Elvis kept veering left. All the while, the tires gave a shriek and Elvis shuddered as if fighting an interior demon. I battled along with him, willing his tires to straighten, for the brakes to slow us safely. My wishing failed. Metal scraped on pavement. I cranked the wheel.
Useless.
I tugged the wheel frantically but we didn’t change direction, and the driver’s side tire dropped from the pavement with a bounce. Elvis kept racing to the left. The front passenger side tire thudded onto the shoulder.
We were going to fly from the road. We could flip head over wheel. Be crushed under Elvis’s steel.
We lurched toward the ditch. With insane expectations, I kept spinning the wheel, even though it was nothing but a useless appendage. It waggled in my hands. I felt like I held air.
Elvis bucked, his back wheels squealing like a dying rabbit. We headed for the left barrow ditch. Too fast. Too damned fast.
I braced myself, with my foot on the brakes and my back pressed into the seat. The cows on the road were nothing compared to this jet into the pasture.
My life depended on blind luck.
The crunching, screeching, roaring of tires mingled with the stench of burning rubber. Green of new grass swirled with brown of winter kill, mixed with yellow wildflowers and blacktop as the world rushed past my window.
We dropped from the pavement to the rocky shoulder. I bounced hard against the seat belt. My hands flew off the wheel. No loss there. I braced myself between the door and the dash. I clenched my jaw, expecting my bones to break, the windshield to shatter in my face, the steel of Elvis to crumple around me, crushing my body. Mashing the little life that might have started inside me. We crashed down from the shoulder into the ditch, plowing sand and weeds in the grill. I bit my tongue and tasted the tang of blood as we slammed into the far side of the ditch.
My forehead banged against the useless steering wheel as we came to an abrupt stop.
Silence. Alive.
I might have sat there two seconds or maybe twenty minutes. When awareness caught up to me, the only sounds were ragged breath, a meadowlark, and Elvis’s idling engine. I killed the engine and swallowed blood and fear. Hot rubber, and freshly plowed dirt filled my nose.
Both hands planted on my stomach. “Are you in there?” I whispered. At most I could only be two or three weeks along. Even though my seat belt dug into me, it would take much more trauma to hurt a baby inside all my body’s insulation.
With shaky fingers I tried twice to unhook my seat belt. “What did you do?” I asked Elvis, more to hear a voice, as proof of life, than expecting him to answer.
In my rearview mirror, I watched the scattered cows bunch along the side of the road.
I had to throw myself against the door several times before it cracked open. That was probably a good thing to beat some sense into me. I pushed the door against a pile of sand and weeds and climbed out. My knees buckled and I hit the ground. I rested on hands and knees for several seconds before collecting myself. I was alive and unhurt. No need to fall apart.
A cool April breeze chilled the sweat I hadn’t realized covered me. I reached back inside and pulled out Ted’s old hoodie, which I kept behind the seat. I slipped it over my head and it hung to midthigh. Coaxing my legs and feet to work, I made my way to the front of the car and bent down to look underneath.
Well, what do you know about that? Elvis had a broken tie rod. That’s exactly what it had felt like, once I thought back to the clanking noise that had started the terrifying seconds. I had survived and diagnosed the problem, but it didn’t make me feel any safer.
The tie rod wasn’t just broken. I dropped to the ground, and on my back I scrunched under Elvis to get a better look. My breath bounced against the underside of Elvis, loud and fast with fear.
The bolt holding the tie rod to the driver’s side tire was missing. The rod had become detached when I swerved to miss the cows.
Elvis was old and prone to mishaps. It’s possible this was an accident, pure and simple. Possible.
Except, I’d stated in front of the Legion hall full of people that I would see to it that Eldon’s murderer was found. The person Milo thought had killed Eldon was lying in a hospital bed in Broken Butte, unable to walk, let alone mess with a tie rod.
There was someone else who didn’t want me to find the real killer, and they’d gone to some trouble to make sure I didn’t.
