From New York Times bestselling author Jodi Thomas comes the first book in a compelling, emotionally resonant series set in a remote west Texas town—where family can be made by blood or by choice

Rancher Staten Kirkland, the last descendant of Ransom Canyon’s founding father, is rugged and practical to the last. No one knows that when his troubling memories threaten to overwhelm him, he runs to lovely, reclusive Quinn O’Grady…or that she has her own secret that no one living knows.

Young Lucas Reyes has his eye on the prize—college, and the chance to become something more than a ranch hand’s son. But one night, one wrong decision, will set his life on a course even he hadn’t imagined.

Yancy Grey is running hard from his troubled past. He doesn’t plan to stick around Ransom Canyon, just long enough to learn the town’s weaknesses and how to use them for personal gain. Only Yancy, a common criminal since he was old enough to reach a car’s pedals, isn’t prepared for what he encounters.

In this dramatic new series, the lives, loves and ambitions of four families will converge, set against a landscape that can be as unforgiving as it is beautiful, where passion, property and pride are worth fighting—and even dying—for.

Praise for Jodi Thomas

“Jodi Thomas is a masterful storyteller. She grabs your attention on the first page, captures your heart, and then makes you sad when it’s time to bid her wonderful characters farewell. You can count on Jodi Thomas to give you a satisfying and memorable read.”

—Catherine Anderson, New York Times bestselling author

“Thomas sketches a slow, sweet surrender.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Compelling and beautifully written, it is exactly the kind of heart-wrenching, emotional story one has come to expect from Jodi Thomas.”

—Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Tender, realistic, and insightful.”

—Library Journal

“Extremely powerful and gripping writing.”

—Roundtable Reviews

“This book is like once again visiting old friends while making new ones and will leave readers eager for the next visit. A pure joy to read.”

—RT Book Reviews

“This is terrific reading from page one to the end. Jodi Thomas is a passionate writer who puts real feelings into her characters.”

—Fresh Fiction

Ransom Canyon

Jodi Thomas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I dedicate this book to my dear friend DeWanna Pace. We met in a writing class and spent the next twenty-five years helping each other follow our dreams.

I miss her, but know she’s Heaven’s blessing now.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Staten

STATEN KIRKLAND LOWERED the brim of his felt Resistol as he turned into the wind. The hat was about to live up to its name. Hell was blowing down from the north, and he would have to ride hard to make it back to headquarters before the full fury of the storm broke. His new mount, a roan he’d bought last week, was green and spooked by the winter lightning. Staten had no time to put on the gloves in his back pocket. He had to ride.

When the mare bucked in protest, he twisted the reins around his hand and felt the cut of leather across his palm as he fought for control of both his horse and the memories threatening as low as the dark clouds above his head.

Icy rain had poured that night five years ago, only he hadn’t been on his ranch; he’d been trapped in the hallway of the county hospital fifty miles away. His son had lain at one end, fighting for his life, and reporters had huddled just beyond the entrance at the other end, hollering for news.

All they’d cared about was that the kid’s grandfather was a United States senator. No one had cared that Staten, the boy’s father and only parent, held them back. All they’d wanted was a headline. All Staten had wanted was for his son to live.

But, he didn’t get what he wanted.

Randall, only child of Staten Kirkland, only grandchild of Senator Samuel Kirkland, had died that night. The reporters had gotten their headline, complete with pictures of Staten storming through the double doors, swinging at every man who tried to stop him. He’d left two reporters and a clueless intern on the floor, but he hadn’t slowed.

He’d run into the storm that night not caring about the rain. Not caring about his own life. Two years before he’d buried his wife, and now he would put his son in the ground beside her because of a car crash. He’d had to run from the ache so deep in his heart it would never heal.

Now, five years later, another storm was blowing through, but the ache inside him hadn’t lessened. He rode toward headquarters on the half-wild horse. Rain mixed with tears he never let anyone see. He’d wanted to die that night. He had no one. His wife’s illness had left both father and son bitter, lost. If she’d lived, maybe Randall would have been different. Calmer. Maybe if he’d had her love, the boy wouldn’t have been so wild. He wouldn’t have thought himself so invincible.

Only, taking a winding road at over a hundred miles per hour had killed him. The car his grandfather had given him for his sixteenth birthday a month earlier had missed the curve heading into Ransom Canyon and rolled over and over. The newspapers had quoted one first responder as saying, “Thank God he’d been alone. No one in that sports car would have survived.”

Staten wished he’d been with his boy. He’d felt dead inside the day he buried Randall next to his wife, and he felt dead now as memories pounded.

He rode close to the canyon rim as the storm raged, almost wishing the jagged earth would claim him, too. But, he was fifth generation born to this land. There would be no more Kirklands after him, and he wouldn’t go without a fight.

As he raced, he remembered the horror of seeing his son pulled out of the wreck, too beat up and bloody for even a father to recognize. Kirkland blood had poured over the red dirt of the canyon that night.

He rode feeling the pounding of his horse’s hooves match the beat of his heart.

When Staten crossed under the Double K gate and let the horse gallop to the barn, he took a deep breath, knowing what he had to do.

Looking up, he saw Jake there at the barn door waiting for him. The rodeo had crippled the old man, but Jake Longbow was still the best hand on the ranch.

“Dry him off!” Staten yelled above the storm as he handed over the mare to Jake’s care. “I have to go.”

The old cowboy, his face like twisted rawhide, nodded once as if he knew what Staten would say. A thousand times over the years, Jake had moved into action before Staten issued the order. “I got this, Mr. Kirkland. You do what you got to do.”

Darting across the back corral, Staten climbed into the huge Dodge 3500 with its Cummins diesel engine and four-wheel drive. The truck might guzzle gas and ride rough, but if he slid off the road tonight, it wouldn’t roll.

Half an hour later he finally slowed as he turned into a farm twenty miles north of Crossroads, Texas. A sign, in need of painting and with a few bullet holes in it, read simply “Lavender Lane.” Even in the rain the air here smelled of lavender. He’d made it to Quinn’s place. One house, one farm, sat alone with nothing near enough to call a neighbor.

Quinn O’Grady’s home always reminded him of a little girl’s fancy dollhouse: brightly painted shutters and gingerbread trim everywhere. Folks sometimes commented on how the house was as fancy as the woman who owned it was plain, but Staten had never thought of her that way. She was shy, had kept to herself even in grade school, but she was her own woman. She’d built a living out of the worthless land her parents had left her.

He might have gone his whole life saying no more than hello to her, but Quinn O’Grady had been his wife’s best friend. Even after he’d married Amalah, she’d still have her “girls’ days” with Quinn.

They’d can peaches in the fall and take courses at the church on quilting and pottery. They’d take off to Dallas for an art show or to Canton for the world’s biggest garage sale. He couldn’t count the times his wife had climbed into Quinn’s old green pickup and simply called out that they were going shopping as if that were all he needed to know. Half the time they didn’t come back with anything but ice-cream-sundae smiles.

Quinn hadn’t talked to him much in those early years, but she’d been a good friend to his wife, and that mattered. Near the end, she’d sat with Amalah in the hospital so he could go home to shower and change clothes. That last month, it seemed she was always near. The two women had been best friends all their lives, and they would be to the end.

Staten didn’t smile as he cut the engine in front of Quinn O’Grady’s house. He never smiled. Not anymore. For years he’d worked hard thinking he’d be passing on the Double K to his son. Now, if Staten died, the ranch would probably be sold at auction to help support his father’s run for the senate or, who knows, the old guy might run for governor next time. Even though Samuel Kirkland was in his sixties, his fourth wife was keeping him young, he claimed. He’d never had much interest in the ranch and hadn’t spent a night on Kirkland soil since Staten had taken over the place.

Quinn caught Staten’s attention as she opened her door and stared out at him. She had a big towel in one hand as she leaned against the door frame and waited for him to climb out of the truck and come inside. She was tall, almost six feet, and ordinary in her simple clothes. He couldn’t imagine Quinn in heels or her hair fixed any way except the long braid she always wore down the center of her back. She’d worn jeans since she started school; only, there had been two braids trailing down her back then.

Funny, Staten thought as he climbed out and tried to outrun the rain, a woman who wants nothing to do with frills or lace lives in a dollhouse.

After he reached the porch and shook like a big dog, she handed him the towel. “When I saw the storm moving in, I figured you’d be coming. Tug off those muddy boots while I dip up some soup for supper. I made taco soup when I saw the clouds rolling in from the north.”

No one ordered any Kirkland around. No one. Only here, in her house, he did what she asked. He might never have another drop of love in him, but he’d still respect Quinn.

His spurs jingled as his boots hit the porch. In his stocking feet he stood only a few inches taller than her, but with his broad shoulders he guessed he probably doubled her in weight. “Any chance the clouds made you think of coconut pie?”

She laughed softly. “It’s in the oven. Be out in a minute.”

They watched the stormy afternoon turn into evening, with lightning putting on a show outside her kitchen window. He liked how he felt comfortable being silent around her. They sometimes talked about Amalah and the funny things that had happened when they were growing up. He felt as if he and Quinn were the leftovers, for the best of them had both died with Amalah.

Only, tonight his thoughts were on his son, and Staten didn’t really want to talk at all. As the sun set, the temperature dropped, and the icy rain turned to a dusting of soft mushy snow while they ate in silence.

When he reached for his dishes and started to stand, she stopped him with a touch on his damp sleeve. “I’ll do that,” she said. “Finish your coffee.”

He sat quiet and still for a few minutes, thinking how this place of hers seemed to slow his heart and make it easier to breathe. He finally left the table and silently moved to stand behind her as she worked at the sink. With rough hands scabbed over in places where the reins had cut, he began to untie her braid.

“I did this once when we were in third grade. I remember you didn’t say a word, but Amalah called me an idiot after school.”

Quinn nodded but didn’t speak. Shared memories settled comfortably between them.

He liked the way Quinn’s sunshine hair felt, even now. It was thick and hung down straight except for the slight waves left by the braid.

She turned and frowned up at him as she took his hand. Without asking questions she pulled his injured palm under running water and then patted it dry. When she rubbed lotion over his hand, it felt more like a caress than doctoring.

He was so close behind her their bodies brushed as she worked. Leaning down, he tickled her neck with a light kiss. “Play for me tonight,” he whispered.

Turning toward the old piano across the open living area, she shook her head. “I can’t.”

He didn’t question or try to change her mind. He never did. Sometimes, she’d play for him, other times something deep inside her wouldn’t let her.

Without a word, she tugged him to the only bedroom, turning off lights as they moved through the house.

For a while he stood at the doorway, watching her remove her plain work clothes: worn jeans, a faded plaid shirt that probably belonged to her father years ago and a T-shirt that hugged her slender frame. As piece by piece fell, pale white skin glowed in the low light of her nightstand.

When he didn’t move, she turned toward him. Her breasts were small, her body lean, her tummy flat from never bearing a child. All she wore was a pair of red panties.

“Finish undressing me,” she whispered, then waited.

He walked toward her, knowing that he wouldn’t have moved if she hadn’t invited him. Maybe it was just a game they played, or maybe they’d silently agreed on unwritten rules when they’d begun. He couldn’t remember.

Pulling her against him, he just held her for a long time. Somehow on that worst night of his life five years ago, he’d knocked at her door. He’d been muddy, grieving and lost to himself.

