Page 16 of Texas
Starting to thumb through the titles, there’s a battered copy ofShaneand a few old westerns with pulp covers. Continuing to browse, one book catches my eye. Faded red spine, a woman on the cover in a trench coat with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a pistol in her hand. I slide it off the shelf and flip through the pages. The spine cracks like it hasn’t been opened in a decade and is exactly what I’m looking for.
Hank leans on the counter, watching me. “You just passin’ through?”
I hesitate for a beat, realizing I’m not sure of my answer, but then I recover. “For the most part.”
He nods. “Most folks who pass through don’t stop at the bookstore.”
“I’m not most folks.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, only studies me. “You staying anywhere particular?”
That makes me raise an eyebrow. “I am,” I pause, not sure what all to offer up, but then figure he looks like a man I can be honest with. “Lennox guest house.”
“You don’t say.”
“She’s a friend.”
Hank’s eyes narrow. “You be careful with that. She’s the kind of woman this town doesn’t know what to do with. Too smart. Too principled. Too willing to help a certain kind of people.”
“Like who?”
“Like women who say no.”
The words make my skin tingle and not in a good way. “I like her,” I say, voice flat.
“I figured you did,” he says, picking up his mug, sips, grimaces. “But I’ll warn you, Will Cleveland’s not a man who lets go easy. His daddy built this place, and Will thinks he inherited the keys to every door. Including hers.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“You should be afraid of what he can make other people do.” I see his point. That’s the real danger. Not the punch you see coming but the one someone else throws on command. Men like Will don’t need to lift a finger. They just tilt their head, and things start to break.
I tuck the book under my arm. “Do you always give advice to strangers?”
“Generally, no,” he answers. “But I would if they look like they might stick around long enough to matter.”
“You think I’m staying?” I ask with a small smile.
With a shrug, he points at the paperback I hold. “Doesn’t matter what I think.” I start to set the book on the counter, and he waves it off. “Take it. On the house.”
I nod once. “Thanks.”
As I step outside, the sun hits me. Getting too hot already. The Harley’s waiting at the curb, chrome glinting in the bright light, and I straddle the seat, the worn paperback tucked into my jacket. The engine rumbles to life beneath me, but I don’t take off right away. I only sit there, watching the slow crawl of Dogwood Bluff go on around me. It’s a pretty town, but I can feel it under the surface. Something’s not right. And unfortunately, I’ve never been good at walking away from trouble. I shift into gear, and I ride.
Eleven
The shade under the city park’s oak tree is patchy, but it’s better than nothing. I’m reclined against the bark with one boot stretched out and the other bent, book balanced on my thigh. The paperback I picked up from Hank’s shop is cracked and sun-faded, pages curling at the corners a little, but I like it that way. I like things with some wear. Some scars.
The park’s quiet. A couple of kids are chasing each other near the swings, their laughs sharp and high in the summer air, while a woman walks a dog, and I see two teenagers whispering with their heads together near the picnic tables. I figure I’m the center of their attention, but I ignore it and instead take a sip of the iced coffee I picked up at a shop near the park. Sweat clings to the small of my back, and I feel the heat creeping up my spine, but I don’t move. I’m too comfortable. It’s a rare thing, this kind of peace, and I don’t want to spoil it. While I was in the Army, I used to think I didn’t need peace. That adrenaline was enough. That movement was safety. But there’s something about a slow afternoon and a worn-out book that makes me wonder if I’ve been wrong about what I need.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, of my jeans, and I pull it out, swiping across the screen. Kristin. “Can you come by the clinic?”says her text. Narrowing my eyes, I’m not sure what to think. No further explanation comes. Just six words.
After a moment, I type back. “Everything okay?”
Her response is almost instantaneous. “Yes. Just want to show you around.”
I stare at the screen for a second longer than I need to, not sure how I feel about being shown around where she works. It feels too… something. Finally, I message back. “What’s the address?” She sends it. It’s someplace I recognize as close to the edge of town where I rode in. Probably smarter to be out of sight of the heart of the town. I tuck the book under my arm, dust off my hands, and stand. The Harley’s parked on the curb, and as I walk to it, the heat sticks to my skin and my shirt clings to my back.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling into the lot behind the Dogwood Bluff Women’s Health & Wellness Center. The building is newer than I expected, with sleek lines and new paint. There’s a wide porch with a bench out front and a row of potted flowers. It doesn’t scream clinic, and that, I think, is the point. Kristin’s waiting inside the glass doors. She’s in pale blue scrubs, hair pulled back in a low twist, and minimal makeup. She looks calm. Capable. Professional as hell. Still, when she sees me, her face lights up. “Hi,” she says, stepping forward. “Thanks for coming.” Even in soft cotton and work shoes, she’s a commanding presence.