16
I called Robert and Sarah to my rescue and waited in the ditch for them arrive. Two eighteen-wheelers roared past, and an old rancher pulled off to ask if I needed help. By then, the loose cows had wandered back to their pasture, probably on their way to the windmill. Other than that, it was me, the wind, and a herd of cows keeping watch on the prairie.
Robert and Sarah ranched twenty miles east of Hodgekiss and down a one-lane blacktop road another five miles. They lived farther away than some of my family, but they’d help me out without too many questions. Since they owned a flatbed trailer, they could haul Elvis home. Robert dropped Sarah at Frog Creek so she could bring Ted’s pickup for me.
The long wait gave me time to calm the tremors that radiated from my gut. Someone had tried to hurt me. Maybe even kill me to stop me from finding Eldon’s murderer. That was enough to send me cowering to Frog Creek and my cows.
Except, now that the hell-ride was a memory, it didn’t scare me as much as torque me off.
Thank goodness I’d left home at first light. The wreck set me back more than two hours. How long did the breakfast shift at Hardee’s last?
Robert arrived in his working clothes, hair matted and sticking out in forty-five directions from the Elmer Fudd cap he always wore on cold mornings. He leaned under Elvis to inspect the tie rod, even though I’d explained the “accident.”
By the time he climbed out, Sarah had joined me, asking if I needed them to take care of anything at the ranch, but also checking me out for injuries and agitation. I was glad for no hugs and are-you-okays.
Robert frowned at me. “Looks like someone removed the bolt.”
Sarah spun toward me. “What’s going on?”
I tried for a chuckle, which sounded more like a drowning goat. “Elvis is old. Things fall apart.”
“Maybe,” Robert said. “But what if there’s something else?”
I started moving toward the pickup. “There’s nothing else. I’ve got to go.”
Sarah took a step after me. “Is this connected to Eldon’s and Ted’s shootings? You need to be careful.”
Robert raised his voice to follow me into the pickup. “Call me if you need anything.”
I needed time to go back a few days, but Robert couldn’t give me that. “Thank you. I know I seem like a mess, but I promise I’ll explain it all to you soon. I’m okay. Really.” Or I will be, anyway.
I climbed into the luxury of leather seats and automatic windows. Frog Creek purchased a new pickup every other year. It went to Sid and Dahlia. Their two-year-old pickup then went to Ted. And Ted’s four-year-old pickup became the official work truck—in other words, mine. Technically, the newer pickup was for both Ted and me to use, but we called it Ted’s pickup and I rarely drove it. Ted mostly drove the county cop car, the one I assumed was sitting behind Roxy’s house now.
With one last wave and a mouthed thank you to Robert, I pulled onto the highway heading for Broken Butte. My ever-practical mind began to assess. Because the ranch was incorporated, all the equipment, as well as the livestock, the house, and everything in it, belonged to Frog Creek. The corporation shareholders consisted of Sid, with 33 percent; Dahlia, with 34 percent; and Ted, with 33 percent. If I divorced Ted, the best I could do would be 16.5 percent of the home and business I’d poured myself into.
That train of thought chugged to nowhere. I turned my attention to Hardee’s and Nat. I needed to find out what she knew about Carly being at the Bar J that day.
* * *
Old cars and pickups filled the Hardee’s lot. I parked and walk
ed into a circus of high-schoolers. Not only sprayed with the nectar of a sunny spring morning and the end of the school year looming, they also were wired on the last bit of freedom before first bell. Noise and laughter and a few flying hash browns pounded on the nerves of the war-weary counter help. The smell of fryer grease and burned coffee assaulted me.
I dodged a sailing straw wrapper and sidled up to the counter. Nat Hayward stood with her back to me, pulling sandwiches out of the warming bin and stuffing them into a bag. She turned and saw me and her eyes flew open in surprise. She’d asked me to come here, and yet she still acted like Peter Rabbit caught in Mr. McGregor’s garden.
She dropped the sandwiches in the bag, zipped her fingers along the top to seal the fold, and barely projected above a whisper, “Eight thirty-five.” A strutting six-foot-two, acne-faced boy with flopping bangs grabbed the bag. Nat stepped back to the order area.