She hadn’t said a word. She’d just taken his hand. He’d let her pull off his muddy clothes and clean him up while he tried to think of a way to stop breathing and die. She’d tucked him into her bed and then climbed in with him, holding him until he finally fell asleep. He hadn’t said a word, either, guessing that she’d heard the news reports of the crash. Knowing by the sorrow in her light blue eyes that she shared his grief.

A thousand feelings had careened through his mind that night, all dark, but she’d held on to him. He remembered thinking that if she had tried to comfort him with words, even a few, he would have shattered into a million pieces.

Just before dawn, he remembered waking and turning to her. She’d welcomed him, not as a lover, but as a friend silently letting him know it was all right to touch her. All right to hold on.

In the five years since, they’d had long talks, sometimes when he sought her out. They’d had stormy nights when they didn’t talk at all. He always made love to her with a gentle touch, never hurried, always with more caring and less passion than he would have liked. Somehow, it felt right that way.

She wasn’t interested in going out on a date or meeting him anywhere. She never called or emailed. If she passed him in the little town that sat between them called Crossroads, she’d wave, but they never spoke more than a few words in public. She had no interest in changing her last name for his, even if he’d asked.

Yet, he knew her body. He knew what she liked him to do and how she wanted to be held. He knew how she slept, rolled up beside him as if she were cold.

Only, he didn’t know her favorite color or why she’d never married or even why sometimes she couldn’t go near her piano. In many ways they didn’t know each other at all.

She was his rainy-day woman. When the memories got to him, she was his refuge. When loneliness ached through his body, she was his cure. She saved him simply by being there, by waiting, by loving a man who had no love to give back.

As the storm raged and calmed, she pulled him into her bed. They made love in the silence of the evening, and then he held her against him and slept.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN HER OLD hall clock chimed eleven times, Staten Kirkland left Quinn O’Grady’s bed. While she slept, he dressed in the shadows, watching her with only the light of the full moon. She’d given him what he needed tonight, and, as always, he felt as if he’d given her nothing.

Walking out to her porch, he studied the newly washed earth, thinking of how empty his life was except for these few hours he shared with Quinn. He’d never love her or anyone, but he wished he could do something for her. Thanks to hard work and inherited land, he was a rich man. She was making a go of her farm, but barely. He could help her if she’d let him. But he knew she’d never let him.

As he pulled on his boots, he thought of a dozen things he could do around the place. Like fixing that old tractor out in the mud or modernizing her irrigation system. The tractor had been sitting out by the road for months. If she’d accept his help, it wouldn’t take him an hour to pull the old John Deere out and get the engine running again.

Only, she wouldn’t accept anything from him. He knew better than to ask.

He wasn’t even sure they were friends some days. Maybe they were more. Maybe less. He looked down at his palm, remembering how she’d rubbed cream on it and worried that all they had in common was loss and the need, now and then, to touch another human being.

The screen door creaked. He turned as Quinn, wrapped in an old quilt, moved out into the night.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said as she tiptoed across the snow-dusted porch. “I need to get back. Got eighty new yearlings coming in early.” He never apologized for leaving, and he wasn’t now. He was simply stating facts. With the cattle rustling going on and his plan to enlarge his herd, he might have to hire more men. As always, he felt as though he needed to be on his land and on alert.

She nodded and moved to stand in front of him.

Staten waited. They never touched after they made love. He usually left without a word, but tonight she obviously had something she wanted to say.

Another thing he probably did wrong, he thought. He never complimented her, never kissed her on the mouth, never said any words after he touched her. If she didn’t make little sounds of pleasure now and then, he wouldn’t have been sure he satisfied her.

Now, standing so close to her, he felt more a stranger than a lover. He knew the smell of her skin, but he had no idea what she was thinking most of the time. She knew quilting and how to make soap from her lavender. She played the piano like an angel and didn’t even own a TV. He knew ranching and watched from his recliner every game the Dallas Cowboys played.

If they ever spent over an hour talking they’d probably figure out they had nothing in common. He’d played every sport in high school, and she’d played in both the orchestra and the band. He’d collected most of his college hours online, and she’d gone all the way to New York to school. But, they’d loved the same person. Amalah had been Quinn’s best friend and his one love. Only, they rarely talked about how they felt. Not anymore. Not ever really. It was too painful, he guessed, for both of them.

Tonight the air was so still, moisture hung like invisible lace. She looked to be closer to her twenties than her forties. Quinn had her own quiet kind of beauty. She always had, and he guessed she still would even when she was old.

To his surprise, she leaned in and kissed his mouth.

He watched her. “You want more?” he finally asked, figuring it was probably the dumbest thing to say to a naked woman standing two inches away from him. He had no idea what more would be. They always had sex once, if they had it at all, when he knocked on her door. Sometimes neither made the first move, and they just cuddled on the couch and held each other. Quinn wasn’t a passionate woman. What they did was just satisfying a need that they both had now and then.

She kissed him again without saying a word. When her cheek brushed against his stubbled chin, it was wet and tasted newborn like the rain.

Slowly, Staten moved his hands under her blanket and circled her warm body, then he pulled her closer and kissed her fully like he hadn’t kissed a woman since his wife died.

Her lips were soft and inviting. When he opened her mouth and invaded, it felt far more intimate than anything they had ever done, but he didn’t stop. She wanted this from him, and he had no intention of denying her. No one would ever know that she was the thread that kept him together some days.

When he finally broke the kiss, Quinn was out of breath. She pressed her forehead against his jaw and he waited.

“From now on,” she whispered so low he felt her words more than heard them, “when you come to see me, I need you to kiss me goodbye before you go. If I’m asleep, wake me. You don’t have to say a word, but you have to kiss me.”

She’d never asked him for anything. He had no intention of saying no. His hand spread across the small of her back and pulled her hard against him. “I won’t forget if that’s what you want.” He could feel her heart pounding and knew her asking had not come easy.

She nodded. “It’s what I want.”

He brushed his lips over hers, loving the way she sighed as if wanting more before she pulled away.

“Good night,” she said as though rationing pleasure. Stepping inside, she closed the screen door between them.

Raking his hair back, he put on his hat as he watched her fade into the shadows. The need to return was already building in him. “I’ll be back Friday night if it’s all right. It’ll be late, I’ve got to visit with my grandmother and do her list of chores before I’ll be free. If you like, I could bring barbecue for supper?” He felt as if he was rambling, but something needed to be said, and he had no idea what.

“And vegetables,” she suggested.

He nodded. She wanted a meal, not just the meat. “I’ll have them toss in sweet potato fries and okra.”

She held the blanket tight as if he might see her body. She didn’t meet his eyes when he added, “I enjoyed kissing you, Quinn. I look forward to doing so again.”

With her head down, she nodded as she vanished into the darkness without a word.

He walked off the porch, deciding if he lived to be a hundred he’d never understand Quinn. As far as he knew, she’d never had a boyfriend when they were in school. And his wife had never told him about Quinn dating anyone special when she went to New York to that fancy music school. Now, in her forties, she’d never had a date, much less a lover that he knew of. But she hadn’t been a virgin when they’d made love the first time.

Asking her about her love life seemed far too personal a question.

Climbing in his truck he forced his thoughts toward problems at the ranch. He needed to hire men; they’d lost three cattle to rustlers this month. As he planned the coming day, Staten did what he always did: he pushed Quinn to a corner of his mind, where she’d wait until he saw her again.

As he passed through the little town of Crossroads, all the businesses were closed up tight except for a gas station that stayed open twenty-four hours to handle the few travelers needing to refuel or brave enough to sample their food.

Half a block away from the station was his grandmother’s bungalow, dark amid the cluster of senior citizens’ homes. One huge light in the middle of all the little homes shone a low glow onto the porch of each house. The tiny white cottages reminded him of a circle of wagons camped just off the main road. She’d lived fifty years on Kirkland land, but when Staten’s granddad, her husband, had died, she’d wanted to move to town. She’d been a teacher in her early years and said she needed to be with her friends in the retirement community, not alone in the big house on the ranch.

He swore without anger, remembering all her instructions the day she moved to town. She wanted her only grandson to drop by every week to switch out batteries, screw in lightbulbs, and reprogram the TV that she’d spent the week messing up. He didn’t mind dropping by. Besides his father, who considered his home—when he wasn’t in Washington—to be Dallas, Granny was the only family Staten had.

A quarter mile past the one main street of Crossroads, his truck lights flashed across four teenagers walking along the road between the Catholic church and the gas station.

Three boys and a girl. Fifteen or sixteen, Staten guessed.

For a moment the memory of Randall came to mind. He’d been about their age when he’d crashed, and he’d worn the same type of blue-and-white letter jacket that two of the boys wore tonight.

Staten slowed as he passed them. “You kids need a ride?” The lights were still on at the church, and a few cars were in the parking lot. Saturday night, Staten remembered. Members of 4-H would probably be working in the basement on projects.

One kid waved. A tall, Hispanic boy named Lucas whom he thought was the oldest son of the head wrangler on the Collins ranch. Reyes was his last name, and Staten remembered the boy being one of a dozen young kids who were often hired part-time at the ranch.

Staten had heard the kid was almost as good a wrangler as his father. The magic of working with horses must have been passed down from father to son, along with the height. Young Reyes might be lean but, thanks to working, he would be in better shape than either of the football boys. When Lucas Reyes finished high school, he’d have no trouble hiring on at any of the big ranches, including the Double K.

“No, we’re fine, Mr. Kirkland,” the Reyes boy said politely. “We’re just walking down to the station for a Coke. Reid Collins’s brother is picking us up soon.”

“No crime in that, mister,” a redheaded kid in a letter jacket answered. His words came fast and clipped, reminding Staten of how his son had sounded.

Volume from a boy trying to prove he was a man, Staten thought.

He couldn’t see the faces of the two boys with letter jackets, but the girl kept her head up. “We’ve been working on a project for the fair,” she answered politely. “I’m Lauren Brigman, Mr. Kirkland.”

Staten nodded. Sheriff Brigman’s daughter, I remember you. She knew enough to be polite, but it was none of his business. “Good evening, Lauren,” he said. “Nice to see you again. Good luck with the project.”

When he pulled away, he shook his head. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered to stop. This might be small-town Texas, but they were not his problem. If he saw the Reyes boy again, he would apologize.

Staten swore. At this rate he’d turn into a nosy old man by forty-five. It didn’t seem that long ago that he and Amalah used to walk up to the gas station after meetings at the church.

Hell, maybe Quinn asking to kiss him had rattled him more than he thought. He needed to get his head straight. She was just a friend. A woman he turned to when the storms came. Nothing more. That was the way they both wanted it.

Until he made it back to her porch next Friday night, he had a truckload of trouble at the ranch to worry about.

* * *

TWENTY MILES AWAY Quinn O’Grady curled into her blanket on her front porch and watched the night sky, knowing that Staten was still driving home. He always came to her like a raging storm and left as calm as dawn.

Only tonight, she’d surprised him with her request. Tonight when he’d walked away at midnight, it felt different. Somehow after five years, their relationship felt newborn.

She grinned, loving that she had made the first move. She had demanded a kiss, and he hadn’t hesitated. She knew he came to her house out of need and loneliness, but for her it had always been more. In her quiet way, she could not remember a time she hadn’t loved him.

