Rustler's Moon. Jodi Thomas

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       CHAPTER FOUR

      Angela

      ANGELA PULLED ON an old jogging suit and decided to walk around the edge of the lake. She’d spent all week cleaning and moving into her little cabin and had grown to love the lake and the small town a mile away. Tomorrow morning she’d start a new job, a new life. Her years of taking care of her mother, of worrying about her father, were in her past, washed away by a river of tears. Now she had to face her future.

      Glancing at the cat trying to spread his fat body across the windowsill, Angela whispered, “This is our new home, Doc. You’re going to love it here.”

      Doc Holliday just stared at her, but Angela couldn’t stop smiling.

      No one in town cared about her family, and, for the first time since her birth, no family was watching over her. Her mother had smothered her for eighteen years, then she’d passed her off to two old aunts so Angela could attend a small college outside Washington, DC. Her parents said they’d save money if she lived with the aunts, but she’d missed most of campus life. As soon as she graduated, there was never any question that she’d find a job back in Florida and move in with her parents for a while. A part-time job in a small marina museum was all she found and her duties included ordering and cleaning the gift shop as well as giving the grade-school tours.

      Then her mom’s cancer returned and any possibility of having her own place was forgotten. Her father needed help.

      Though her uncle Anthony had offered her a job, Angela had studied to be a museum curator, and even at half the pay, she was glad to be working in a museum. At least she had the title of assistant curator.

      Every day she’d come home and tell her parents all about her work at the tiny marina museum as if what she did was fun and important.

      Her father rarely talked about his job. She knew he hated it, but somehow he was tied to what he did.

      When her mother died, she stayed at home helping him in grief, thinking that they’d move along pretty much as they had before.

      One note from her father, written on the day he died, changed all that.

      She guessed her aunt and uncle would be glad not to have her around. Surely whatever, or whoever, had frightened her father would not follow her here. She knew no secrets. She owned nothing of value.

      As she clicked on her flashlight and began to navigate the uneven shoreline of the lake, Angela felt light-headed with possibilities. Her plan just might work in this quiet little community where cows outnumbered people. She’d fill her new home with her mother’s quilts, and the furniture she’d picked up at secondhand stores. She’d fish on the lake with her father’s gear. She’d have their memories with her—the photo of her and her dad, his ledger with the leather worn thin and her replica Greek coin necklace. All that would have to be enough.

      She decided her father had been right to tell her to leave. She felt newborn here, as if anything were possible, as if life could be somehow fuller, richer here.

      She breathed in the night air, the smell of evergreens and lake water. She was stepping into a new world. Walking on a different planet. All her life she’d been a meek homebody and now she was an explorer.

      The few dozen houses that stood along the shore didn’t seem to have drapes, or even blinds. She felt a little like a voyeur staring into the homes as she walked. Couples reading, playing cards, watching TV. “Yes,” she whispered. “There will be a peace here for me.”

      A fisherman docking his boat stopped to watch her, but didn’t wave. A couple cuddled in a blanket at the far end of one of the private docks didn’t notice her pass. As the evening aged, she blended in with the shadows.

      For the first time in her life, she almost believed she was invisible.

      When she passed Dan Brigman’s house, she was surprised to see the sheriff with a woman in a flowing dress and heels standing in the room that faced the lake. Dan had mentioned a daughter when he’d shown her the cabin, but not a wife. She’d gotten the impression he wasn’t married, yet the woman looked far too old to be his daughter.

      The woman was waving her arms as if arguing with the sheriff, then raised her hands in the air and let them drop to her sides as though giving up.

      Angela stood frozen as the woman stormed from the room. The sound of the front door slamming and a car starting reached her ears, then the engine roared up the road behind the sheriff’s lake house.

      She was still staring when Dan Brigman walked out on his deck and looked up at the stars.

      She thought maybe, just maybe, if she remained perfectly still he wouldn’t see her. But of course, if he looked in her direction, she’d be silhouetted against the moonlit lake. Wild-haired, five-three Peeping Toms were hard to miss.

      Angela lowered her head, clicked off the flashlight and walked slowly past his place, hoping the shadow of his dock might hide her from view.