CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

PARKER

I wipe sweat off my forehead.

It’s not recommended to move in the Texas heat. It makes things tricky.

I didn’t have enough room in my truck, so I rented a pull-behind trailer from U-Haul. I used poor judgment and hired two high-school kids to aid with the heavy stuff. They weren’t a lot of help loading the bigger pieces I’ve collected, but we finally got it done, and I’m sitting in the driveway, ready to pull out.

I text my friends, letting them know I’m on my way, and then I look at the map again. My fingers tap against the screen, tracing the route. According to Travelmath, it’s an eleven-hour-and-fifty-three-minute drive, but with this trailer, it’ll take longer, at least for me. I’ll also be stopping somewhere along the way to get a room. I’m not doing this in one shot.

With the music cranked, I merge onto the highway, eager and nervous. Still have to find a building space and dwelling. I’ve scoured the classifieds and Zillow and have found nothing I’m interested in yet. Although, there was that place I looked at when I was at the wedding, an antique store. It is a possibility.

I’ll be staying with Catherine for the time being. Elle offered but was still in the honeymoon stage and needed privacy. I love her, but no thank you.

I stop for lunch at Willow’s Café, just off the interstate. I didn’t choose the place for any reason other than my stomach rumbling when I saw the sign.

The exterior is composed of white-washed brick, with a cursive sign above vintage French doors bearing the establishment’s name. Inside, the rich aroma of coffee and grilled burgers wafts through the air, making my mouth water.

Ginger, a blonde dressed in jeans and a green polo shirt with the café’s logo, greets me with a bright and chirpy “Hello” and seats me at a table by the window. “What can I get you?”

“Cheeseburger with everything on it. French fries and Coke.”

“Will Pepsi do?”

“I guess.”

She leaves, and I look the place over. Along one wall runs a counter showcasing homemade pastries under a gleaming glass dome. I spy a piece of apple pie. I won’t be leaving here without one. On another wall is a community board with flyers of local events and missing pets.

“Here’s your pop,” Ginger says, setting it down before me.

“Thank you.”

“Food’ll be right up.”

She walks off, and I gaze out the window, squinting at the tire on the U-Haul. Looks low. God, I hope not.

Ginger brings my meal, and I look out the window the whole time I eat it. From this angle and distance, the tire isn’t low anymore; it’s flat. Jeezus.

I finish eating, and Ginger comes back. “How was everything?”

“Fine.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“A slice of that apple pie to go, please?”

I’d eat it here and now, but I have to know about that tire.

Ginger brings my pie in a Styrofoam container, and I tip her and pay my bill. I get out to the trailer, and the tire is flat. I rub my mouth and chin.

Go back in and talk to Ginger. She knows the mechanic at Digger’s gas station, and they have a truck with everything required to fix and change a tire right there where you sit. “I can call him if you like?”

“Would you, please?”

An hour later, I’m back on the road, and by supper, I’m finding a Holiday Inn. I am shot. Every muscle in my body aches. I order a hamburger pizza, shower, and spend the rest of the night watching The Last Kingdom on Netflix. If you ever get a chance to see Uhtred of Bebbanburg without a shirt, you need to take it.

I wake up the next morning exhausted. I stayed up until three, watching that damn show. Never got to finish it because it’s five seasons.

Before the day begins, I swing by the breakfast bar and snatch a coffee and two croissants. Then I’m on the road again.

Three hours from Manning Falls, and my pickup pulls to the right and I hear a thumping noise. Then, the low-tire pressure light comes on. “You have got to be kidding me.”

I turn the flashers on and sit there, rubbing my face. I’ve changed one tire in my lifetime, and you talk about stress. I’m considering calling 911 and seeing if they can’t help, but is this really an emergency?

I decide to do it myself. I get out and see a highway patrol car coming. What luck! I wave when he pulls in behind me.

He gets out and strolls to me in his smokey bear hat. His button-down shirt is tan and has patches on the shoulders. Badge is nice and shiny. Boots, high-gloss black. Name tag says Officer Palmer. He states the obvious. “Got a flat, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Gotta jack and spare?”

I point in the back of my pickup.

He rolls up his sleeves and gets to work—pure efficiency.

“There you go,” he says, heaving the flat into the bed and placing the jack where he found it.

He brushes his hands together, looks at me, and smiles. “So, what’s your name?”

I tell him.

He eyes my breasts. “Where’re you headed?”

Now I’m feeling uncomfortable because he’s staring, and I have to come up with a lie. “Manning Falls,” I tell him. “To see my boyfriend. He’s the sheriff there.”

He quits staring. “Ryan Manning. I know him.”

“Yeah? I’ll tell him you helped me out.”

“You do that.”

Uncomfortable silence.

“Guess I better be going,” he says. “Have a nice day.”

“I will. Thank you.”

He walks away, and I get in my pickup and hit the road. I’m in the zone, two miles outside of Manning Falls, and don’t notice the cop car until it’s too late—just my luck.