Yet from grade school on, Staten Kirkland had belonged to her best friend, and Quinn had promised herself she’d never try to step between them. Even now, seven years after Amalah’s death, a part of Staten still belonged to his wife. Maybe not his heart, Quinn decided, but more his willingness to be open to caring. He was a man determined never to allow anyone close again. He didn’t want love in his life; he only wanted to survive having loved and lost Amalah.

Amalah had wanted to be Mrs. Kirkland since the day she and Quinn had gone riding on the Double K ranch. She’d loved the big house, the luncheons and the committees. She knew how to smile for the press, how to dress, and how to manage the Kirkland men to get just what she wanted. Amalah had been a perfect wife for a rich rancher.

Quinn only wanted Staten, but never, not for one moment, would she have wished Amalah dead. Staten was a love Quinn kept locked away in her heart, knowing from the beginning that it would never see light.

When her best friend died, Quinn never went to Staten. She couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair. She never called or tried to accidentally run into him in town. Amalah might be gone, but Staten still didn’t belong to her. She was not the kind of woman who could live in his world.

Two years passed after Amalah died. Staten would stop by now and then just to check on Quinn, but her shyness kept their conversations short.

Then, Randall died.

She’d heard about the car crash on the local radio station and cried for the boy she’d known all his life.

Tears for a boy’s life cut short and for a father who she knew must be hurting, but who she couldn’t go to. She wouldn’t have known what to say. He’d be surrounded by people, and Quinn was afraid of most people.

When she’d heard a pounding on her door that night, she almost didn’t answer. Then she’d seen Staten, broken and needing someone, and she couldn’t turn him away.

That night she’d held him, thinking that just this one time, he needed her. Tomorrow he’d be strong and they’d go back to simply being polite to one another, but for one night she could help.

That next morning he’d left without a word. She had never expected him to return, but he did. This strong, hard man never asked anything of her, but he took what she offered. Reason told her it wouldn’t last. He’d called the two of them the leftovers, as if they were the ones abandoned on a shelf. But, Staten wasn’t a leftover. One day he would no longer suffer the storms. One day he would go back to living again, and when he did, he’d forget the way to her door.

As the five years passed, Quinn began to store up memories to keep her warm when he stopped coming. As simple as it seemed, she wanted to be kissed. Not out of passion or need, but gently.

Every time he walked away might be the last time. She wanted to remember that she’d been kissed goodbye that last time, even if neither of them knew it at the moment.

CHAPTER THREE

Lauren

A MIDNIGHT MOON blinked its way between storm clouds as Lauren Brigman cleaned the mud off her shoes. The guys had gone inside the gas station for Cokes. She didn’t really want anything to drink, but it was either walk over with the others after working on their fair projects or stay back at the church and talk to Mrs. Patterson.

Somewhere Mrs. Patterson had gotten the idea that since Lauren didn’t have a mother around, she should take every opportunity to have a “girl talk” with the sheriff’s daughter.

Lauren wanted to tell the old woman that she had known all the facts of life by the age of seven, and she really did not need a buddy to share her teenage years with. Besides, her mother lived in Dallas. It wasn’t like she died. She’d just left. Just because she couldn’t stand the sight of Lauren’s dad didn’t mean she didn’t call and talk to Lauren almost every week. Maybe Mom had just gotten tired of the sheriff’s nightly lectures. Lauren had heard every one of Pop’s talks so many times that she had them memorized in alphabetical order.

Her grades put her at the top of the sophomore class, and she saw herself bound for college in less than three years. Lauren had no intention of getting pregnant, or doing drugs, or any of the other fearful situations Mrs. Patterson and her father had hinted might befall her. Her pop didn’t even want her dating until she was sixteen, and, judging from the boys she knew in high school, she’d just as soon go dateless until eighteen. Maybe college would have better pickings. Some of these guys were so dumb she was surprised they got their cowboy hats on straight every morning.

Reid Collins walked out from the gas station first with a can of Coke in each hand. “I bought you one even though you said you didn’t want anything to drink,” he announced as he neared. “Want to lean on me while you clean your shoes?”

Lauren rolled her eyes. Since he’d grown a few inches and started working out, Reid thought he was God’s gift to girls.

“Why?” she asked as she tossed the stick. “I have a brick wall to lean on. And don’t get any ideas we’re on a date, Reid, just because I walked over here with you.”

“I don’t date sophomores,” he snapped. “I’m on first string, you know. I could probably date any senior I want to. Besides, you’re like a little sister, Lauren. We’ve known each other since you were in the first grade.”

She thought of mentioning that playing first string on a football team that only had forty players total, including the coaches and water boy, wasn’t any great accomplishment, but arguing with Reid would rot her brain. He’d been born rich, and he’d thought he knew everything since he cleared the birth canal. She feared his disease was terminal.

“If you’re cold, I’ll let you wear my football jacket.” When she didn’t comment, he bragged, “I had to reorder a bigger size after a month of working out.”

She hated to, but if she didn’t compliment him soon, he’d never stop begging. “You look great in the jacket, Reid. Half the seniors on the team aren’t as big as you.” There was nothing wrong with Reid from the neck down. In a few years he’d be a knockout with the Collins good looks and trademark rusty hair, not quite brown, not quite red. But he still wouldn’t interest her.

“So, when I get my driver’s license next month, do you want to take a ride?”

Lauren laughed. “You’ve been asking that since I was in the third grade and you got your first bike. The answer is still no. We’re friends, Reid. We’ll always be friends, I’m guessing.”

He smiled a smile that looked like he’d been practicing. “I know, Lauren, but I keep wanting to give you a chance now and then. You know, some guys don’t want to date the sheriff’s daughter, and I hate to point it out, babe, but if you don’t fill out some, it’s going to be bad news in college.” He had the nerve to point at her chest.

“I know.” She managed to pull off a sad look. “Having my father is a cross I have to bear. Half the guys in town are afraid of him. Like he might arrest them for talking to me. Which he might.” She had no intention of discussing her lack of curves with Reid.

“No, it’s not fear of him, exactly,” Reid corrected. “I think it’s more the bullet holes they’re afraid of. Every time a guy looks at you, your old man starts patting his service weapon. Nerve-racking habit, if you ask me. From the looks of it, I seem to be the only one he’ll let stand beside you, and that’s just because our dads are friends.”

She grinned. Reid was spoiled and conceited and self-centered, but he was right. They’d probably always be friends. Her dad was the sheriff, and his was the mayor of Crossroads, even though he lived five miles from town on one of the first ranches established near Ransom Canyon.

With her luck, Reid would be the only guy in the state that her father would let her date. Grumpy old Pop had what she called Terminal Cop Disease. Her father thought everyone, except his few friends, was most likely a criminal, anyone under thirty should be stopped and searched, and anyone who’d ever smoked pot could not be trusted.

Tim O’Grady, Reid’s eternal shadow, walked out of the station with a huge frozen drink. The clear cup showed off its red-and-yellow layers of cherry-and-pineapple-flavored sugar.

Where Reid was balanced in his build, Tim was lanky, disjointed. He seemed to be made of mismatched parts. His arms were too long. His feet seemed too big, and his wired smile barely fit in his mouth. When he took a deep draw on his drink, he staggered and held his forehead from the brain freeze.

Lauren laughed as he danced around like a puppet with his strings crossed. Timothy, as the teachers called him, was always good for a laugh. He had the depth of cheap paint but the imagination of a natural-born storyteller.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten an icy drink on such a cold night,” he mumbled between gulps. “If I freeze from the inside out, put me up on Main Street as a statue.”

Lauren giggled.

Lucas Reyes was the last of their small group to come outside. Lucas hadn’t bought anything, but he evidently was avoiding standing outside with her. She’d known Lucas Reyes for a few years, maybe longer, but he never talked to her. Like Reid and Tim, he was a year ahead of her, but since he rarely talked, she usually only noticed him as a background person in her world.

Unlike them, Lucas didn’t have a family name following him around opening doors for a hundred miles.

They all four lived east of Crossroads along the rambling canyon called Ransom Canyon. Lauren and her father lived in one of a cluster of houses near the lake, as did Tim’s parents. Reid’s family ranch was five miles farther out. She had no idea where Lucas’s family lived. Maybe on the Collins ranch. His father worked on the Bar W, which had been in the Collins family for over a hundred years. The area around the headquarters looked like a small village.

Reid repeated the plan. “My brother said he’d drop Sharon off and be back for us. But if they get busy doing their thing it could be an hour. We might as well walk back and sit on the church steps.”

“Great fun,” Tim complained. “Everything’s closed. It’s freezing out here, and I swear this town is so dead somebody should bury it.”

“We could start walking toward home,” Lauren suggested as she pulled a tiny flashlight from her key chain. The canyon lake wasn’t more than a mile. If they walked they wouldn’t be so cold. She could probably be home before Reid’s dumb brother could get his lips off Sharon. If rumors were true, Sharon had very kissable lips, among other body parts.

“Better than standing around here,” Reid said as Tim kicked mud toward the building. “I’d rather be walking than sitting. Plus, if we go back to the church, Mrs. Patterson will probably come out to keep us company.”

Without a vote, they started walking. Lauren didn’t like the idea of stumbling into mud holes now covered up by a dusting of snow along the side of the road, but it sounded better than standing out front of the gas station. Besides, the moon offered enough light, making the tiny flashlight her father insisted she carry worthless.

Within a few yards, Reid and Tim had fallen behind and were lighting up a smoke. To her surprise, Lucas stayed beside her.

“You don’t smoke?” she asked, not really expecting him to answer.

“No, can’t afford the habit,” he said, surprising her. “I’ve got plans, and they don’t include lung cancer.”

Maybe the dark night made it easier to talk, or maybe Lauren didn’t want to feel so alone in the shadows. “I was starting to think you were a mute. We’ve had a few classes together, and you’ve never said a word. Even tonight you were the only one who didn’t talk about your project.”

Lucas shrugged. “Didn’t see the point. I’m just entering for the prize money, not trying to save the world or build a better tomorrow.”

She giggled.

He laughed, too, realizing he’d just made fun of the whole point of the projects. “Plus,” he added, “there’s just not much opportunity to get a word in around those two.” He nodded his head at the two letter jackets falling farther behind as a cloud of smoke haloed above them.

She saw his point. The pair trailed them by maybe twenty feet or more, and both were talking about football. Neither seemed to require a listener.

“Why do you hang out with them?” she asked. Lucas didn’t seem to fit. Studious and quiet, he hadn’t gone out for sports or joined many clubs that she knew about. “Jocks usually hang out together.”

“I wanted to work on my project tonight, and Reid offered me a ride. Listening to football talk beats walking in this weather.”

Lauren tripped into a pothole. Lucas’s hand shot out and caught her in the darkness. He steadied her, then let go.

“Thanks. You saved my life,” she joked.

“Hardly, but if I had, you’d owe me a blood debt.”

“Would I have to pay?”

“Of course. It would be a point of honor. You’d have to save me or be doomed to a coward’s hell.”

“Lucky you just kept me from tripping, or I’d be following you around for years waiting to repay the debt.” She rubbed her arm where he’d touched her. He was stronger than she’d thought he would be. “You lift weights?”

The soft laughter came again. “Yeah, it’s called work. Until I was sixteen, I spent the summers and every weekend working on Reid’s father’s ranch. Once I was old enough, I signed up at the Kirkland place to cowboy when they need extras. Every dime I make is going to college tuition in a year. That’s why I don’t have a car yet. When I get to college, I won’t need it, and the money will go toward books.”

“But you’re just a junior. You’ve still got a year and a half of high school.”

