The Sheriff of Horseshoe, Texas. Linda Warren

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СКАЧАТЬ Lori died six years ago.

      The weight on his chest pressed down, feeling heavier than a two-thousand-pound bull. No air. No breath. Just pain.

      At last he inhaled and he welcomed the rush of air. Yet he cursed it, too. He needed the memories. They kept him going. They kept him strong. Though years had passed, Wyatt still took life one day at a time, but the pain never lessened. It only grew deeper.

      Blinking against the bright June sun, he slipped on his sunglasses and strolled to his patrol car at the courthouse. Now his Sunday afternoons were made for fishing—with his eight-year-old daughter, Jody. He’d moved from Austin to his small hometown to raise their child alone, in a safe environment. The way Lori would have wanted.

      With a sigh, Wyatt slid into his car. His daughter was waiting.

      Backing out, he waved at Delmar Ferguson, who owned the auto-parts store. Delmar was opening up for the afternoon trade.

      Horseshoe, Texas, was much the same as it had been when Wyatt was a kid. An old two-story limestone courthouse, yellowing and graying in spots from age, sat in the center of a town square that happened to be in the shape of a horseshoe. Gnarled oaks and blooming red crepe myrtles gave the old structure a touch of beauty.

      The weathered brick and mortar storefronts that surrounded the square were still the same, too. Some had been boarded up—the old furniture store, the fabric shop and the Perry Brothers’ Five and Dime. The casualties of a changing America.

      But new businesses had opened, including Miss Hattie’s Tea Room, Flo’s Antiques, Betty Jo’s Candle Shop and a dollar store. The old Wiznowski family bakery was still on the corner. For five generations it had kept going strong, and probably would for years to come.

      Horseshoe was the epitome of small-town America, its citizens upholding strong family values. It was a place where friendly neighbors helped each other. That had been the main reason Wyatt had chosen to come home—to heal while finding a way to live again.

      For Jody.

      He had to hurry because his daughter was not patient. First he had to go to the bait stand on the highway. As he reached Texas Highway 77, which ran on the outskirts of Horseshoe, a red convertible sports car zoomed by, barely missing Mrs. Harriet Peabody as she crossed the highway from her son’s fruit-and-vegetable stand.

      Harriet shook her walking cane at the car in vain. Then she saw Wyatt and pointed with her cane in the direction the car had gone.

      Wyatt tipped his hat, signaling that he had seen the whole thing. He turned on his siren and roared after the speeder. The first thing he noticed was the blond hair whipping in the wind. The next thing was the woman’s failure to respond to the siren. She kept going—faster.

      He clocked her going eighty-five in a seventy; through the business area the limit was fifty-five. This lady was in a big hurry. Wyatt stayed on her tail and she still made no move to stop as the siren wailed through the lazy afternoon.

      Texas 77 was only two lanes, so he couldn’t go around her because cars were coming from the other direction. They were about to reach the county line, so he picked up his radio to alert the highway patrol. Someone had to stop the woman before she caused an accident.

      Just then an eighteen-wheeler appeared ahead of them and she had to slow down. Wyatt put down the radio as he waited for oncoming traffic to pass, and then darted into the left lane before she could. He motioned for her to pull over.

      Behind her large sunglasses, he couldn’t see her eyes, but her pink lips formed an angry pout. Again, she made no effort to stop. He motioned again, this time more forcefully, and he wondered if she was on drugs and not comprehending what was going on around her. No one was that arrogant or stupid to openly defy an officer of the law.

      The driver of the eighteen-wheeler slowed to a crawl and the woman finally pulled onto the grassy verge, as did the big truck. Wyatt was relieved. She was boxed in and couldn’t speed away once he stepped out of his car.

      He turned off the siren, but left his lights blinking to alert traffic to slow down. He made a quick call to his office and asked his deputy, Stuart, to run a check on the license-plate number. Since the woman wouldn’t stop, Wyatt thought the car might be stolen.

      He retrieved his ticket book from the glove compartment and climbed out of the patrol car. With quick strides, he approached her, his jaw clenched. He was pissed at her disrespect of the law. He was pissed at her disregard for the safety of others. And he was pissed that his Sunday afternoon had been interrupted.

      Wyatt removed his sunglasses and hooked them on his shirt pocket. When he reached her car, he stuck his hand in, turned off the engine and removed the keys, shoving them into the pocket of his khaki slacks. Then he motioned for the driver of the truck to move on.

      The driver waved out the window and slowly pulled onto the highway in a gust of diesel fumes. Cars whizzed by, occupants rubbernecking for a better view.

      The woman removed an earbud from her ear and pushed her glasses to the top of her head. She glared at him. Her icy-blue eyes were clear, so she wasn’t on drugs—he knew the drugged look. They were also red and swollen, as if she’d been crying. That wasn’t going to sway him. Speeding wasn’t allowed in his county—ever. He had his own personal views about speeders, although he tried not to let them cloud his judgment.

      “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked with a get-out-of-my-face attitude. “Give me back my keys.”

      “May I see your license and registration, please?”

      “What for?” She flipped back her long, tangled hair.

      “You were well over the speed limit, in a business area, too, and you made no effort to stop when you heard the siren.”

      “Business?” She glanced around at the fields of corn growing on both sides of the highway. “What business?”

      He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Horseshoe, Texas. You passed the outskirts of town, doing eighty-five, barely missing Mrs. Peabody.”

      “I didn’t see any town or whoever you’re talking about.”

      “Your license and insurance, please.” He’d had enough of her attitude.

      Jody was waiting.

      Tiny lines appeared on her smooth forehead, but she flung a hand to the passenger seat and grabbed a dark tan purse trimmed in red with F’s imprinted all over it. Digging through its contents, she found her wallet. It was identical to the purse. Very expensive was his next thought.

      Handing it to him, she said, “I’m not taking it out. It was too hard to get into the little slot.”

      His jaw clenched tighter and he made no move to take the wallet. This lady had a double dose of arrogance. “Remove it, please.”

      Her eyes narrowed to blue slits as if she was debating the request. Heaving a breath, she struggled with the wallet until the license came out. He noted how careful she was not to break a long, faintly pink fingernail.

      He took the license from her, studying the name. Peyton Laine Ross from Austin, Texas. Twenty-eight years old. Old enough to know better. “Your insurance, please.”

      “Officer.” СКАЧАТЬ