“How long have you been working here?” I asked.
She poised her fingers above the computer register and didn’t look me in the eye. “I took a job as a maid at the Rodeo Inn three days a week. As long as I’m in Broken Butte, I might as well get a few more hours in.”
“It’s a long way to drive.” I cut it off before I finished with “for a minimum wage job.” I was sure Eldon paid them a decent salary. I know he supplied them their house and all the beef they could eat. He probably paid for their groceries and utilities as well.
Three girls giggled and flirted behind me. A kid with a breaking voice answered their teases.
Nat raised her gaze to mine. “Danny’s got some lawyer bills from when he and Carly ran away to Denver.”
Ouch. When Carly had called me, I’d picked her up and brought her home, leaving Danny on his own. I’d called Nat and Rope, of course, and told them the hotel where Danny was staying. Before they could get him home, he was picked up for trying to hold up a gas station and for minor in possession of alcohol. Nat and Rope had never made mention of it. Maybe they blamed me or Carly for Danny’s trouble.
“Do you know why Carly was at the Bar J the day Eldon died?” I asked.
She glanced around, eyes jumping from customers to the other workers. “I shouldn’t have told you to come. I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Did Rope tell you not to talk to me?”
Her hands wound around each other. In a stilted voice, she said, “Sausage, egg, and cheese Texas toast breakfast sandwich?”
I nearly threw up at the mention of it. “Come on, Nat. Talk to me.”
Her fingers trembled as she stabbed at the order kiosk. “And a country-fried chicken and gravy breakfast platter.”
A crew of teens pushed through the doors, heading for the counter. I leaned across to Nat. “Look, I barely survived a car wreck just now and I think someone doesn’t want me to look into Eldon’s murder. I don’t know if it has anything to do with Carly or not, but if you know something, you need to tell me.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Oh, no.”
I grabbed her arm. “What is it? I won’t tell Rope you talked to me.”
She gasped and leaped back, whipping her head from side to side to see if anyone was watching us. She took a split second to steady herself, then stepped up to the order line. “Eleven dollars and twenty-three cents,” she said.
I pulled out my credit card and handed it to her for food I didn’t want. “Please. Talk to me.”
Her hand stopped midswipe, then she had to put the card through again. “I was afraid he’d do something to stop you.”
“Who?”
She handed the card back. “Glenn.” Her words were so low I had to read her lips.
“Baxter? Why would he want to hurt me?”
She zeroed in on my face and bit her thin upper lip. “He thinks you’ll tell Carly not to sell the ranch.”
A whole herd of questions popped into my head. “You talked to Glenn Baxter?”
Nat’s hands kept working. “He came out to the ranch yesterday. He asked a bunch of questions about Carly. Rope told him how close you are.”
The object of the girls’ attention poked his head around me. He addressed Nat politely. “Sorry. But we’re gonna be late for school. Can I get six breakfast burritos?”
Nat acted flustered to be confronted by the teenager. It must be terrible to be so timid.
I waited while she totaled up his order and took his money. He stepped over to the pickup counter and I crowded as close to Nat as possible.
Her perpetual look of worry cranked up about ten degrees. “He wanted us to talk to Carly and convince her to sell to him. He seems desperate to own that land.”
“Hey, Nat.” A bone of a woman with few teeth and bad skin leaned against the back counter. Proof the meth trade was alive and well in rural Nebraska. “Order up.”
Like a sparrow, Nat flew to the warming bins and extracted boxes and wrapped food. She filled two bags and scurried to the pickup area. I met her there.
The burrito kid took his bag.
“Do you think Baxter and Eldon really had a deal?”
She shoved food in a bag and thrust it at me. I picked it up, the warmth of the container uncomfortable on my palm. I followed her back to the order line.
Her eyes flitted to the rancher waiting to give his order. She stopped before she reached the computer, and leaned toward me. In a voice like a horsefly close to the ear, she said, “I think Eldon backed out of the deal and now he’s dead.”
She hurried to take the rancher’s order.
