Powerless (22 page)

 

T
he sound of gunfire bolts Zeke upright from a dead sleep. He reaches for the Glock and panics when his hand finds air. His brain fights for clarity. Then he remembers taking the gun and the holster off sometime during the night after the grip had dug into his side one too many times. He scrambles around on all fours as the faint beginnings of daylight leak through the cracks of the old barn planking. His hand brushes across cold steel. He grabs the gun, reattaches the holster to his belt, and jumps to his feet. He grabs for his boots and, hopping one-legged in a tight circle, pulls on one, then the other.

There are no more gunshots, but he doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
Maybe whoever is shooting hit their target with the first shot.
A sense of dread descends on him as he stalks toward the sliding door. He eases the door open a few inches and sneaks a peek outside. Nothing seems to be amiss—no armed mob assembled on the small patch of grass fronting the house. He slides the door open a little farther and pops his head out.

He spots a figure walking in the foggy haziness of first light. He can't tell from this distance if the walker is Summer or someone sinister. The person is toting a gun, evident by the dark shape of the barrel silhouetted against the gray horizon. He or she is also carrying something else in the other hand. Shivering from the early-morning chill, he slips out of the barn and creeps closer, one hand resting on the butt of his gun. Hunched over to lessen his target profile, he gets within twenty yards when Summer turns toward him, a wild turkey dangling from her grasp.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Zeke says.

She waves him forward. “Come warm up by the fire. Sorry about waking you, but a whole flock of wild turkeys were grazing at the edge of the field. Couldn't pass up the opportunity.”

He reaches his hands toward the fire and rubs them together as he studies her. Her curly mop is gathered up in a ponytail this morning, allowing him an opportunity to study her in profile. Her nose and chin are aligned in a near straight line and her deep-set eyes have a slight upturn. No jewelry dangles from her ears, but Zeke spots a couple of holes in her lower lobe. She probably hasn't showered in over a week, or washed her hair, but she is no less stunning. Dressed in jeans with a rip on one knee and an oversized sweatshirt draped off one shoulder, she moves the coffeepot closer to the edge of the fire. “Coffee will be ready in a jiff.”

The sun breaks on the horizon, lighting the surroundings in an amber glow.

“You've got quite the setup here,” Zeke says. A fire pit resides not far from the back door and an old picnic table is set off to the side. “You always up this early?”

“I can't sleep late. Must be because I go to bed so early. Guess we're turning into the pioneers—sleeping in rhythm with the sun.”

Zeke points at the turkey. “Want me to clean that?”

“I gutted it already. It'll keep until I can pluck the feathers. How did you sleep?”

“I slept, I think,” he says with a smile. “Ground was a little hard and my body is sore from being in the saddle all day. I'm not sure my butt is up for another round.”

She chuckles. “You could stay here and rest up for a day.”

“You made yourself pretty clear yesterday you wanted me gone by first light.”

“Yeah, but that was before we talked last night. How did I know you weren't a serial killer?”

“So you're satisfied now. How do you know I'm not an extraordinarily charming serial killer?”

She smiles and the laugh lines enhance her beauty. “So, not just charming but extraordinarily charming?”

Zeke shrugs and offers his own smile.

She pours two mugs of coffee and hands one to Zeke. “I like to think of myself as a good judge of character. Seriously, you're welcome to stay as long as you want.”

Zeke's not sure how to take that, maybe because his mind is churning through all sorts of possibilities. This is the first time he's truly looked at another woman since the death of his wife. “I should probably scoot on down to Dallas and grab my sister and her family.” His response elicits the smallest of frowns, confusing him further. “I would like to stop by on the way back through, if that's okay.”

“Absolutely. I'll bag a couple more turkeys in the next day or so to feed your family.”

“You don't need to do that.”

“I know I don't. But I want to.” She drifts away from the subject. “I'd offer sugar and cream, but I have neither.”

“Black is perfect. I'm going to put some more feed out for the horses,” he says, turning for the barn.

“Wait. I'll walk with you.”

They walk to the barn, not touching, but close enough to do so.

“Give them some of the hay in the barn, too,” she says, glancing up at Zeke.

His heart skips a beat. “Thanks, I will. I wasn't sure if the hay was included in the accommodations.”

Summer looks away and blushes before turning to punch his arm. “I couldn't invite a killer into the house.”

“I'm glad you didn't. No telling who might be out and about. Better to be safe than sorry.” He pushes the barn door to the stops and leaves it open, allowing enough light to see what he's doing.

He watches as Summer steps over to Ruby and runs her hands across her flank, whispering softly. It's obvious she's been around horses before. He grabs the sack of oats and pours a couple of neat piles for the horses, then scatters some fresh hay around for them to munch on. He turns to Summer. “How long are you planning to stay here?”

“I don't know. I don't have any place to go back to. We put our home up for sale when I filed for divorce. Aubrey and I were still living in the house, but I have no desire to go back. I feel like I need to stay here just in case Aubrey and my father make their way home.”

Zeke has no desire to burst her bubble and offers no response. He grabs up his canteen and takes a long swallow, trying to frame the next question in the best possible light. He works on screwing the lid back on. “Any chance of a reconciliation between you and your husband?”

“Uh . . . no. We've been separated for over a year and a half. I held out some hope we might get back together, for Aubrey's sake if nothing else. But the longer I was estranged from him, the more I came to dislike the man. What about you? Married?”

“No . . . yes . . . I . . . was—” Zeke stops, not sure he wants to break the scab of an old wound. His hand drifts toward the locket around his neck but he pulls it back. “I was married. My wife died during her first pregnancy.”

She covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh my God. I'm so sorry.”

“It's been over three years. Long enough that I should put the whole issue behind me.”

