some of the perverts he’d dealt with.
If he was still carrying his APD identification, he could probably reassure her, but he was no longer a cop, at least not officially.
“I’d give the rain a few minutes to slack off before I hit the road again. Just a suggestion,” he said, tipping his hat again.
He headed inside for a cup of coffee as the wind and rain picked up in intensity. He was less than thirty miles from Mustang Run but in no hurry to get there. He’d decided about forty miles back that he’d check in to one of the town’s two motels for the night and then drive out to the ranch in the morning.
He needed a good night’s sleep before he faced Troy.
Troy Ledger, convicted of murder, but still claiming his innocence. Wyatt hoped to God he was, but he’d read and reread the trial notes so many times he knew every last detail. If he’d been on that jury, he’d have come to the same conclusion they had. Guilty of murder in the first degree.
That was the Troy he’d be facing. But it was the other Troy he had been thinking about ever since he’d crossed the Texas line.
The father who’d chased monsters from his bedroom, taught him to ride a horse and a bike. Given him his first pony. The father who’d stayed with him all night when that pony had been so sick they thought they might have to put her down.
Wyatt stamped the water from his worn Western boots and made a stop at the men’s room before entering the café proper.
“C’mon in,” the waitress welcomed when he finally stepped into the main area of the café. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, blonde, with heavy, smudged eye makeup.
“You made it just in time,” she said. “Sounds like a whopper of a storm kicking up out there.”
“Is this your usual January weather?” he asked.
“No, but nothing about the weather’s predictable in this part of Texas. One day you’ll be in shorts, the next day you’ll be wearing sweats. Where are you from?”
“Texas originally, but I’ve lived in Georgia for most of my life.”
“Welcome back to the Lone Star State.”
“Thanks.” He shed his jacket and dropped it to one of the counter stools.
She handed him a plastic-coated menu. “You looking for dinner or just coffee and a warm, dry spot to wait out the storm?”
“Both.” He checked out her name tag. “I’ll start with a cup of black coffee, Edie.”
“The cook’s already gone for the night,” she said as she poured the coffee and set it in front of him. “I can fix you a burger or a sandwich and fries. I can do most of the breakfast items, too. There was chicken tortilla soup, but a couple of truckers finished that off about thirty minutes ago.”
“Whatever you’re cooking now smells good.”
“I’m making the guy in the back corner a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich. I recommend it.”
“Then I’ll have that.”
“You got it.”
Wyatt glanced at the only other customer. He was bent over a road map that he’d spread across the narrow table. His hair was shaggy and looked like it hadn’t been washed in days. His jeans were faded and frayed at the hem. Heavily tattooed muscles bunched beneath a wife-beater T-shirt, and there was a wicked scar at his collarbone.
He might be a perfect gentleman with a spotless record, but he was the kind of guy who always courted a cop’s attention.
But Wyatt was no longer a cop. He turned his attention back to the front of the café. The rain slashed against the huge front windows now, and he thought of the woman in the Honda again. If she was trying to drive in this deluge, she was in for trouble. Visibility would be reduced to a few feet.
The bell above the front door tinkled. Wyatt looked up as the woman who’d said she wasn’t coming in herded the kid inside and toward the restrooms on the right. Hopefully that meant she’d decided to sit out the storm here.
A loud clap of thunder rattled the doors and the lights blinked off and on.
Edie leaned over the counter in front of him. “I’m sure glad you stopped in. I get spooked if I’m alone or with only one customer when the power goes off. Normally if I yell, any number of truckers would come to my rescue, but they’d never hear me in this storm.”
“Is the guy sitting in the back a regular?” Wyatt asked.
“Never seen him before.” She leaned in closer. “Hope to never see him again. The way he looks at me gives me the willies. That’s another reason I was glad to see you walk in. You look like a guy who can handle trouble.”
“Only when trouble throws the first punch.”
She smiled and stuck a paper napkin at his elbow. “Storms lure in lots of strangers, especially when the rain is falling so hard you can’t see to drive.”
Wyatt kept his gaze on the front of the café until the woman and kid came out of the restroom area. The woman looked around and met his gaze for one quick second before leading her daughter to a table at the front of the café.
The waitress sashayed over to them, starting up a new conversation about the storm.
“Just black coffee for me and a glass of milk for my daughter,” he heard the woman say once they got around to the order.
“Sure thing. Are you traveling much farther tonight?”
“Just to Mustang Run. I thought I had enough gas to get there, but then the gauge dropped so low I was afraid to chance it.”
“Good that you stopped and came in,” Edie said. “One of my regulars ran his truck off the road last time we had a gully washer like this.”
“We’re moving to my great-grandmother’s old house,” the kid said excitedly. “It has a big yard.”
“Lucky you. Is your daddy going to work in Mustang Run?”
“My daddy got sick and he’s in heaven,” the little girl said. “But I have a gramma Linda Ann in Plano. She’s a schoolteacher. At a college.”
So the woman was a widow, Wyatt considered. And she and her daughter were moving to the same small town as he was, on the same night.
Alyssa would claim it was serendipity and that he should go right over and introduce himself. But then Alyssa also believed that throwing pennies in the fountain in the courtyard of her favorite restaurant would help her meet the perfect man. If not, Facebook would.
“You’re going to love Mustang Run,” Edie said to the little girl. “I live about thirty minutes in the opposite direction, but I go into Mustang Run every year for the Bluebonnet Festival Dance. The locals are really friendly.” She turned to the woman. “And the cowboys are sooo cute.”
“I’m not looking for a cowboy.”
