The Secrets of Rosa Lee. Jodi Thomas

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      A car door opened, then slammed. “Who’s out there?” a man yelled. “This is Deputy Adams. You’d better step into the light right now.”

      Billy tugged her hand backward, but she stood her ground. She’d never been afraid of the deputy. “It’s me!” she yelled. “Lora Whitman.”

      The shadow continued forward, shining a light in Lora’s face. “What are you doing out here?”

      Billy reluctantly moved into the light.

      The deputy’s stance widened. “Who are you?”

      “Hatcher,” he said.

      Lora didn’t miss the lack of respect in Billy’s voice.

      “What the hell are you doing here, Hatcher? Doesn’t your probation officer give you a curfew?”

      Billy didn’t answer.

      “He’s with me, Deputy,” Lora jumped in. “We’ve been over to Wichita Falls visiting Professor Dickerson, who was hurt this morning. I rode with him, and he brought me back here. My mother took my car home after she dropped me off at the meeting this morning.” Lora knew she was rambling, but she didn’t like being questioned. After all, they weren’t doing anything wrong, she was the one who called him in the first place. They had more of a right to be here than anyone. They were on the committee.

      “Well, I guess it’s all right.” The deputy lowered the flashlight beam. “There’s a storm coming in, though. Radio says there might be hail. You both should be getting home.”

      He turned the light on Billy’s face. “You got anything to say?”

      Billy didn’t move, but she could feel his body stiffen, his grip painful over her fingers.

      “One of these days we need to have a talk about your attitude, boy.” Adams took one step closer, blinding them with his light. “The sheriff won’t always be around, Hatcher. I can smell trouble every time I get within ten feet of you.”

      “He just offered to walk me home.” Lora didn’t understand Billy. He made no attempt to be friendly or even civil. No wonder Adams treated him like a criminal. If he’d tell Adams what they were doing, the deputy would surely back down. “We must be going, Deputy Adams, but you should know that we did see someone inside the Altman house.”

      Adams turned the light to Billy. “You want to come down to the office and make a report?”

      Billy didn’t answer.

      “No,” she said for both of them. “It was too dark to see anything. Now if you’ll excuse us, I must be getting home.” She should have listened to Billy and never called the deputy.

      “I can give you a ride, Miss Whitman,” the deputy said formally, as if he just remembered who Lora’s father was.

      “Thanks.” Lora smiled. “But since Mr. Hatcher and I are on the same committee, we’ve got a few things to discuss. The walk will do us good.”

      The deputy looked as if he might argue. Adams always thought he knew the right thing to do and didn’t mind sharing his knowledge.

      “Good night, Officer.” Lora pulled Billy along. “Thank you for your concern.”

      They were half a block away before Billy spoke. “I’ve never seen old Adams back down like that.”

      “He didn’t have a choice,” she answered. “I’m an adult. I can walk down a public street with whomever I want. I can’t believe he talked to us like we were kids playing on private property.”

      Billy laughed. “He’s probably having your commitment papers drawn up right now.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you’re crazy enough to want to walk down the street with me.”

      Lora pictured her mother signing the documents. She wished she could be there when someone told Isadore that Lora had left town with a criminal. Her mother would probably shoot the messenger. She looked at Billy and answered honestly. “But we’re friends.”

      “Damn straight,” he said. “Friends.”

      Nine

      Reverend Micah Parker circled Randi’s bar parking lot twice, unsure what to do. It was almost midnight and this was no place he thought he’d ever be.

      He couldn’t miss the Rogers sisters’ van parked sideways in three parking slots. He had no doubt the call from Randi Howard had been real. The woman who’d phoned him must not have been aware of his occupation, since she’d called him mister and not reverend. Would she have asked him to come after the sisters if she’d known?

      He thought of what Reverend Milburn would say if his assistant minister was spotted in the town’s wildest bar.

      Micah smiled, realizing he didn’t much care. If the Rogers sisters needed help, he’d promised to be there. End of story. He parked next to a huge Dodge pickup covered in mud and got out, pulling his suit coat off. It wouldn’t do to go into a country bar looking like a salesman or, he laughed, like a preacher.

      When Micah walked inside, familiar sounds and smells greeted him. Smoke, whiskey, sawdust. The whine of two-stepping music that had been born in this environment and the clink of glasses. Raw laughter crackled within conversations carried at full volume.

      Memories flooded his mind. His third year of college Amy had miscarried and couldn’t work for six weeks. He’d taken on another part-time job so he could stay in school. Sweeping up at a bar had been the only thing that fit into his time schedule. When they’d got back on their feet financially, he’d quit. Micah had been surprised how much he missed the people he’d met and watched every night for months. He’d learned that bar lights reveal layers of truth, like a CAT scan. Weaknesses, dreams and heart-aches show up clearly in tobacco-tinted illumination.

      His eyes adjusted to the mixture of smoky shadows and twinkling lights along a ceiling covered in beer posters. The place seemed bigger than it appeared to be from the outside. A long mahogany bar ran the length of the far wall. Tables circled round a dance floor on one end, pool tables on the other. Most of the chairs near the dance floor were empty. A group of men played pool. Half of the stools were occupied at the bar.

      Most of the men wore Western clothes. A few others looked like oil-field workers who’d put in a full day before stopping by. Muddy boots, Western or Red Wing, were the style. Women mingled among the men. A few looked like they’d lived on murky air way too long, for their faces were pale beneath layers of makeup.

      Micah remembered it was Monday night. If this place was like the one he’d worked at, the folks in at this time of night were drinkers, not partiers or fighters. He’d guess they were folks with nowhere else to be and no one waiting for them. They’d finish the night alone with only a six-pack for company.

      He noticed a tall woman behind the bar watching him. She had shoulder-length red hair pulled up on one side and an honest face. “You Micah Parker?” She spoke in the same whiskey-smooth voice he’d heard on the phone.

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