Summer takes a step closer toward him but pulls up short. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” He rakes his hand across his face. He can tell she's on the verge of asking more. “All right if I leave the door open so the horses can get to the water?”

“Of course. Let the horses roam for a while. Let's go back to the house and I'll fix some of the leftover venison.”

They exit the barn and the chatter on the return trip is somewhat subdued. Zeke reaches for her arm and pulls her to a stop. “What happened was three years ago. You'd think I'd be over it by now.”

He releases her arm, but instead of turning away Summer threads her arm through his. “I can't imagine how horrible that was for you. That's not something you can put behind you very easily. Time heals all wounds, they say, but they never specify how much time. You're a good man, Zeke Marshall.”

Back at the fire, Summer pours more coffee for them before disappearing into the house. Zeke carries his coffee over to the picnic table and takes a seat. But he doesn't sit long. The hard wood sends a direct signal from his butt to his brain. Instead he makes his way over to the fire, contemplating how he's going to sit in the saddle for another long day.

She returns from inside with a heavy cast-iron skillet. He reaches out to relieve her of the burden and their hands touch, sending a pleasant jolt tingling up his arm. The sensation felt exactly like a static shock, that little pop, and from her expression he can see she felt something, too. Unnerved, he sets the heavy pan on a nice bed of glowing coals while she returns to the house.

He takes advantage of her leaving and sneaks around the side of the house to relieve himself. As he returns around the corner she catches him.

“Bathroom?”

“How'd you guess? I kind of miss the sound of a flushing toilet.”

“Try being a girl. You've got it easy.”

She puts some meat into the pan and the sizzle and aroma make his stomach rumble. “I hope the meat's not spoiled. I kept it down in the cellar overnight.”

He bends down to take a quick sniff. “I think we're safe, but we should cook it little longer just in case.”

She nods and pours herself more coffee. They make small talk until the venison is cooked through. Summer loads up two plates and hands one to Zeke. Between bites, he looks toward the barn and sees the horses wander out and make their way to the water tank. After drinking their fill they leisurely graze on the few patches of still-green grass.
I should be miles down the road by now
. But the fire and the food are good reasons for the delay. Or so he tells himself.

The coffeepot soon runs dry, leaving Zeke without a ready excuse to hang around any longer. He takes his and Summer's empty plates and washes them both in a tub of water sitting by the picnic table. Using a rag, he wipes the heavy cast-iron pan clean, and with nothing left to do, reluctantly turns for the barn.

“I'm coming,” Summer says, falling in step beside him. Inside the barn he saddles Murphy and puts the wooden carriers on both mares and secures their leads to one another. He leads the horses out into the bright sunlight, but pauses before putting his foot in the stirrup.

He turns to Summer. “Thank you for everything.”

“You're very welcome.”

They've arrived at an awkward moment. Zeke desperately wants to wrap his arms around her, but instead he pulls himself up and screams out a groan when his ass hits the saddle.

Summer bursts out laughing. “A couple of days until you're back?” she says, shielding her eyes from the sunlight.

“If you don't mind us stopping.”

“I'll be angry if you don't.”

He gives Murphy a little tap with his heels and the gelding leads them away from the barn and onto the gravel drive. After a wave, he and the horses take to the deserted ribbon of asphalt while his brain cartwheels through a confusing number of emotions.

Three hours of riding brings them to the outskirts of Frisco. From his position atop Murphy he can see where the Dallas North Tollway begins off to the west. But it no longer resembles a major highway—the road more closely resembles an overcrowded mall parking lot two days before Christmas. The trailer doors on the big rigs are flung open and the foul odor of decay drifts on the breeze. Zeke doesn't know if the stench is related to spoiled food or something worse.

The road he's traveling, 289 south, cuts through the heart of Frisco, Texas. Their progress slows as he walks the horses around more abandoned vehicles. Neighborhoods dot the landscape and Zeke loosens the Glock, but leaves it holstered. Up ahead he spots a group of people walking along the side of the road. He reaches down and slides the Kimber rifle out a few inches for easier access. Zeke steers Murphy toward the opposite yellow line as they near the group. He relaxes slightly when he discovers the group to be five teenage girls, none older than about sixteen. He waves in passing and one or two of the girls shout for a ride while the others giggle.

He clears downtown Frisco with no further encounters. The weather is not blistering hot, but it is hot enough to be uncomfortable. Murphy is lathered around the edges of the saddle blanket and Zeke's shirt clings to his back. He pulls the map from his pocket and checks their progress, trying to determine how much farther to the outskirts of Dallas proper. Best as he can tell they're about twenty-five miles north of his sister's house. He glances up at the sun and estimates the time—past midmorning—closer to noon than ten. If he pushes the horses a little harder they might reach Ruth's house sometime well after nightfall. That would spare them from having to find another place to bed down for the night. He turns in the saddle to check on Ruby and Tilly and they appear to be holding up well. Murphy's the one he's worried about. He decides to play it by ear and not overburden the horses.

As they slog along, Zeke begins searching for a water source somewhere up ahead. A few more people are out and about, but well off the main road. No threats are pinging his radar. The road weaves back through a commercial area and he passes an Olive Garden, a Red Lobster, and an Outback Steakhouse. What once were windows or doors are now plastered with heavy plywood tagged with graffiti. It's bizarre seeing all the businesses that only a short time ago would have been getting ready to serve an overindulgent meal. Now they're abandoned, left to crumble in place.

The next block offers two shuttered banks and, for a brief moment, he thinks about money. Or, in his case, the lack thereof. Most everything will be based on barter for the near future. His thoughts turn to the fabulously wealthy people who inhabit portions of Dallas, including those who have purchased one of his hand-built tables. No food to buy, no trips to the mall, nothing on which to spend their vast sums of money. The playing field is leveled—socioeconomic barriers thrust aside.