as if he were just being friendly.
“I’m not married,” she said, then remembered the application listing her new name as Jones.
“When I interviewed over the phone with Mr. Kirkland, I was two days away from being married.” She did her best to look brokenhearted, but it wasn’t easy, since she’d never once given her heart away. “The night before the wedding, we called it off.”
The sheriff studied her as if planning to wait for more information.
“We didn’t work out. My fiancé didn’t want to move.” She shrugged as if fighting back tears. “When we broke up, I thought a clean getaway would be best, so I went ahead and came to Texas.” Since fiancé Jones never existed, it wasn’t really very painful to walk out on him. “I’d already changed my email and accounts over to Jones.”
Brigman raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning to keep his name?”
Angela fought down a nervous giggle. “I’m sentimental about names. Turns out his name was the only thing I liked about the man. As soon as I settle, I’ll change everything back. Of course, my driver’s license is still in my maiden name.” This whole thing was getting mixed up in her brain. At this point any way she could climb out of this little lie was probably going to end up making her look like an idiot.
Thank goodness they had reached her van. A few more lies and the sheriff would probably figure out she was on the run and have her arrested or committed.
“Have you been by your new house yet?” he asked as he opened her car door.
“Do you know where it is?” Mr. Kirkland had mentioned that he’d email her some information, but she’d forgotten to look.
“Sure.” He grinned, looking younger. “This is a small town, Mrs. Jones, I mean...”
He waited for her to fill in the blank.
“Harold,” she answered.
The sheriff nodded once. “Kirkland said you wanted to rent a two-bedroom furnished place that allowed cats. Half the Chamber of Commerce started looking for something special. We don’t get many professional curators around here. I could show you the one we picked for you and the runner-up, Miss Harold. I’ve got keys to both.”
“Please call me Angela, Sheriff.”
He touched two fingers to the brim of his Stetson in a salute. “All right, Angela. Why don’t you call me Dan. Which do you want to see first, a nice little house between the two churches in town or a cabin house on the lake? The church house has more room, but the lake house backs into the shoreline.”
“I’ll take the lake house,” she said immediately. She almost hugged him. Water. She’d be near water.
“Follow me, then.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” she said. “If you’ll give me the key, I can probably find it.”
“No trouble. You have to pass my house at the lake to get to yours. Showing you the place isn’t out of my way home at all.”
As the sheriff’s car led her through the small town of Crossroads, Angela fought down another wave of panic that seemed to be coming over her as often as hiccups. This open country where anyone could see for miles in every direction didn’t seem like a very wise place to hide. Probably half the people in town would know where she lived. How could she have ever thought she’d be safe here?
What if Anthony came after her? If he found her? If he or one of his associates had killed her father and made it look like a robbery, maybe they’d kill her, too. They might think her father had told her more than just that the books didn’t balance. Maybe they thought she had something that belonged to Uncle Anthony. After all, someone had turned her parents’ home upside down looking for something.
Of course, if they came for her, she’d swear she didn’t know anything. But would they believe her if her father had already confronted them with some illegal activity he knew about? Whatever her father overheard or found in the books must have been bad. A secret worth murdering for?
She was letting her imagination run away with her again. The police said her father’s mugging was just one of a half dozen in the area that weekend. Probably drug related. The investigator hadn’t given her much hope that the killer would ever be found. Dark alley. No witnesses. He even said it looked as if her father had been struck with something or pushed, then fell backward hitting his head.
Angela knew the police report didn’t tell the whole story. Her father knew trouble was coming. Whoever killed him must have known his habits. Whoever mugged him might have known it might trigger a heart attack. Something had kept him from going to the police with his information and that something or someone had to be the reason he wanted her away and safe.
Only, she had no proof. No facts.
Her only choice was to make a new start and never look back. She trusted her father. If he said run, she would.
The sheriff, in the car in front of her, would be her first friend. This place would become her only home. In three months she’d be so much a part of this wild country she’d almost believe she was born to the land.
Wilkes
Devil’s Fork Ranch
WILKES WAGNER STARED at his aging uncle, wondering which of them had completely lost their mind. Common sense rarely ran in the Wagner family, but Great-Uncle Vern’s suggestion was ridiculous.
“I’ve given it some thought, and this is the only answer, boy,” the crippled-up old cowboy repeated as if Wilkes were ten and not thirty-two. “Look at it this way, we breed cattle, don’t we? Why not just pick out a woman with all the right traits and mate with her? It shouldn’t take but a few tries before we got at least one offspring to claim the next generation. And there’s a fifty-fifty chance we’ll get a boy on the first try.”
“You mean marry some woman, don’t you?” Wilkes was never sure when his uncle was kidding.
“Of course! There’s an order to these kinds of things. You’d need to marry her first, get her pregnant and wait for a son.” The old man lit a pipe that looked as if it might have survived the Battle of the Alamo. “Look on the bright side, half your life is about over anyway. If you’re miserable at marriage, the last thirty or forty years will seem to move slower with a mean woman around the place and we’ll all work harder so we don’t come home early.”
Wilkes rolled his eyes. He needed another drink. Or better yet give Great-Uncle Vern a few more and with luck he’d pass out.
To humor the cowboy, Wilkes asked, “And what would those traits be that I’m looking for in this breeding-bride?”
Vern smiled as if he’d won the argument. “Stout. You don’t want one of those skinny girls who only eats out of the garden. She’ll need to have a little meat on her bones. Ain’t nothing worse than trying to cuddle up to a skinny gal on a cold night. I did that once in Amarillo, and about midnight I decided driving home in a snowstorm would be warmer.”
Wilkes
