Lost. Helen R. Myers

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      1

      Split Creek, Texas

      Wednesday, May 13

      4:30 p.m.

      “Where’s Faith?”

      Her father’s slurred question warned Michaele Ramey of two things: first, that despite her attempts to keep an eye on him, the son of a bugger had gotten hold of some hooch again; and second, that, as usual, her sister Faith’s word wasn’t worth squat.

      Too annoyed to risk answering right away, she rolled out from under the ’56 Chevy Cameo, and used her cleanest knuckle to carefully rub at the rust particles in her eyes. “There’s a hole the size of an egg in her muffler,” she told Pete Fite, the watchful owner of the old vehicle. “But I can’t patch metal that’s turning into confetti. You’ll need a new one.”

      The chicken farmer bowed his head, which had Michaele thinking that the fifty-nine-year-old was beginning to bear a strong resemblance to the poultry he raised on the forty-acre farm on the south side of town. He had the same wide-spaced, blank eyes, the same sharp, beaklike nose, and damned if he wasn’t scratching his boot at the concrete floor of the garage the way those razorial critters did when searching for food.

      He slowly shook his head. “Can’t afford that. Just wrap something around it to get me through inspection. I’ll look into buying a new one as soon as I send off the next truckload of hens.”

      This time Michaele used the back of her left wrist to wipe at the sweat trickling down her throat. “Why not the next egg shipment? I saw that batch of tired hens being hauled out of your place last week. You won’t have another load for a while, and I’m not a magician. Make it the next egg check, Pete.”

      Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of overalls that all but swallowed his skinny frame, he gaped. “You’d leave a man with nothing to live on!”

      “Oh, stop.” Michaele pulled off the baseball cap she’d been wearing backward while under the truck and slapped it against her jeans to shake off any lingering debris, replaced it, and tugged the bill low over her narrowed eyes. “Just sell me the damn thing, already. You’ll only let it sit and rust until it’s nothing more than a weed-covered snake den—”

      “Where’s my baby?”

      The new whine from her father drew Pete’s attention, but when Michaele continued to act as though she hadn’t heard anything, he tugged at his earlobe and shrugged. “How much did you say you’d give me for her?”

      They went through this every time he came in, which was becoming more frequent thanks to the increasing number of potholes on his lengthy, unpaved driveway. What’s more, he knew what he had in the Cameo, as did Michaele. Chevrolet hadn’t made over 5,000 of them in ’55, and fewer than 1,500 in ’56. Considering the growing love affair going on СКАЧАТЬ