled with flowers from her garden. Texas bluebonnets, daisies, foxglove, and some baby’s breath. Arranged in a thrift-store vase, they looked better than any florist’s bouquet.
Annelise had held her breath while Dottie moved from room to room, her hand trailing over surfaces, her eyes moving constantly from one area to the next. Finally, unable to wait any longer, she’d blurted, “Do you like it?”
“Like it?” Her landlady laughed. “Honey, this place hasn’t ever been this pretty.” She’d patted Annelise’s cheek. “You did good. Real good.”
High praise.
Lying in bed, she’d hugged herself. She’d done it. With lots of elbow grease and a hodgepodge of new-to-her treasures from LeRoy’s, she’d transformed the dingy place. Expunged Roger Barry’s presence.
Annelise Montjoy lived here now. Maybe.
She’d originally come to Maverick Junction because she thought it would be a good jumping-off spot for her search. Close enough for access, but far enough away to hide her true agenda. After she met with Ms. Thelma, there’d be no need for subterfuge. Come t
o that, there’d be no need to remain in Maverick Junction—except, if she was totally honest with herself, for Cash.
If he wouldn’t speak to her, wanted nothing more to do with her, or worse, insisted she leave—Well, that was too painful to think about. And she refused to examine too deeply the reason for that.
She hoped he hadn’t really meant it when he fired her yesterday. Besides, how could he fire her? He wasn’t even paying her. So, in reality, she was volunteering. A volunteer couldn’t be fired. Could she? But he could accuse her of trespassing. Maybe even have her arrested.
But he wouldn’t. Would he?
She had to talk to Thelma Hanson. And the less anyone knew about her, the closer she could get to the truth. So much was riding on this. Another couple of days and she’d know.
They needed rain. Everything was as dry as a two-day-old croissant. Morning and night, she practically bathed in the cheap moisturizer she’d picked up at Sadler’s. If she stayed here much longer—and, God, she prayed she could—she’d have to start buying the stuff by the vat.
Since, in this case, discretion seemed the better part of valor, she pulled up behind the barn and parked her bike. She went in through the back door and refused to think of it as sneaking in.
Bent over a saddle, Hank rubbed oil into the heavy leather. He glanced up when she walked in. Then he took a good hard look and straightened. “What’s ailin’ you?”
She jammed her hands into her jeans pockets. “Nothing. Why?”
“’Cause you look like forty miles of bad road, that’s why.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Hell of a thing to say to a pretty gal like you. But, Annie, if you so much as looked in a mirror before headin’ out here today, you gotta know I’m tellin’ the truth.”
She blew out a breath and scuffed the toe of her boot over some loose straw. “I didn’t get much sleep.” Taking her hands out of her pockets, she ran them over her hair. “Do I really look that bad?”
Somebody Like You Page 12
