Lone Heart Pass (17 page)

She claimed that she'd be back by the time the soup and money ran out. Only she never was. Not when he was eight. Not now.

When he'd been little, he'd knocked on the neighbors' door and asked for a handout. By ten he'd learned to fish and hunt rabbits to supplement the soup. A year later he started catching snakes and selling them.

Thatcher rushed to his hiding place in the corner of his room. He pulled out his moneybag, an old sock, and peeled off two twenties. Since he was meeting with the sheriff tomorrow, he might as well buy a few groceries. Brigman would bring him home. He'd get enough to make it during the week, and on weekends he'd stay over at Lone Heart Ranch. He'd trade work for his keep. They seemed to welcome his help and he needed the company.

As he walked around without taking off his jacket, he started thinking about the ranch, and he decided he wanted to be like Charley and Jubilee. They might not have much, but they didn't seem to worry about having food. Jubilee had even bought him clothes and Charley worried about him working too hard or not getting to school on time.

His mother would come back someday, probably with a new boyfriend. She'd be all giggly and happy, but she'd never think to ask how he made it while she was gone. The new boyfriend would take her shopping for new sexy clothes and lots of food. For as long as he was around, Thatcher would try to be invisible. The bills would be paid and the refrigerator would be full, at least for a while.

“Maybe I won't buy groceries,” Thatcher whispered to himself. “Maybe I'll go live at the ranch for as long as they'll let me.” His mother wouldn't come looking for him. After all, he was the same age as she was when she ran away. Sunny Jones would just figure parenting was over.

Smiling, he decided he'd take money he'd planned on spending on soup and buy a real cowboy hat. He'd go to school, stay at Lone Heart Ranch and learn all he could from Charley. And he'd never come back to this place where people had more tattoos than teeth.

The next morning when Thatcher caught the school bus, he had all he valued packed in a pillowcase. The lock on his locker would be his safe.

He managed to stay in school until after lunch with Kristi. Then he walked down the seventh grade hall and out the back door. Ten minutes later, he walked into the county offices.

Pearly was doing her nails on government time. She waved, fingers wide apart.

He pointed at the sheriff's open door.

She nodded.

Thatcher thought of saying that it was nice talking to her, but they seemed to be communicating fine without words.

He silently slipped into the sheriff's office.

Sheriff Brigman looked deep in thought, like a man born to worry. From the door it looked as if he was holding the ad Thatcher had found in the canyon in one hand and a scrap of notebook paper in the other.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Thatcher said.

Brigman looked up and smiled. “I was just going over some of Tim's notes about what he saw last night. Don't get too close to this investigation, son. It's not safe.”

“I tried to tell Tim that, sir, but he's like a bloodhound with two noses.”

Brigman stood. “How about we walk over to the café and talk about it over pie?”

“Sounds good.” Thatcher didn't mind that idea at all. He guessed he was in for a lecture, but at least the sheriff's talks usually came with food.

Pearly delivered a letter. The sheriff barely glanced at it before he shoved it into his bottom drawer.

Thatcher heard a click locking the letter in his secret drawer.

Before he could ask any questions, Brigman said, “Good to see you, Thatcher—only isn't school still going on?”

“Early release for good behavior.” Thatcher followed the sheriff to his car.

Brigman frowned. “You know, if you don't take the classes, you'll have to repeat the grade.”

“Yeah. Been there, done that.” He'd already figured out that a note from the sheriff might get him out of trouble. “Only I have important news for you, Sheriff.”

Brigman might not believe him, but he at least looked interested.

They spent the next hour talking about the Dulapse brothers and how the men living out in the Breaks were going to do their own investigation. Thatcher filled the sheriff in on details Tim hadn't thought to ask about last night.

He ended his report with, “It ain't safe for you to go in there, Sheriff. The brothers are mean as snakes.”

“Maybe I'll send word that I want to talk to the Dulapse boys. The drunks I arrested for shooting the horses were so drugged up they confessed, but I still think the brothers had something to do with it. Why else would they have been in such a hurry to visit the drunks?”