“I’ve got it worked out so I can graduate early. High school’s a waste of time. I’ve got plans. I can make a hundred-fifty a day working, and my dad says he thinks I’ll be able to cowboy every day I’m not in school this spring and all summer.”

She tripped again, and his hand steadied her once more. Maybe it was her imagination, but she swore he held on a little longer than necessary.

“You’re an interesting guy, Lucas Reyes.”

“I will be,” he said. “Once I’m in college, I can still come home and work breaks and weekends. I’m thinking I can take a few online classes during the summer, live at home, and save enough to pay for the next year. I’m going to Tech no matter what it takes.”

“You planning on getting through college in three years, too?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know if I can. But I’ll have the degree, whatever it is, before I’m twenty-two.”

No one her age had ever talked of the future like that. Like they were just passing through this time in their life, and something yet to come mattered far more. “When you are somebody, I think I’d like to be your friend.”

“I hope we will be more than that, Lauren.” His words were so low, she wasn’t sure she heard them.

“Hey, you two deadbeats up there!” Reid yelled. “I got an idea.”

Lauren didn’t want the conversation with Lucas to end, but if she ignored Reid he’d just get louder. “What?”

Reid ran up between them and put an arm over both her and Lucas’s shoulders. “How about we break into the Gypsy House? I hear it’s haunted by Gypsies who died a hundred years ago.”

Tim caught up to them. As always, he agreed with Reid. “Look over there in the trees. The place is just waiting for us. Heard if you rattle a Gypsy’s bones, the dead will speak to you.” Tim’s eyes glowed in the moonlight. “I had a cousin once who said he heard voices in that old place, and no one was there but him.”

“This is not a good idea.” Lauren tried to back away, but Reid held her shoulder tight.

“Come on, Lauren, for once in your life, do something that’s not safe. No one’s lived in the old place for years. How much trouble can we get into?”

Tim’s imagination had gone wild. According to him all kinds of things could happen. They might find a body. Ghosts could run them out, or the spirit of a Gypsy might take over their minds. Who knew, zombies might sleep in the rubble of old houses.

Lauren rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to think of the zombies getting Tim. A walking dead with braces was too much.

“It’s just a rotting old house,” Lucas said so low no one heard but Lauren. “There’s probably rats or rotten floors. It’s an accident waiting to happen. How about you come back in the daylight, Reid, if you really want to explore the place?”

“We’re all going now,” Reid announced, as he shoved Lauren off the road and into the trees that blocked the view of the old homestead from passing cars. “Think of the story we’ll have to tell everyone Monday. We will have explored a haunted house and lived to tell the tale.”

Reason told her to protest more strongly, but at fifteen, reason wasn’t as intense as the possibility of an adventure. Just once, she’d have a story to tell. Just this once...her father wouldn’t find out.

They rattled across the rotting porch steps fighting tumbleweeds that stood like flimsy guards around the place. The door was locked and boarded up. The smell of decay hung in the foggy air, and a tree branch scraped against one side of the house as if whispering for them to stay back.

The old place didn’t look like much. It might have been the remains of an early settlement, built solid to face the winters with no style or charm. Odds were, Gypsies never even lived in it. It appeared to be a half dugout with a second floor built on years later. The first floor was planted down into the earth a few feet, so the second floor windows were just above their heads giving the place the look of a house that had been stepped on by a giant.

Everyone called it the Gypsy House because a group of hippies had squatted there in the ’70s. They’d painted a peace sign on one wall, but it had faded and been rained on until it almost looked like a witching sign. No one remembered when the hippies had moved on, or who owned the house now, but somewhere in its past a family named Stanley must have lived there because old-timers called it the Stanley house.

“I heard devil worshippers lived here years ago.” Tim began making scary movie soundtrack noises. “Body parts are probably scattered in the basement. They say once Satan moves in, only the blood of a virgin will wash the place clean.”

Reid’s laughter sounded nervous. “That leaves me out.”

Tim jabbed his friend. “You wish. I say you’ll be the first to scream when a dead hand, not connected to a body, touches you.”

“Shut up, Tim,” Reid’s uneasy voice echoed in the night. “You’re freaking me out. Besides, there is no basement. It’s just a half dugout built into the ground, so we’ll find no buried bodies.”

Lauren screamed as Reid kicked a low window in, and all the guys laughed.

“You go first, Lucas,” Reid ordered. “I’ll stand guard.”

To Lauren’s surprise, Lucas slipped into the space. His feet hit the ground with a thud somewhere in the blackness.

“You next, Tim,” Reid announced as if he were the commander.

“Nope. I’ll go after you.” All Tim’s laughter had disappeared. Apparently he’d frightened himself.

“I’ll go.” Lauren suddenly wanted this entire adventure to be over with. With her luck, animals were wintering in the old place.

“I’ll help you down.” Reid lowered her into the window space.

As she moved through total darkness, her feet wouldn’t quite touch the bottom. For a moment she just hung, afraid to tell Reid to drop her.

Then, she felt Lucas’s hands at her waist. Slowly he took her weight.

“I’m in,” she called back to Reid. He let her hands go, and she dropped against Lucas.

“You all right?” Lucas whispered near her hair.

“This was a dumb idea.”

She felt him laugh more than she heard it. “That you talking or the Gypsy’s advice? Of all the brains dropping in here tonight, yours would probably be the most interesting to take over, so watch out. A ghost might just climb in your head and let free all the secret thoughts you keep inside, Lauren.”

He pulled her a foot into the blackness as a letter jacket dropped through the window. His hands circled her waist. She could feel him breathing as Reid finally landed, cussing the darkness. For a moment it seemed all right for Lucas to stay close; then in a blink, he was gone from her side.

Now the tiny flashlight offered Lauren some much-needed light. The house was empty except for an old wire bed frame and a few broken stools. With Reid in the lead, they moved up rickety stairs to the second floor, where shadowy light came from big dirty windows.

Tim hesitated when the floor’s boards began to rock as if the entire second story were on some kind of seesaw. He backed down the steps a few feet, letting the others go first. “I don’t know if this second story will hold us all.” Fear rattled in his voice.

Reid laughed and teased Tim as he stomped across the second floor, making the entire room buck and pitch. “Come on up, Tim. This place is better than a fun house.”

Stepping hesitantly on the upstairs floor, Lauren felt Lucas just behind her and knew he was watching over her.

Tim dropped down a few more steps, not wanting to even try.

Lucas backed against the wall between the windows, his hand still brushing Lauren’s waist to keep her steady as Reid jumped to make the floor shake. The whole house seemed to moan in pain, like a hundred-year-old man standing up one arthritic joint at a time.

When Reid yelled for Tim to join them, Tim started back up the broken stairs, just before the second floor buckled and crumbled. Tim dropped out of sight as rotten lumber pinned him halfway between floors.

His scream of pain ended Reid’s laugher.

In a blink, dust and boards flew as pieces of the roof rained down on them and the second floor vanished below them, board by rotting board.

Lucas reached for Lauren as she felt the floor beneath her feet crack and split. Her legs slid down, scraping against the sharp teeth of decaying wood.

The moment before she disappeared amid the tumbling lumber, Lucas’s hand grabbed her arm just above her wrist and jerked hard. She rocked like some kind of human bell as boards continued to fall, hitting her in the face and knocking the air from her lungs.

But Lucas held on. He didn’t let her disappear into the rubble. He’d braced his feet wide on the few inches of floor remaining near the wall and leaned back.

When the dust settled, she looked up. He’d wrapped his free arm around a beam that braced a window. His face was bloody. The sleeve had pulled from his shirt, and she saw a shard of wood like a stake sticking out of his arm, but he hadn’t let her go. His grip was solid.

Tim was crying now, but in the darkness no one could see where he was. He was somewhere below. He had to be hurting, but he was alive. The others had been above when the second floor crumbled, but Tim had still been below.

Reid jumped into the window frame that now leaned out over the remains of the porch. The entire structure looked as if it were about to crash like a hundred deformed pickup sticks dumped from a can.

Reid didn’t look hurt, but with the moon on his face, Lauren had no trouble seeing the terror. He was frozen, afraid to move for fear something else might tumble.

“Call for help.” Lucas’s voice sounded calm amid the echoes of destruction. “Reid! Reach in your pocket. Get your phone. Just hit Redial and tell whoever answers that we need help.”

Reid nodded, but his hand was shaking so badly Lauren feared he’d drop the phone. He finally gripped it in one hand and jumped carefully from the window to the ground below. He yelped a moment after he hit the dirt and complained that he’d twisted his ankle. Then he was yelling into his cell for help. They were still close enough to town to see a few lights in the distance. It wouldn’t be long before someone arrived.

Lucas looked down at Lauren. “Hang on,” he whispered.

She crossed her free hand over where his grip still held her arm. “Don’t worry. I’m not letting go.”

Slowly, he pulled her up until she was close enough to transfer her free hand to around his neck. Her body swung against his and remained there. Nothing had ever felt so good as the solid wall of Lucas to hang on to.

“Can you walk?”

“I think so. Don’t turn loose of me, Lucas. Please, don’t turn loose.”

She felt laughter in his chest. “Don’t worry, I won’t. I got you, mi cielo.”

They inched along the edge of the wall where pieces of what had once been the floor were holding. “Tim?” she called. She tried to shine her light down to see Tim, but there was too much debris below. His crying began to echo through the night, as did Reid talking to Mrs. Patterson on the phone.

“She must have been the last person he called,” Lucas whispered near Lauren’s ear. “So when he hit Redial, he got her.

Lauren brushed her cheek against his. “She’s the last person I’d turn to for help.”

“I agree,” Lucas answered.

Their private conversation amid the chaos helped her relax a bit.

“Send everybody!” Reid kept yelling. “We need help, Mrs. Patterson.” When he hung up he must have dialed his brother because all at once Reid was cussing, blaming the mess they were in on whoever answered.

“Hang on, Lauren,” Lucas whispered against her hair. “I’ll try to reach the window.”

“I’m scared. Don’t let me fall.”

He bumped the top of her head with his chin. “So am I, but I promise I’m not letting you go.”

Finally Lucas reached the window that Reid had dropped from, and he lowered Lauren slowly to the ground outside.

“I got her,” Reid shouted just as car lights began to shine through the trees. Emergency vehicles turned off the main road and headed toward the Gypsy House—one volunteer ambulance, a small fire truck, along with one sheriff’s cruiser and Mrs. Patterson’s old gray Buick tailing the parade.

Lauren watched Reid move toward the men storming through brush.

“We’re all right,” he shouted. “I got Lauren out, but Lucas and Tim are still in the house. I was going in after them next.” When he spotted the sheriff in the half dozen flashlights surrounding him, he added, “I tried to tell them this was a bad idea, sir, but thank God I went in to help Lauren, just in case she got into trouble.”

The first men hurried past Reid, ignoring him, but finally Sheriff Brigman and an EMT stopped.

Men with bright flashlights moved into the house with ropes and a portable stretcher. She could hear Lucas yelling for them to be careful and guiding their steps. Tim was somewhere below, still crying.

Her father shone his light along her body. She could feel warm blood trickling down her face, and more blood dripped down from a gash on her thigh. “I’ll take her from here, son,” he said to Reid as if she were a puppy found in the road. “You all right to walk, Reid?”

“I can make it, sir.” Reid limped, making a show of soldiering through great pain.