I bumped in front of him. He was too polite to do anything but give me space. Whether it was interfering or not, I’d better do the responsible-parent thing. “Do you know where Danny is?”
Her hands trembled and she stared at the cash register. “Yes.”
She was lying to protect him. “I saw him in Hodgekiss early this morning,” I said.
Watery eyes turned up to mine and she squeaked, “Was he alone?”
Interesting question for her to ask. “Seemed like it.” I leaned closer to her. “I hate to tell you this, but he looked drunk or high.”
She gave her head a violent wag. “No. He’s not doing that stuff anymore.”
There was no sense in arguing. “He was pretty miserable and wouldn’t let me take him home.”
Nat avoided eye contact, and she bobbed her head several times. “Okay. Yes. Fine. Yes. I’ll collect him after my shift.”
I hated what I was about to say, but the kid needed help. “Maybe I can have Carly give him a call.”
For the first time, I caught a glimpse of what Aunt Twyla had talked about. The tiniest bit of animosity flickered deep in Nat’s eyes before she lowered them again. “No. Don’t do that.” She waved me away. “I gotta get to work.”
“Can we talk later?”
“I got nothing more to say.” She leaned to her right to look around me at the rancher. “Can I take your order?”
I hesitated a moment, but I shouldn’t harass her anymore in the middle of Hardee’s, so I left. On the way out I off-loaded my order to a bottomless pit of a teenage boy, who acted as though he’d won the lottery.
Next stop, Ted. Why did he confess and what did he remember? Plus, there was the issue of leashing Roxy.
Buds brushed the old elms and cottonwoods with a pale green. Cheerful daffodils poked through the flower beds that highlighted the center median along Main Street. Here, in the big city of Broken Butte, they employed a full-time maintenance person who plowed snow in the winter and tended to the medians in the summer. Many of the people who lived in Broken Butte took the time to water and mow their grass, and more than half even planted flowers and had some landscaping. On a bright April morning such as this, the town looked welcoming and spiffy, as if it wore a new Easter bonnet.
I pulled into the hospital parking lot and slid from the pickup. My boots on the concrete reminded me how much I’d rather be shuffling through the ranch’s sand than chasing murderers. A shiver ran over me and I clenched my fists
. Did someone really tamper with Elvis? Did they mean to hurt me?
The hospital office staffers were settling in, chatting with one another, getting cups of coffee. I recognized a few and nodded hello as I strode past. On the wing outside Ted’s room, the orderly loaded breakfast trays onto a cart. Even if I weren’t put off by food, it would have smelled as appetizing as wet silage. I almost felt sorry for Ted.
I made my way to Ted’s room, pausing outside to listen. Al Roker blasted good cheer about the unseasonable spring weather in New York City. I poked my head in and surveyed the room, looking for the enemy.
Propped on pillows, Ted’s fresh-shaved face appeared tense as he frowned at the sign-waving crowds outside 30 Rockefeller Center. The pajamas I’d picked out for him lay on the bedside table.
“No Dahlia?” I eased my way inside.
Ted turned his face to me and grimaced. “I asked her to go after she shaved me this morning. She was pretty upset.”
Maybe I’m touchy, but I thought letting his mother shave him, when it was his legs that couldn’t move, not his arms, was kind of weird. Big difference between me and Ted: it’d take a broken tie rod and threats to my niece’s well-being to make me ask for help, and even then I hated doing it. Ted seemed to enjoy having other people do for him, especially if he could do it himself.
He reached for a button on the handle of the bed and a mechanical groan played while the head raised him to a sitting position. He pointed the remote control toward the overhead television and silenced Savannah Guthrie midsentence.
“God, it’s good to see you,” Ted said.
I hated that it felt good to see him, too.
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
Possible pregnancy, mixed with a car wreck that might have been intentional, could drain a little color from my face. “Has Doc Kennedy been in?”
His hands clenched the blanket. “Yeah. He didn’t say much. I still can’t move my toes.”
Weird how I could almost forget that he had destroyed the foundations of my life. “It’s early yet. Doc said it could take a while for the swelling to go down. And your nerves could take months to rejuvenate.”
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