“If Bull says they didn't do it, I'd believe him, but don't the Dulapses need to confess?” Thatcher shook his head. “They might connect you and me if you visited with them. Folks see you bring me home now and then. Right now they think I'm just always in trouble. If they thought we were friends, I wouldn't be safe out there.”

“Maybe I'll just stop out on County Road 111 at their firewood stand. I know what I'm doing. They'll never know they're being interrogated.”

“I need to learn that skill.” Thatcher leaned back in what he thought of as his seat in the patrol car.

Brigman smiled. “You thinking of going into law enforcement, son?”

“No, but I think Kristi Norton might be. She's real good at talking about two things at once. Like at lunch. I thought we were discussing how a necklace was made and it turned out we were talking about what she wanted for her birthday. I didn't even know I was supposed to get her a present. Never got anyone else one.” He laughed. “Never got one, either. You may find this hard to believe, but I'm not sure my mom knows my birthday. She's never mentioned it.”

Brigman didn't seem to think his confession was funny. “I need to make some rounds. You want a ride home? I'll let you out at the turnoff.”

“Nope. I'm going over to Lone Heart. I'm staying there for a while, helping them out.” He thought a moment before adding, “You might want to keep my location between us, Sheriff. I don't want any Cajuns showing up looking for me.”

“You have my word, son, and if you're ever in trouble, remember, you can always come to me. I've got your back.”

Thatcher didn't mention that he wouldn't mind if the sheriff would watch his front, too. He had a feeling that if the Dulapse brothers knew he was poking around in their business, they might come after him, and it would be head on.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lauren
March 28

L
AUREN
FOUND
T
IM
O'G
RADY
in the back of her father's office frantically writing every detail of his adventure with Thatcher down on an old laptop he'd carried through college.

“This is what I'm looking for, L. This is it. Life. I was wrong about hiding out to write. I got to live before I can write.”

“Take a break, Tim. The Franklin sisters want to talk to you.” She offered her hand.

He frowned as if planning to refuse, but reconsidered. “Sure. Maybe they'll confess to something now they know I work for the sheriff.” As he stood, he took her hand. “I know it's hard to understand a writer, L, but you've got to try. You're my best friend, you know.”

“I know.” She thought of adding that if he didn't get out more she'd soon be his only friend.

They walked across to the Franklin sisters' antiques store.

Both sisters smiled at her when she stepped in and then quickly forgot her when they spotted Tim.

“He's here,” Rose shouted as if her sister wasn't standing six inches away.

Daisy pulled out her phone, dialed a number and said one word,
bingo
, then ran to meet Tim as if she hadn't known him all her life.

Lauren moved aside and fought down a laugh as the two middle-aged women made over Tim as though he really was Hemingway. They wanted to know all about what he was writing, where his ideas came from and had he found his voice yet.

Tim loved the attention and within minutes molded into an author dealing with wild fans even though the sisters had never read anything he'd written and hadn't been wild a single day of their lives.

Lauren stood by the door watching the show.

Faster than a professional kidnapping, Rose and Daisy whisked Tim outside and into their van. If Lauren hadn't run to keep up, she would have been left behind.

“We have someone you have to meet. She's very interesting.” Rose backed the van out of their spot and floored the gas pedal as she headed toward Ransom Canyon. “If she'd lived in another time, another place, she would have been known as a sage. She's very reclusive, but she said she'd meet you as soon as we told her you were destined to be a great writer.”

Tim was almost drunk now on the flattery. “What's this person do now?”

“She collects things.”

“What kind of things?”

Lauren leaned near Tim's ear and whispered, “Bones of would-be writers.”

Tim's eyes widened as if, for a second, he believed her.

Rose answered his questions. “Books. She has thousands.”

A few miles outside of town they pulled off on a dirt road that led to a house near the canyon. The stucco home looked as if it was balanced on the edge.

Tim said he'd seen it for years, but never knew who lived in it.

Lauren had also seen it from the bottom of the canyon, but never knew how to get to the house from the road.

Rose and Daisy stayed in the car as they pointed Tim toward the front door. “It's okay, Tim, she's expecting you. We'll wait.”