“We’ve got the boy,” someone yelled from inside the house. “He’s breathing, but we’ll need the stretcher to get him out. Looks like his leg is broken in more than one place.”

Her father never let go his hold of her as they watched Tim being lifted out of the house. One of the EMTs said that, besides the broken leg, the boy probably had broken ribs. The sound of Tim’s crying was shrill now, like that of a wounded animal.

She listened as her father instructed the ambulance driver to take Reid and Tim. They needed care on the way to the hospital. He picked up Lauren and carried her to his car as if she were still his little girl. “I’ll transport her to the emergency room. She’s got wounds, but she’s not losing much blood.”

“Lucas is hurt, too,” she said as the boy who’d saved her life was helped down from the second floor window. Lucas was the last to leave the haunted house. He’d made sure everyone got out first.

The sheriff nodded. “Make sure he’s stable and put him in my car, too. I can get them both there faster than the ambulance can.”

Two firemen followed his orders.

Lauren looked over her father’s shoulder as Lucas moved clear of the shadow of the house. She’d had far more than the little adventure she’d wanted tonight. When her father set her in the back of his cruiser, she wondered at what point she’d gone wrong and swore for the rest of her life she’d never do something so dumb again.

One of the men from the volunteer fire department bandaged up Lucas’s arm and wrapped something around her leg. The sheriff oversaw the loading of the other two injured, then returned. She could almost feel anger coming off him like steam, but he wouldn’t step out of his role here. Here he was the sheriff. Later he’d be one outraged father.

Wrapped in blankets, she sat in the backseat of her father’s cruiser with Lucas and watched everyone load up like a small army. Mrs. Patterson had tripped in the darkness, and two firemen were taking her home for treatment.

She looked over at Lucas sitting a foot away. He was leaning his head back, not seeming to notice that his forehead dripped blood. He’d saved her and helped bring out Tim. She realized he’d passed her to Reid so he could go back for Tim. No one was patting him on the back and saying things like “great job” as they were to Reid.

Lauren seemed to have been labeled “poor victim” and Lucas was invisible.

“You saved me tonight,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you tell my dad? He thinks this whole thing was your fault, thanks to Reid.”

“The truth isn’t worth crossing Reid. Let him play the hero. All I care about is that you’re all right. If I spoke up, I might not have a job tomorrow. One word from Reid and the foreman will take me off the list of extras hires, or worse, tell my father to find another job.”

“We’re alive, thanks to you.” She was touched that he worried about her. “The cut on my leg isn’t deep. But I owe you a blood debt for real now.”

“I know.” His white teeth flashed. “I’ll be waiting to collect it. You’ve got to save my life now.”

Her father climbed into the car without saying a word to them. He spoke into his radio and raced toward the county hospital, half an hour away.

Lauren didn’t feel like talking. She knew the sheriff was probably already mentally composing the lecture he planned to give her for the next ten years. Worry over her would be replaced by anger as soon as he knew she was all right. She’d be lucky if he let her out of the house again before she was twenty-one.

In the darkness, she found Lucas’s hand. She didn’t look at him, but for the rest of the ride, her fingers laced with his. They might never talk of this night again, but they both knew that a blood debt bound them together, and sometime in the future she’d pay him back.

CHAPTER FOUR

Yancy

THE GREYHOUND BUS pulled up beside the tiny building with Crossroads, Texas, United States Post Office painted on it in red, white and blue, and Yancy Grey almost laughed. The box of a structure looked like it had been rolled in on wheels and set atop a concrete square. He had seen food trucks at county fairs that were bigger.

This wasn’t even a town, just a wide spot in the road where a few buildings clustered together. He saw the steeples of two churches, a dozen little stores that looked as though they were on their last legs framed in the main street, and maybe fifty homes scattered around, not counting trailers parked behind one of the gas stations.

A half mile north there stood what looked like a school, complete with a grass football field with stands on either side. To the east was a grain elevator with a few buildings near the base. Each one was painted a different shade of green. Yancy couldn’t see behind the post office, but he couldn’t imagine that direction being any more interesting than the rest of the town.

“This is the Crossroads stop, mister,” a huge bus driver called back to Yancy from the driver’s seat. “We’re early, but I guess that don’t matter. Post office is closed Sundays anyway.”

Yancy stood and moved down the empty aisle as the bus door swished open. He’d watched one after another of the mostly sorry-looking passengers step off this bus at every small town through Oklahoma and half of Texas. He didn’t bother to thank the driver for doing his job. Yancy had been riding for ten hours and simply wanted to plant his feet on solid ground.

“You got any luggage?” the driver asked. “It’s been so long since Oklahoma City, I forgot.”

“No,” Yancy answered as he took his first breath of the dawn’s damp air. “Just my pack.”

“Good.” The driver pulled out his cigarettes. “Normally I stop here for breakfast. That café across the street serves an endless stack of pancakes, but since there are no cars out front, I think I’ll move on. I’ll be in Lubbock next stop, and that’s home.”

Yancy didn’t care what the driver did. In fact, he hoped the fat guy would forget where he left off his last passenger. All Yancy Grey wanted was silence, and this town just might be the place to find it.

For the past five years in prison he’d made a habit of not talking any more than necessary. It served no purpose. Friends, he didn’t need, and enemies didn’t bother chatting. He kept to himself. The inmates he’d met and got along with weren’t friends. In fact, he’d just as soon never see any of them again. One of them, a dead-eyed murderer named Freddie, had promised to kill him every time he’d passed within hearing distance, and another who went by “Cowboy” would skin a dead man for the hide.

And the guards and teachers for the most part were little more than ghosts passing through the empty house of his life. He had learned one fact from every group-counseling session he’d attended, and that was if he was going to stay out of prison, he needed to plan his life. So he’d taken every course offered and planned how not to get caught when he next stepped out into the free world.

He dropped his almost empty backpack on the post office steps and watched the bus leave. Then, alone with nothing but the sounds of freedom around him, he closed his eyes and simply breathed for a while. He’d known he was low-down worthless since he was five, but now and then Yancy wanted to forget and just think of himself as a regular person like everyone else who walked the planet.

At twenty-five, he wasn’t the green kid who’d gone to jail. He was a hardened man. He had no job or family. No future. Nowhere to go. But, thanks to positive-thinking classes, he had goals.

The first one was simple: get rich. After he got past that one all the others would fall in line: Big house. Pool. Fast car.

On the positive side, he had a lot going for him. Without a plan, he didn’t have to worry about holes in his strategy. He wasn’t running away from anything or anyone, and that was a first. He’d also learned a little about every trade the prison tried to teach.

Yancy had bought a bus ticket to a town he’d once heard his mother say was the most nothing place on earth. Crossroads, Texas. He figured that was where he’d start over, like he was newborn. He’d rebuild himself one brick at a time until no one who ever knew him would recognize Yancy Grey. Hell, he might even give himself a middle name. That’d be something he hadn’t had in twenty-five years of being alive.

Sitting down on the steps, he leaned against the tin door of the twelve-foot square post office and looked around at a tiny nothing of a town that sparkled in the early light. He might not have much, but he had his goals, and with some thinking, he’d have a plan.

He wasn’t sure, but he thought his mother met his dad here. She never talked about the man who’d fathered him except to say he’d been a hand on one of the big ranches around. She’d fallen in love with the hat and boots before she knew the man in between. Yancy liked to think that, once, she might have been happy in Crossroads, but knowing his mother, she wouldn’t be happy anywhere unless she was raising hell.

Yancy warmed in the sun. The café would probably be open in an hour or two. His first plan was to eat his fill of pancakes, and then he’d think about what to do next. Maybe he’d ask around for a job. He used to be a fair mechanic, and he’d spent most of his free time in the prison shop. There were two gas stations in town. One might have an opening. Or maybe the café needed a dishwasher? He’d worked in the prison kitchen for a year. If he was lucky, there would be a community posting somewhere around for jobs, and he’d bluff his way into whatever was open.

If nothing came up, he’d hitch a ride to the next town. Maybe he’d steal enough lying around here to hock for pocket money. Six years ago he’d caught a ride with a family in Arkansas. By the time they let him out a hundred miles down the road, he’d collected fifty dollars from the granny who rode in the back with him. The old bat had been senile and probably wouldn’t ever remember having the money in the first place. That fifty sure had felt good in his pocket.

Another time, when he was about sixteen, he’d hitched a ride with some college kids. They’d been a fun bunch, smoking pot as they sang songs. When he’d said goodbye, they’d driven away without a camera that was worth a couple hundred. Served them right for just wandering around the country spending their parents’ money. No one ever gave him a dime, and he’d made it just fine. Except for one dumb partner and one smart cop in Norman, Oklahoma.

Yancy pushed the memories aside. He had to keep his wits about him. Maybe try to go straight this time. He was halfway through his twenties, and hard time would start to take a toll on him soon. He’d seen guys in prison who were forty and looked sixty.

Taking a deep breath, he let the air sit in his lungs for a minute. It felt pure and light. Like rain and dust and nothing else.

A few cars passed as the sun warmed, but none stopped at the café. Yancy guessed the place might not open until eight or even nine on Sunday. He’d wait. With twenty dollars in his pocket, he planned to celebrate. Maybe if they had pie out early, he’d have it for breakfast.

One man in a pickup stopped and stuffed a few letters in the outside drop. He tipped his hat in greeting, and Yancy did the same with his baseball cap. It had been so long since he’d been in the free world he wasn’t sure how to act. He needed to be careful so no one would recognize him as an ex-con. Most folks probably wouldn’t anyway, but cops seemed to have a knack for spotting someone who’d served time.

Yancy went over a few rules he’d made up when he was thinking about getting out of jail. Look people in the eyes but not too closely. Greet them however they greeted him. Stand up straight. At six-one he wasn’t tall enough to be frightening or short enough to be bothered. He continued with his rules. Answer questions directly. Don’t volunteer much information, but never appear to be hiding anything.

About eight o’clock he heard one of the church bells. The day was cold but sunny and already promising to be warm. The dusting of snow from last night was blowing in the street like a ghost snake wiggling in the frosty air. In an hour it would be gone.

He decided to set his first freedom goal. He’d buy a coat. After all, winter was already here. The first year in prison he’d been either hot or freezing. If he had a good wool coat, he could be warm all winter, and then if he ever got hot, he’d just take off his good coat. He sighed, almost feeling it already covering his shoulders. The old sweatshirt he’d found in the lost-and-found bin at one of the bus stops last night was too worn to last the winter.

Yancy smiled, knowing that if anyone passed by, they’d think he was an idiot, but he didn’t care. He had to start somewhere. Daydreaming might not get him anywhere, but a goal—now, that was something he could sink his teeth into. He’d listened to all the tapes. He had to think positive and do it right this time, because he was never going back to prison.

Two old men came out of a couple of the small houses across the street. One had a saw and the other carried a folding chair. They must live in the cluster of little bungalows surrounded by a chain-link fence. The sign out front, looking as old as the two men, said Evening Shadows Retirement Community.

As he watched the men, he almost felt sorry for them. In Yancy’s mind the place looked little better than prison. The homes were in bad shape. One roof sank in at a corner. One porch was missing a railing. The yard had been left on its own for so long it looked like nothing but prairie grass and weeds. A few of the homes had flowers in pots with leftover Christmas greenery, and all had tiny flags tacked up by the door as if they’d been put up as Fourth of July decorations, and no one had bothered to take them down.

