Page 15 of Texas
I nod. “That’s why your business card has your home address?”
Kristin sighs. “It’s not official. It’s just… necessary.”
Sipping my coffee, I think about that. About the kind of woman who opens her home to the ones hiding in plain sight. “You’re braver than you look.”
She smiles, but there’s a sharpness behind it. “You’d be surprised what I’ve learned to hide.”
For reasons I don’t want to explore, I want to ask more. I want to pull the layers back and see what’s underneath, but I don’t press. Not now, probably not ever.
“I’ve got clinic rounds later,” she says. “I’ll be gone by three. You’re welcome to stay in the guesthouse if you want. Or you can ride. There’s beautiful scenery along the road to town or even further to Austin.”
Looking down at my coffee, I notice it’s only lukewarm. “Think I’ll take the bike into town. See what kind of place this is.”
Kristin pushes off the counter and walks to me, slow and barefoot. She leans down and kisses me. Her hand brushes theside of my neck, fingers curling into my short hair. When she pulls back, her eyes are darker. “Don’t get into trouble.”
“Me?” I wink. “No promises.”
Following me to the back door, she holds it open, leaning against it. “You’ll be back tonight?” she asks.
I nod. “I’ll leave my saddlebags.”
Raising an eyebrow, she smiles. “That your version of commitment?”
“Closest I’ve got.”
Kristin nods like she understands, and I kiss her. When I pull away, I see the way her eyes study my face. “What’s your phone number?” she says after a beat. I rattle it off. “Thank you. Maybe I’ll text you this afternoon. See how you’re getting on.”
With only a nod, I step into the early morning Texas heat and moments later I mount the Harley. The seat’s warm from the sun. I slide on my aviators, fire her up, and let the rumble settle into my bones. Slowly, I roll down the long driveway, the house shrinking in the rearview. I don’t look back.
I ride.
The road out of Kristin’s place is narrow and winding, flanked by wildflowers and the occasional stretch of pasture. The sun’s already high in a hazy blue sky. The wind cuts through the heat, but it doesn’t cool me. It makes me feel alive. There’s something about riding solo in the Texas countryside that makes my blood hum. The Harley purrs between my legs, and I shift my weight into the next curve, the tires hugging the road. Fifteen minutes later, I crest a hill and see the sign. “WELCOME TO DOGWOOD BLUFF Est. 1888 Where Heritage Meets Heart.”
I snort under my breath. Cute. Sounds like a place that makes a big deal about its Founders’ Day parade. Rolling through, I see the town itself is tidy. Maybe a little too tidy. Red brick buildings line the main drag, each with painted signage and flower boxes out front. There’s a diner with a striped awning, a hardwarestore with hand-painted hours on the door, and a beauty salon with faded photos in the window. The courthouse sits at the center, white stone and proud, with a clock tower that probably chimes every hour on the hour.
People look as I pass them. Some wave. Some stare. One guy in a ballcap gives me a nod like he’s not sure whether to be curious or suspicious. I give him nothing back. Just keep moving. I coast down Main Street and catch sight of a storefront that makes me hit the brakes. “DOG-EARED & DUSTY Used Books – Rare Finds – Coffee in the Back.”
The windows are cluttered with books and hand-written signs. A little bell dangles from the door handle, and it’s the kind of place I can’t pass up. I park out front, killing the engine and swing my leg over, stretch my back, and push the door open. The bell jingles. Inside, it’s cool and dim, the air thick with the scent of old paper, cedar, and something earthy. Maybe pipe tobacco. The shelves are tall and uneven, packed tight with books in every direction. Some are stacked on the floor, a few lean in precarious towers against the walls, and there’s a cat sleeping on a cushion in the sun, orange and fat, tail twitching every now and then like it’s dreaming of mice.
Behind the counter, an older man looks up from a paperback. He’s got an impressive beard and glasses that sit low on his nose. His plaid shirt is rolled at the sleeves, and there’s a coffee mug near his elbow. “Well now,” he says, voice warm and rough. “Don’t get many riders in here unless they’re lost or literate.”
I grin. “What if I’m both?”
With a chuckle, he sets his book down. “Name’s Hank Martin. This place is mine. Been here since the eighties.”
“Reggie Holliday,” I say, stepping deeper into the store. “Nice setup.”
“Appreciate that. You lookin’ for anything in particular?”
“Something I can finish in a night. Two max. I don’t carry much.”
He nods like that makes perfect sense. “You travelin’ light.”
“Always.”
He gestures toward a shelf near the front. “Try that one. That’s where I keep the good ones,” he says. “Women with grit. Men who die badly. You know. The classics.”
I chuckle. “My kind of shelf.”