Not wanting to wait in the car with the sisters, Lauren followed Tim.

As they walked up the path, Lauren was fascinated by all the wild native flowers, Indian paintbrush, sunflowers, bluebonnets, and many more she didn't know the names of. Whoever lived here knew the land and what would grow along this windy shelf.

A woman dressed as if she belonged more in Santa Fe than Crossroads answered the door. She was in her thirties or maybe even early forties, and her eyes danced with intelligence and life. There was something in her gaze that told Lauren she'd seen the world and that she didn't tolerate fools.

“Come in,” she said without asking who they were. “I've been expecting you, Tim O'Grady, and you, too, Lauren Brigman. The sisters have been telling me about you two for years.”

Lauren wondered who the woman was. How could she have lived so close to town without Lauren knowing about her?

The foyer of her home opened up to a huge room that was bright with natural light and rich in color. One long wall, maybe thirty feet, was lined with shelves, all stuffed with books. As they moved through the rooms, she saw that all the walls were bookshelves, as though the house had been built that way.

“My name is Terry Handley,” the woman said. “The Franklin sisters may have told you that I read.”

“What do you like to read, Miss Handley?” Tim asked.

“Everything,” she answered. “And, it's Mrs. Handley, but you may call me Terry.”

That was it, Lauren thought. This woman who looked as though she'd traveled the world must have simply read thousands of books.

Terry went about making tea as if there was no hurry.

Lauren looked around at the counters and shelves. Thick sticks of paper bound with rubber bands lay everywhere. Manuscripts? One pile was stacked so high by a chair that the paper could have served as an end table.

Tim wasn't so patient. “The Franklin sisters thought you might have the secret or maybe some advice.”

The lady finally looked at him and smiled a smile that seemed ageless. “I've known many writers. For a few years I was an editor in New York, but lately I'm a ghost writer.”

“Really?” Lauren found that fascinating. The ghostwriting obviously paid very well. She studied the woman, realizing she had a full rich life right here in what some would call the middle of nowhere. She didn't have to be in public. She wasn't fighting her way to the top of some ladder.

“Would you like some tea?” she said as she turned from Tim and looked straight at Lauren.

“I'd love some. I want to hear all about you, Mrs. Handley.”

The lady laughed. “An interest in others is the first key to a rich life. Why they do what they do. Why they love whom they love. Know a man's secret and you'll understand him.”

Lauren could almost hear Tim's breath leave his lungs. He had never had patience and didn't want it now. He'd come to talk about his writing.

But he obviously didn't want to be rude. He waited as she poured the tea and asked Lauren how her father was doing.

Lauren was surprised Mrs. Handley knew her father, but then everyone knew the sheriff. If she knew the Franklin sisters, she'd probably heard the backstory on everyone for a hundred miles around.

Slowly, as they talked, Lauren realized the woman not only knew about the people in town, she cared about them. Only she had a strong feeling they didn't know much about her.

Tim finished his tea and shook his head when Mrs. Handley offered more. He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.

Lauren found the lady interesting. They talked of nothing and everything while Tim perused the shelves as if he thought her home was a public library.

Finally, Terry Handley walked them back to the door. She took Tim's hand and looked up at him. “Your gift is laughter, Tim.”

His laugh held little humor. “I think the Franklin sisters thought you might help me get published.”

“I'd be happy to do what I can. Write a thousand pages and come back. I know a few publishers who would be interested in looking at work from someone as serious as you.”

Tim tried to grin. “So you see something in me that tells you I might just have what it takes?”

“You're curious about the world and you run full out to find the answers. I think you'll travel far in life, but...” Terry patted Tim then turned to Lauren before she added, “She's the writer.”

A few minutes later, Tim climbed into the car. He didn't say a word until they'd said goodbye to the Franklins. Then he complained that he should have known the Franklin sisters wouldn't know anyone who could help him get published. “All I need is a break. It's not just talent, it's who you know in the publishing game. A great teacher, someone who knows a publisher or a movie producer. I could write a script.”

Lauren didn't say a word. The woman had missed the mark completely. Tim would be the writer, not she.