Yancy stopped studying the place and decided to pass his time watching the old men. One at a time they each tried to stand on the folding chair to cut dead branches off the elms between the little houses. One kept dropping the saw. The other fell through the opening in the back of the chair and would have tumbled to the ground if his partner hadn’t braced him.

Yancy laughed. The two were an accident about to happen, and he had a front row seat.

The second time he laughed, one of the old men turned toward Yancy and pointed his cane like a rifle. “You think you can do any better, mister, you get over here and try.”

“All right, I will.” He headed toward them. “If one of you break a leg I’ll probably get blamed.” With nothing to do until the café opened, he might as well lend a hand. That’s what normal people did, right? And Yancy wanted to be nothing but normal.

Sawing a branch that had been scraping against the house was no problem, even with both the old guys telling him how. Yancy had planned to stop there, but they pointed to another branch that needed cutting and then another. As he moved from house to house, more old people came out. Everyone had elms bothering their roof or windows or walls. Before long he felt as if he was leading a walker parade around the place. Every time he cut a branch down, one of the residents would grab it and haul it outside the chain-link fence to the lot beyond.

Listening to them chatter and compliment him was like music to his ears. None of the senior citizens ordered him around or threatened him. They all acted as if he was some kind of hero fighting off the dragon elms that had been torturing them when the wind blew or robbing them of sleep.

“We should pile them up and have us a bonfire,” yelled the one old man with Cap written on his baseball hat.

“Great idea,” his friend said, joining in. “I’ll buy the hot dogs and we can have us a weenie roast.”

“Won’t that be a fire hazard?” Yancy asked as he used a stool to climb high enough to cut the last of the dead branches off a tree.

Cap-hat puffed up, making him about half an inch taller. “I was the captain of the volunteer fire department here for twenty years. I think if I say it’s all right, nobody will argue.”

To Yancy’s shock they all agreed, and now the rush was on to collect firewood.

In general, Yancy hated people. He thought of some of them as evil, like Freddie and Cowboy who’d threatened to murder him for no reason, and others he feared were simply fools. The rest were stupid, destined to be played by the evil walking the earth. That pretty much summed up the population he’d been living with for five years, and those he’d grown up with were no better.

Only, these folks were different. They treated him as if he were a kid who needed praise and direction. Each had stories to tell, and each, in their way, appeared to have lived rich, full lives. None suspected the crimes he’d committed or regrets he had in life. To them he was a hero, not an ex-con.

Yancy swore he felt like Snow White stumbling into the elderly dwarves’ camp. All of them were at least a head shorter than him, and most offered him a cup of coffee or something to eat. One little round woman dressed in pink from her shoes to her hair even brought him out a slice of pie. Mrs. Butterfield was her name, and she claimed her husband always ate pie for breakfast.

She also giggled and told Yancy that he reminded her of her first husband when he was young. “Black hair and strange eyes,” she whispered. “Just like you, young man.”

“Yancy,” he said. “My name’s Yancy Grey.” He didn’t want her thinking he was the ghost of husband number one returning.

All agreed that was a strong, good name, except Mrs. Butterfield who’d gone inside to look for a picture of her first husband.

An hour passed, and the café still wasn’t open, but Yancy felt stuffed. By now the trees were trimmed and the eight geezers pulled their chairs around a crumbling swimming pool full of tumbleweeds and dead leaves. The pool deck was one of the few places that was out of the wind and offered sunshine.

Yancy used the tree-trimming chair to join them and was welcomed with smiles. Thank goodness Mrs. Butterfield had forgotten what she’d gone to look for and returned with another slice of pie for him.

The short senior citizen who’d fallen through the chair earlier introduced himself as he offered Yancy a wrinkled hand. “Leo is my name and farming was my game until I settled here. I used to grow pumpkins so big we could have hollowed them out and used them for carriages.”

A few rusty red hairs waved at the top of Leo’s head as he laughed. “Let me fill you in on the protocol here. Every Sunday we get up early and sit out here, if the weather permits, until ten-thirty when two vans drive up. Until then we eat Mrs. Ollie’s deliciously sinful banana bread and Mrs. Butterfield’s pie if she remembers it’s Sunday. Of course, we do this so the Catholics will have something to confess and the Baptists will have something to sing about. Those feeling the calling load the vans for church and the rest of us finish off the bread before our kin drop by to take us to their low-fat, no sugar, high-fiber Sunday dinners.”

“Which van you climbing into, Mr. Leo?” Yancy smiled as he took another piece of the best banana bread he’d ever eaten.

“Neither,” Leo snapped. “I was married twice. Once to a Baptist. Once to a Catholic. After spending twenty years in each church I gave up religion for superstition.” Mr. Leo leaned forward. “Like, I’ve been noticing something about you, Yancy. You may be a good-looking fellow, but you got one gray-colored eye and one blue. Like Mrs. Butterfield said, that’s strange. Some folks might think you to be the son of a witch, or maybe a witch yourself. I’ve heard tell a man with two colored eyes can see death coming for any one he stares at. Gypsy blood in you, I’m guessing, with that black hair. They say every Gypsy is born with a gift, and yours just might be death’s sight. Am I right, Yancy?”

“That’s me,” Yancy lied. He had no idea where his people came from, but seeing death hanging around these folks wouldn’t be too hard. He was surprised the Grim Reaper didn’t make regular minivan stops by this place.

Miss Ollie passed by to offer him the last slice of bread. “Don’t believe a word Leo says,” she whispered. “He ain’t never farmed in his life. He taught drama at the high school for forty years, and if he had two wives he must have kept them in a box, because no one in town ever saw them.” She laughed. “We don’t know if his brain is addled, or if he’s just trying to make life more interesting. Either way, he’s always fun to listen to.”

It took Yancy a moment to wrap his mind around what he heard. He’d known many liars but not one who did so for fun, and nobody in the group seemed to care.

“Don’t rat me out, Ollie,” Leo grumbled, “or I’ll tell him about when you came to town as a lazy streetwalker and settled here just so you’d only have to walk a few blocks to cover the whole town.”

The very proper baker hit him with her empty banana-bread pan. Crumbs showered over him, but Leo didn’t seem to notice. He just grinned and winked at her because he knew he’d flustered her. “She’s Baptist,” he whispered. “Never confesses to a thing she’s done all her life. Taught home economics down the hall from me, and I can tell you there were some wild parties in that food lab.”

She raised the pan as if planning to hit him again, but decided to laugh.

Yancy studied the circle of people. “How many of you taught school?”

To his surprise all but one raised his hand. A tall, frail man in a black suit, wearing hearing aids in both ears, finally lifted his hand to join the others. “I think I qualify, even though I was the principal. I’m Mr. Halls. Many a student made a joke about my name.” His announcement was a bit loud. “A man’s name sets his course at birth.”

They all nodded as if he were the bravest among the brave. Battle-scarred veterans of decades of fighting their grand war against ignorance might have honed them, but age now left them crippled and alone. One to a house. No husbands or wives surviving, apparently. But they had each other. Somehow in the middle of nowhere, they’d found their place, like a flock of birds huddled together on a tiny lake.

When the two church vans arrived, most of the group climbed on. Only Leo, Cap and the principal remained in the circle with Yancy. When the principal went inside to get his cap, Yancy had to ask, “Isn’t he going to church? He’s all dressed up.”

Cap shook his head. “He dresses like that every day. Old habits are hard to break. He’s almost deaf, so whoever sits on his right tends to yell.”

When Mr. Halls returned wearing his very proper hat, he didn’t seem to notice they were still talking about him.

Yancy leaned back in his metal chair and relaxed. This is it, he thought, my river of peace that prison preacher used to talk about. They might not know it, but these old folks were offering him the bridge to cross from one life to another. He listened as they told him of Crossroads and their lives growing up, of growing old in the Panhandle of Texas, where canyons cut across the flat land and sunsets spread out over miles rich in history wild and deep.

Finally when one of the old men got around to asking what he was doing here in Crossroads, Yancy pointed to the post office and explained that he was looking for a job.

“I’m traveling light. Just a pack.” As he said the words, he stared at the steps and noticed his pack wasn’t where he’d left it.

“My pack!” he yelled as he stood and ran toward the post office.

By the time the three old men caught up to him, Yancy had been around the little building twice. The pack was nowhere to be found. No one was around. He’d been in sight of the post office all morning, and he hadn’t seen a soul walk past. The only person he’d observed stop had been the guy in the pickup, and he’d been long gone before Yancy walked across the street.

“I’ve been robbed,” he said, more surprised that a crime had been committed against him before he’d had time to commit one himself than he was worried about his few possessions.

“Everything I had was in that pack.” He didn’t mention that most of it was stuff the prison had given him. A toothbrush. All his socks and underwear. The bloody shirt he’d worn when he was arrested and a deck of cards he’d spent hours marking.

“This is serious,” Cap said, passing like an elderly, short General Patton before his troops. “This is a crime right in the middle of town. This is outrageous.”

Leo didn’t seem near as upset. “What’d you have, sonny?”

Yancy didn’t move. He couldn’t tell them how little he had. They’d probably figure out he’d come from prison. All he’d walked out with were his goals. “I had a good winter coat made of wool,” he lied. “And a great pair of boots. A shaving kit in a leather carrier and three hundred dollars.”

All three old men patted him on the shoulder. They all agreed that that was a great deal to lose.

Cap spoke first. “Come on home with me, son. We’ll call the sheriff, then you can join the few of us who are lucky enough not to have family dragging us to Sunday dinner. Mrs. Ollie always cooks for us.”

Yancy was getting into his lie now. “I don’t have the money to make it to Arizona. A friend of mine said if I could make it to Flagstaff I might have a job waiting.”

They patted him again. “Don’t you worry,” Mr. Halls said. “We’ll take up a collection if we don’t find who did this. And do you know, my daughter gave me a winter coat that’s too big for me. You can have it. I got half a dozen in the closet. She sends either that or two sweaters every Christmas.”

“Is your coat wool?” Yancy asked. After all, it had to match his dream.

“It is,” Mr. Halls said, “and if I remember right, it’s got one of them heavy zip-out linings.”

Yancy tried not to sound too excited. “I think it’ll do, thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s the least I can do for a man who was robbed right under our noses.”

“I can cover the shaving kit,” Leo added. “I have four I’ve never used. If you need gloves, I got half a dozen you can try on. Can’t seem to convince my daughter-in-law that I don’t like gloves. Why waste time on gloves when you got pockets, I always say, but I swear that woman never listens. Since my birthday is in November, she mails gloves every year. Lucky I wasn’t born in July or I’d be getting a swimsuit.”

Yancy choked down a laugh. This was better than stealing. These folks were giving him more than he could carry off. “One thing, Mr. Leo, I’d rather not call the sheriff. You see, it’s my religion to forgive any wrong done me.”

Leo swore. “Hell, I knew you was one of them van riders all along. Well, if you won’t consider converting to my religion of superstition, I’ll have to be tolerant of yours. But I got to tell you, son, that forgive-and-forget kind of thinking will lead you down a penniless path.”

Yancy did his best to look thoughtful. “I’m set on my faith, Mr. Leo. For all I know, whoever stole my pack thought he needed it more than I did.” Yancy didn’t add that was usually his philosophy when he robbed someone.

Leo saw the light. “You’re a good man, Yancy Grey, and we’d all be lucky to call you a friend. It’ll be our pleasure to help you out with anything you need. We might even offer you some handyman work around this place to help you get back on your feet.”

