Coming Home To Texas. Allie Pleiter

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Chapter One

      Deputy sheriff Nash Larson walked up to the small red car with Georgia plates and waited for the woman to roll down her car window. “License and registration, please.”

      The woman gave a loud sniff as she fumbled through her handbag and glove compartment. “Sure,” she gulped out in a wobbly voice. A cryer. Why did women always think crying was the way to ditch a speeding ticket?

      Why? The lead weight in Nash’s stomach told him it was because it worked. This woman was driving too fast for a rainy night in the middle of nowhere, with out-of-state plates, way too late at night, and he still felt the compulsion to be nice rather than read her the riot act, the way she probably deserved. At least she was smart enough to keep her doors locked and not roll down her window until he showed her his badge. Alone on a Texas back road at 11:45 p.m. was no time for Southern hospitality. “Do you know how fast you were going?” he inquired.

      “I should have been paying attention.” The lilt of her Southern drawl, combined with that thing that happened to women’s voices when they cried, pulled even more reluctant sympathy from him. “I was upset,” she added, as if that needed explaining.

      Nash looked at the license. Ellen Buckton took a nice photo and had a pretty smile—in other words, her photo looked nothing like her current disheveled and tearful appearance. “Maybe tonight wasn’t the best night to drive so late, Ms. Buckton.”

      “Miss,” she corrected, her eyes brimming over with tears. “I’m sorry.” She reached for a tissue from the nearly empty box on the seat next to her—a seat mounded with used, crumpled tissues. She’d been crying for the past hundred miles from the looks of it. “I just wanted to get home.” That last word trailed off in a small sob.

      The plates and license were from Georgia. “You’re a long way from home, Miss Buckton. Everything okay?”

      Nash wanted to whack his own forehead. Well, that was a foolish question. The woman is far from home crying and you ask if everything’s okay?

      “I just...” She pulled in shuddering breaths in an attempt to stem the tears. “I just broke off my engagement.” She wiggled her naked left ring finger as Exhibit A. “I’m only about a half hour from my gran’s house, where I grew up. I guess I just wanted to get there as fast as I could.” She shut her eyes and held out her hand while visibly bracing herself, as if whatever ticket he was about to give her would sting. “Go ahead. I deserve it. It’s not like you’d be ruining a lovely day or anything.”

      Nash had never been the kind of man who could kick a soul when they were down. People were supposed to be friendly in Texas, right? That was part of the reason he’d left LA—that, and the two bullet holes in his shoulder and thigh. Being hunted down tended to make a man rethink his zip code. And yearn to play nice, at least once in a while.

      “I’m sorry for your troubles. But driving 80 in a 65 zone won’t make anything better. I expect you already knew that.”

      She looked up at him with wet, wide eyes. They were a brilliant light blue—like pool water or a turquoise gemstone—something her license photo hadn’t captured in the slightest. “I should have been more careful.” She sighed. “I should have been a lot of things.”

      He couldn’t bring himself to give her a ticket. Not when he had the chance to make her day just a bit less horrible. Instead, he decided tonight was his chance to show Ellen Buckton that not every man on planet Earth was a heartless creep. Nash handed back her license and paperwork, bringing the most tender, astonished look to her face. “Will you be more careful for the rest of your drive?”

      She nodded like a schoolchild. “Oh, yes, absolutely. I promise.”

      “You know where you’re going?”

      “Like the back of my hand.” She wiped her eyes. “Although that’s no excuse for speeding, Officer. I know that. But I grew up around here, and I could find my way home with my eyes closed—not that I’m going to, of course.” Now that he’d “pardoned” her, the words were tumbling out in grateful puddles. “I’ll be extra careful, and I’m only about thirty minutes away.” She fumbled under the pile of tissues to produce a large ziplock bag filled with dark oblong objects. “Do you like biscotti, Officer—” she peered at his name tag “—Larson?”

      Cookies? “Um, I do, but you can understand why it might not be such a smart idea for me to be accepting goodies from you.”

      Her eyes went wide again. “I’ve eaten a dozen already, so I really do need to get them out of the car. But you’re right. I mean, I didn’t mean to imply you could be bribed with cookies or anything, because I’m sure you can’t. And I wouldn’t. It was just a thank-you for being so nice and all.”

      She was babbling, and he could tell that she knew it. Poor thing. She really needed just to get wherever she was going and put herself to bed. “Drive safe, Miss Buckton, and stay under the speed limit.” Then, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he added, “And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your engagement.”

      He was worried that would start the waterworks again, but instead it brought the strangest look to her face. “You know, you’re the first person to say ‘I’m sorry’ to me about this whole thing. Kind of tells you something, doesn’t it?”

      Nash wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to answer that question. Instead he tipped his hat in a way that felt absurdly nouveau-Texan and said, “Good night.”

      “Good night, Officer Larson. And thank you. You’re the first nice thing that’s happened to me today.”

      Well, thought Nash as he walked back to his cruiser. Cookies and compliments. Maybe Texas won’t be so bad after all.

      * * *

      Funny how a life can blow up in an instant.

      Ellie Buckton looked out the kitchen window and stared at the pastures that made up the Blue Thorn Ranch. She’d grown up in this house, Gran’s home, the Buckton family homestead, where her oldest brother’s new family now lived. The place where her parents had lived until her mother died when Ellie was thirteen, and where Daddy had bravely held down the fort until his own death three years ago. These walls held so much—almost too much—history. But for now, this would be the place where she hid until she could figure out what to do next.

      Almost everything about the place felt the same. That stuck-in-time atmosphere was partly why it had been years since Ellie had felt any yearning to come back here. Then again, she couldn’t remember ever not knowing what to do next.

      She heard Gran’s slippered feet shuffle into the kitchen. As she turned to meet those wise turquoise eyes, Ellie’s chest filled with warmth instead of the tightrope tension that had lived there since her heartbreaking discovery three days ago.

      “How are you, sweetheart?” Gran stood beside her, leaning her white-tufted head on Ellie’s shoulder. Gran always smelled of lavender soap and peace. The familiar scents reminded Ellie why she had run here. “Better?”

      She wasn’t, really. Still, relief at being anywhere but Atlanta might be classified as “better.”

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