“Thanks,” Yancy managed as he started a list of things that he’d forgotten were in his pack. A watch. A new wallet. “I’d be thankful for any work. I’ve been laid off for a while.”

Everyone jumped as Mr. Halls shouted, “A man on a mission is a man who can’t be bested.”

Leo and Cap nodded, but Yancy had a feeling the old principal was walking the halls in his mind reading quotes he’d seen along the walls of the high school.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lauren

THE COUNTY HOSPITAL had its own kind of sounds. Like echoes in Ransom Canyon and the lone clank of a windmill turning on the prairie or the rustle of paper in empty school hallways, hospital noise was unique.

The place rumbled like a train station. Phones rang, pagers beeped, and machines hummed and ticked like the final clock measuring someone’s life away.

There was a rush about the people in white one moment and a stillness the next. Lauren had no idea what time it was. She’d seen a clock not long after she’d been wheeled in that said 2:00 a.m., but that had been hours ago.

In a hospital, only the smell of antiseptic seemed to remain the same. In her windowless space, she could have been waiting a few hours or a day.

Lauren sat alone in the third curtained-off emergency room cubicle, drifting off now and then, only to wake to the same nightmare.

She knew Tim was in the first bed. Everyone had rushed toward him when the emergency room doors opened, which told her he was in danger. Funny Tim O’Grady, whom she’d known all her life, might die! No one she’d ever been close to had ever died. Thinking about it wasn’t funny at all, she realized.

A nurse had helped her onto the examination table when she’d first arrived and checked her leg. At least she thought she was a nurse. Without her glasses she couldn’t read any of the name tags. For all she knew, she was the janitor. For a while she worried that Pop would be mad that she’d lost another pair of glasses, but decided that was so far down the lecture list it didn’t matter.

The nurse was back.

“You’re going to need a few stitches and a few shots,” no-name in white said. “You’re lucky. That first boy looks like he took a Humpty Dumpty fall.”

“Can they put him back together again?” Lauren smiled at their nursery-rhyme code.

The nurse frowned as if she’d crossed some line in protocol. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s getting the best care here.”

Lauren nodded, but she didn’t feel very lucky, and she wasn’t at all sure Tim would be fine. If she were lucky, she wouldn’t have gone into that haunted house. Following Reid Collins was the dumbest thing she’d ever done. He might have twice her muscles, but he only had about half her brain cells. If his dad wasn’t rich, Reid would be lost. As it was, he’d probably run for Crossroads mayor in another twenty years. First he thought he was a football star because he had the jacket, and now he considered himself a hero.

No-name carefully pulled the curtain closed as she vanished. Lauren waited, fighting the need to slip under one of the fabric walls and escape. In her mind she kept backtracking all the way to the church, thinking of every wrong turn she must have taken to end up here. If she could get do-overs, she’d have stayed with Mrs. Patterson to talk about all the things the old lady thought were on Lauren’s mind.

As time dragged by, her father dropped in twice to glare at her. She was in major trouble. During his first one-minute visit, he said he had to call Tim’s and Reid’s parents and get them out of bed. The second visit, an hour later, was to inform her that Tim was going into surgery. After that, Lauren just acted as if she was asleep when he made his hourly rounds.

He said the word surgery as if it was something terrible she’d done to Tim, but Lauren couldn’t bear to think about it. Somewhere in this very building someone was cutting into Tim.

She wanted to ask about Lucas Reyes. Her father seemed to have forgotten about him. Or maybe he was still angry, thinking that somehow this was all Lucas’s fault.

When the nurse finally came back, she was with a doctor who looked as though he wasn’t old enough to be out of college. The nurse did all the talking, and the young doc just nodded and signed the chart. As Lauren had suspected, her injury wasn’t worth much attention. A few stitches, just like the no-name nurse had said. Within minutes both the nurse and the doctor were finished. They had that why-are-you-wasting-our-time look about them. The emergency room had been busy for hours, and she’d been shoved to the back of the line several times.

About the time Lauren wondered whatever happened to bedside manner, the nurse poked her with an injection and announced, “Tetanus shot going in.”

“Do I get a sucker?” Lauren asked, and to her surprise the nurse smiled.

Encouraged, Lauren continued, “How are the others?”

The nurse patted her hand. “They’ll all be fine. Two will be released this morning, but the boy they took upstairs to surgery will have to stay a few days.”

“You mean Tim’s not going to die?”

The nurse shook her head. “Not from a broken leg. They’re doing X-rays to make sure he didn’t break a rib.”

Lauren was so relieved that Tim wasn’t headed for the afterlife she didn’t feel the second needle. He might be dumb as a rock, but if his brain ever caught up to his imagination, who knows, he could make something of himself, other than being Reid’s sidekick.

“What about Lucas?”

“Lucas Reyes?”

Lauren nodded.

“He’s fine. Lost some blood, but we stitched him up. I think he’s already been released. I saw him sitting in the lobby about half an hour ago.”

“And Reid Collins?” Lauren was so mad at him she really didn’t care. First, he’d gotten them into this mess, and then, when help showed up, he took all the credit for saving everyone.

“The Collins boy sprained his ankle. He was really complaining about the pain until the doc told him he’d have to use crutches for a few weeks. He seemed to cheer up after that.” The nurse grinned. “He might have been cured if they’d offered him a wheelchair.”

Lauren smiled, knowing that Reid would make the most of his injury. She thanked the nurse then closed her eyes, deciding that now that she knew all the guys were all right, she might as well sleep awhile. Her dad wouldn’t be by to take her home until Reid and Lucas were released and Tim was settled into a real hospital room.

She almost drifted into a dream when she felt someone take her hand. The touch was gentle, comforting, and for a moment she smiled, thinking that her Pop was finally showing her how much he cared.

But when she opened her eyes, Lucas was standing beside the examining table.

“How you feeling?” he said quietly, so low no one on the other side of the curtain could have heard.

She rose to her elbows. “I’ll survive.”

“I gotta go. Half my family came to pick me up, and I think the hospital is worried about the mob scene. I just wanted to say goodbye. Despite all that happened, I liked being with you tonight.”

“Me, too,” she said, wishing that she could think of something clever to add. But fighting down nervous giggling seemed to be the limit of her communication skills. Lucas was at least a year older than her, good-looking, and he was holding her hand.

“You ever been kissed?” He flashed a smile.

“No,” she answered. He could have probably already figured that out. Glasses, sheriff’s daughter, homely, brainy type. How many more strikes against her did she need? Oh, yeah, and flat chested.

Without a word, he leaned in and touched his lips to hers. As he pulled away he winked. “How about we keep this to ourselves?”

She nodded, deciding one kiss and her brain cells must be dying. Now she couldn’t even talk.

“See you around.” He backed away.

As he vanished through the curtain door, she whispered, “See you around.”

CHAPTER SIX

Staten

STATEN DROPPED BY his grandmother’s house, but she didn’t have any chores for him. It seemed the cluster of retirees at Evening Shadows had hired a handyman to run the place. In truth, he’d never seen the community looking so good. The swimming pool had been cleaned out, the fence fixed and the porches painted, every house a different color.

“Yancy says,” Granny shouted over the news blaring from her TV, “if each door is a different color, some of the folks won’t get confused and keep going in the wrong house.” She shook her head. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life than when I saw Leo naked.”

Staten stood, his fists clenched. He didn’t care how old the little man was, he wasn’t putting up...

Granny continued, “It was my fault. I must have miscounted. I thought I turned into my house, but it was his. But I blame him, of course, for not locking his door.”

Staten calmed. “Granny, you live in number three, he lives in four. How hard could it be to count to three?”

She shook her finger at him. “Now, don’t get smart with me. After about eighty years, things like numbers started falling out of the back of my head. I can’t even remember my phone number, much less anyone else’s.”

“Don’t worry about it. Everyone you know is programmed into your phone. All you have to do is flip it open, punch a button and say their name.”

She raised an eyebrow as if she suspected a trick. “So, what is going to happen if one day I’m somewhere lost and lose my phone? Even if I can borrow someone else’s phone, I won’t know a number to call, and the stranger I asked to help probably doesn’t have Aunt Doodles’s number in his phone anyway.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “With my luck, the stranger will be one of them serial killers, just looking for his next victim, and there I’ll be, up a creek without a phone.”

Staten patted her shoulder. Every week she had a new worry. He should keep a list. Eventually she was bound to get around to repeating one. “First of all, you can’t drive. So if you’re lost, you’re still in the county. Anyone you stop will probably know you and be happy to bring you back here. Second, if you do see a serial killer, he probably does know Aunt Doodles. She went to jail several times, remember.”

Granny’s finger started wagging again. “She did not. Not many anyway. And every single time was that dumb husband of hers’ fault, not hers.”

Staten leaned down and whispered, “How do you know? You can’t count to three.”

She slapped his cheek too hard to be a pat. “Stop it, Staten. You remind me of numbers I couldn’t remember, and that reminds me of Mr. Leo and his wrinkled...body. Now, that’s a sight I’d like to unsee.”

All at once laughter erupted from her. Staten enjoyed the sound from the dear old woman who’d loved him every day of his life.

As always, her sweet chuckle was music to Staten’s ears. When he was growing up, his parents were either traveling or fighting. By the time he was in middle school, his father had divorced his mother and found wife number two. Neither of them had seemed to want custody of him in the split. His mother had remarried and moved to England within six months, without leaving a forwarding address.

Staten had spent most of his time with his grandparents on the ranch. He’d loved working the land with his granddad and living in their little place where his granny’s laughter always seemed to fill every nook and cranny. The visits from his father and wife number whatever had grown further apart. Senator Samuel Kirkland showed no interest in the ranch. No one was surprised when Granddad died and left it to Staten, his only grandson.

“Sorry you had to see Old Leo, Granny.” He smiled at his grandmother. “Maybe the new handyman was right about the doors. It must have been a shock for you and Leo when you walked into his house.”

Granny was busy cleaning up the coffee cups. “Not so much. I’ve seen him naked before.” She turned and headed to the tiny kitchen.

Staten had no intention of asking more. He didn’t want to know.

Since it was too early to go to Quinn’s for supper, he dropped by the volunteer fire department’s weekly meeting.

This time of year grass fires were rare, and guys were drinking coffee and talking about how the chamber of commerce was planning something big. The men got their information from their wives, who’d passed it around some. So, no telling how accurate it might be. The leaders in Crossroads were looking for ideas to help the town grow and that meant raising money.

“A fund-raiser to beat all fund-raisers,” Hollis shouted. “We plan to raise enough money to improve both the fire station and the clinic. Ellie could use the space at the clinic, and when she graduates, most folks would like to see her stay in town and run it full-time.”

“That waiting room is too small,” one of the other farmers said. “She’ll be stacking folks in chairs before long. With all the pregnancies lately, she’ll want to add a birthing room. We can handle a doc coming in once a week, but we need a nurse there full-time.”

G.W. Polk, who farmed next to Hollis, shook his head. “There’s a good hospital in Lubbock. I was born in a car headed that way. To my way of thinking, kids should be born the same place they’re conceived.”

Hollis nodded. “My point exactly. You were born in a car and you haven’t been the same since.”

Staten was distracted by thoughts of Quinn and the way she kissed him, but he tried his best to listen. He rarely participated in the town’s problems, but he always sent a check to help out with any fund-raiser. Every year the chamber of commerce thought up a grand plan to improve the town, but nothing ever really changed. Correction, he thought, the dozen reindeer they’d put up at Christmas on all the light posts along Main looked great.

After an hour, he excused himself and told the men that whatever they decided, he was behind the chamber one hundred percent. He took his time leaving. Reason told him he was being a fool worrying about what time he got to Quinn’s house. She was the same shy woman he’d known all his life. Nothing unusual would happen tonight, and he’d be wasting worry to think otherwise.

For the past five years he had never given their unusual relationship much thought. Maybe because it seemed to have grown naturally with neither of them planning it. He never considered finding another woman, though he knew a few who’d welcome him in their bed if he showed up.

Only, they would come with strings. They’d want eventually to become Mrs. Kirkland, and Staten wasn’t sure he ever wanted that again. Being numb most days was far better than hurting.

Maybe he should just be satisfied with what he had with Quinn. It was good. It was enough. She probably felt the same, even if she had asked to be kissed.

He told himself when he got to her house he’d act exactly the same as he always did. Nothing different. Nothing changed. One little kiss didn’t mean anything.

As he pulled up to her place, he noticed her working in the barn, elbow deep in the engine of her old tractor. Even after all his stops, he’d arrived early. He’d said supper. It wasn’t even five o’clock.

Halfway to her barn he remembered the bag of barbecue in the truck. If she hadn’t already waved, he would have turned around. But it was too late. Maybe she’d rather drive over to Bailee and eat hamburgers or maybe even try something at the café in town. They didn’t have to always do everything the same. He could be flexible. The kiss was proof, wasn’t it?

No, going into a café would seem too strange. They never ate out. They both thought it would seem too much like a couple thing.

“Need some help?” he asked when he reached her.

“No. I’ve about got it.” She stepped down to face him. “Where’s the barbecue?”

“In the truck. I brought beer, too. That all right with you?”

He rubbed away a smudge on her cheek with his finger. The touch was casual, but her eyes watched his every movement.

Stepping out of his reach, Quinn moved toward the house. “I’ll clean up while you get the food.” She was almost to the porch when she looked back and added, “I already set the table.”

He watched her until she disappeared. She’d never seemed quite so nervous around him. Suddenly, he wished he could take back the kiss from last week. He wanted everything to stay the same. They had it good and good was enough.

The shower pipes rattled from down the hallway as he set out the food. The paper containers looked out of place amid her china. He hadn’t given it much thought before, but she always set the table with her few pieces of hundred-year-old china and nice flatware. He tossed the plastic cutlery he’d picked up into the trash.

When she finally joined him in the kitchen, he was halfway through his first beer. He offered one to her, but she poured herself a glass of cold tea instead.

She was wearing a blue silk blouse that floated around her. He liked the look. Something different. Brushing his hand over the soft material, he breathed in her fresh smell. “It seems like I’ve been fighting all week to get back to you.”

“I know how you feel.” She leaned against him. “I missed you, too.”

They sat down where they always ate and filled their plates. He wasn’t sure what she’d like, so he’d bought a pound of every kind of grilled meat the café had. Then he’d tossed in fries and okra for the vegetable.

She asked about the meeting, and he told her the gossip that she probably cared nothing about. Neither ate much. Neither wanted to talk.

Finally, Staten stood. She hadn’t offered to take him to her bedroom, and if he stayed longer, he’d say more than he should.

“I should call it a night.” He reached for his hat. “We saddle up before dawn tomorrow.”

“All right,” she said in a flat tone that revealed nothing as she stood.

He took two steps to the door and remembered how he’d promised he would kiss her goodbye before he left.

With his hat in one hand and Quinn holding their plates between them, he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

When he straightened, he saw a tear roll down her face.

He doubted he’d get an answer if he asked her why she was crying, but it was obvious that he was doing something wrong.

Tossing his hat on the bar, he took the plates from her and set them aside. “I didn’t do that right,” he muttered, more like a swear than an apology.

She waited.

He brushed her shoulders lightly as he leaned in again and touched his lips to hers.

Quinn’s mouth was so soft. Her bottom lip trembled slightly.

His fingers tightened over her shoulders, and he pulled her closer, kissing her lightly until her mouth opened. Then, without hesitation, he kissed her completely.

She didn’t pull away. She simply accepted his advance. He lifted her arms and set them on his shoulders as he continued. If she wanted to be kissed, by hell he’d kiss her.

Slowly, her body melted against him.

He finally broke the kiss, but he didn’t turn loose of her. “Any objections if I undress you?” His hand moved over her back and came to rest on her hip. “I’ve never said so, but I like doing that.”

She leaned her head back as his fingers moved over her blouse. He watched her face as he slowly unbuttoned first her blouse, then her jeans. He liked the way she always left something on for him to finish, and tonight he was doing it all.

Standing before him she closed her eyes as he kissed his way down her body. Then, she took his hand and led him to her bedroom.

They made love slowly, tenderly, as they always did. Only after both were satisfied Staten held her tighter than ever before as though just discovering what a treasure he had in his arms.

When she drifted to sleep, he found himself kissing her. He couldn’t get enough of the feel of her. He’d been starving all week and finally she was beside him, warm and soft. For a while she moved in her sleep, welcoming his touch, but when he deepened the kiss she woke with a jerk.

For a few minutes he held her tight, gently caressing her, whispering her name in the darkness.

When she calmed, he pulled her close. “I want you again if you’ve no objections, Quinn. I don’t want to leave and wait a week to be with you again.”

Her big eyes widened with uncertainty, but she nodded slightly, and he made love to her for the second time. But this time they both knew he wasn’t just loving a woman out of need. He was loving Quinn.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lucas

LUCAS REYES STOOD in the corner of the cafeteria and watched the mayhem. School was like the gathering of the clans in Scotland at Culloden. He’d read all about the great battle on the moors when the MacDonalds, the Jacobites and the French all met to fight the English in 1746. The English brought rifles and the men of the mighty clans of Scotland were wiped out that day. Highlander blood turned the earth red, and some said the thunder of the muskets still echoed off the hills.

Maybe the cafeteria wasn’t quite that bad, but the cliques were clear. In his grandfather’s day they would have been separated by race, but that no longer played a role. Neither did money. Now the division was more by interest. Each clan at Ransom Canyon High wore the markings of their tribe, though. The geeks, who always seemed to carry more books than anyone else. The jocks in their letter jackets. The cheerleaders with their designer purses and perfect spray-on tans even in January.

Several tiny towns and dozens of ranches fed into Ransom High, so there were more groups than he could name. Lately the goths were making an appearance, along with a dozen or so freshmen who looked like they were straight out of the Harry Potter movies. Big round black glasses and all that.

For a country school, this place was the best, Lucas thought. Folks around poured money into computer labs and libraries for their kids. Where city schools were cutting extra programs, Ransom Canyon High had the best in music and arts. Lucas knew when he headed to college he’d be prepared.

The idea of learning, without the cliques around, excited him.

“Hi, Lucas,” Sarah Rodriguez said as she circled him.

“Hola, Sarah,” he answered. He’d known Sarah most of his life and she’d always been sweet. He almost hated to see her grow up and join one of the groups. Maybe she’d be one of the few, like Lauren, who kept her own identity.

“My folks are having a belated New Year’s party this weekend. You coming with your folks?”

“If I get off work in time. I’m riding for the Kirkland ranch all weekend. He’ll have us working cattle until dark, but I’m not complaining. He pays great.”

The bell rang, and she started off. “See you, if you make it in.”

He waved back, thinking that with her three older brothers, she was comfortable talking to guys. Sarah was pretty, like her mother, with long midnight-black hair that hung down to her waist, but Lucas couldn’t help but think he was starting to prefer sunny blond hair that fell down straight without a hint of a curl and bangs long enough to shade eyes framed in glasses.

Lucas glanced across the cafeteria as Lauren left a table where she’d been studying alone. Despite the noise, she read her history book while she ate her sack lunch. Her blond hair had curtained her off from the world. He thought of catching up with her but decided not to.

Somehow in all the talk about what had happened at the Gypsy House last Saturday night, Lucas had fallen out of the picture. Reid Collins had told everyone about how he saved Tim and Lauren, about how they were trapped at one point, about how Tim almost died. But Lucas’s part in the whole thing must have gotten left on the cutting room floor.

He didn’t care. If kids knew he’d been there, they’d only ask him questions, and at some point, his account of the night and Reid’s would cross.

Better to let Reid tell the story. Tim wouldn’t be back at school for another week or more, and by then the topic would be past tense. Lauren was so shy, he was sure she wouldn’t talk about it. If Tim had any brains left, he would say he couldn’t remember how it all happened, so with luck the whole thing would be yesterday’s news very soon.

Lucas walked toward class, smiling. He’d remember the blood debt Lauren owed him. Maybe someday he’d tease her about it. And, he remembered kissing her. She was the first girl he’d really liked that he had kissed. He might be leaving after summer for college, but he’d remember Lauren long after he forgot everyone else at this school.

He rushed alone down the emptying hallway, feeling proud that he’d managed to stay out of any cliques. He saw no point to them. High school was only a passageway to what he wanted in life, nothing more.

To his surprise, Lauren caught up to him and fell into step beside him. For several seconds they just walked, but he slowed his pace a bit to match hers.

“I want to talk to you,” she finally said without looking at him. “The story of what happened Saturday night has changed so much I don’t even think I was there. Now Reid Collins claims Tim was hanging on by a thread, and we could all hear the ghosts whispering. I would have probably broken both legs in the fall from the window if he hadn’t caught me. And—”

“I know,” Lucas interrupted her. “According to Reid, I wasn’t even there. Which is fine with me.”

She stopped and turned to him. “But you were there. You saved my life. Reid can lie all he wants to, but I’ll never forget. I owe you a blood debt.”

“Let Reid’s legend live, querida. You and I will remember and that is enough.”

“Like the kiss at the hospital. Between you and me, right?”

“Right.” He smiled, remembering.

“It was the best kiss I ever had.” She laughed.

“It was the only one you’ve ever had,” he teased. “When I find you in a few years, I’ll ask you again how I compare and see where I stand then.”

She blushed and ran ahead of him into her class.

Lucas stood watching her disappear, knowing they were both late but not caring. She’d forget about him, but he’d remember Lauren. She’d be the only girl he’d ever call darling in any language. Funny thing was, Lauren would probably never know just how special she was.

“Reyes?” Mr. Paris, his math teacher, snapped. “Are you planning on joining us this afternoon?”

“Of course,” Lucas answered. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

He wasn’t sorry at all, but Mr. Paris didn’t need to know that. Being late because he was talking to a girl didn’t compute in the old guy’s world.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Yancy

YANCY GREY HAD worked ten days straight at the Evening Shadows Retirement Community and loved every minute. The first few evenings he’d cleaned out an old office that stood apart from the rest of the bungalows. The front of the building was lined with dirty windows with a long counter separating the lobby area from the back storage and living quarters. A tiny, windowless bedroom and bath ran across part of the back. The living quarters were barely wide enough to fit a full bed, but it was bigger than his cell had been.

Originally, in the ’50s, this place had been a motel, boasting that every cabin had a kitchen, bath and sun porch. Eventually, the sun porches had been enclosed to make living rooms, and the bungalows had been rented by the month. Oil field workers and seasonal farmhands had taken over the place, but the owner had never bothered repairing any of the buildings. Finally, he’d let them sell to pay his back taxes.

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