Lone Star Redemption. Colleen ThompsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
late for lunch and early for dinner, but let’s head that way, anyhow,” she suggested. “With a little luck, we’ll find some chatty local who’ll tell us about Frankie McFarland.”
“Could be they won’t like outsiders,” Henry warned. “Especially not outsiders asking questions about a local boy.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” she said. “I’ll bet you a nice, crisp twenty there’s somebody eager to rat out old Frankie. Either because he’s a jerk—my sister’s boyfriends always are—or for the chance to be on TV.”
“Not for some Dallas station they don’t even get here.”
Henry’s cynicism reminded her of the other type of people news crews frequently encountered: those who called them vultures—or worse—and slammed doors in their faces. Thinking of Zach Rayford’s contempt, she decided to forget about the camera and the microphone and simply play up the worried-sister angle. Her reunion with her twin later would make for more compelling viewing, anyway.
By the time they rolled into town, the storm had completely blown itself out, leaving behind a faint orange haze and chilly temperatures for late October.
Before heading toward the diner, they took the time to drive around town and found a few more going concerns, including a feed cooperative, a small post office located inside a rundown grocery store and a combination car repair shop and gas station. A lone pickup crossed the intersection ahead of them and a couple of lean brown dogs trotted along a buckled sidewalk.
“I’m starting to wonder if that storm blew us back in time,” said Henry as he peered at a long-since-closed theater. “This place looks like something from another century.”
“Another planet,” Jessie agreed, thinking of the tangled freeways and shining skyscrapers of downtown Dallas.
They easily found parking in front of a place called Tumbleweeds, which sported a peeling, hand-lettered sign proclaiming it the HOME OF THE PANHANDLE’S BIGGEST CHICKEN-FRIED STEAK!
“I notice they didn’t bother to claim ‘best,’” she said, making a mental note to order something healthier than the breaded, fried and gravy-laden dish.
After hiding the mini-cam in the rear hatch, they went in to scope the place out. At only a few minutes past four, the small, wood-frame structure was deserted save for a plump, dark-haired teenager cleaning tables and an older man Jessie assumed to be the cook, judging from his hairnet and apron, dozing as he leaned against the counter.
The waitress put down the rag she’d been using and smiled at them with crooked little teeth. “Welcome to Tumbleweeds. Are y’all here for dinner?”
“Sure thing,” Jessie said, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed that the girl—Mandy, according to the name tag on her apron—didn’t seem to recognize her, which probably meant she didn’t know Haley. But that didn’t mean the teen couldn’t be of help.
An hour later, they came out, full of saturated fats, since there hadn’t been so much as a single veggie on the menu that wasn’t deep-fried or infused with bacon drippings, but little wiser than they had been.
Although Mandy had seemed sympathetic when Jessie told her about her search, it was clear that she knew nothing about Haley. She had, however, told them that Frankie McFarland’s brother, Danny, worked at the nearby feed store. Searches on both names with her cell phone, which was working decently if slowly, didn’t turn up anything of use. Apparently, the McFarland brothers didn’t stay connected with their friends on social networks, either.
Jessie and Henry had nearly reached the car when the girl from the diner came trotting out after them, her dark braid bouncing behind her and her round face pink with exertion. As soon as she caught her breath, she warned, “I didn’t want to say it in there with Crabby Leonard listening, but Danny’s nickname around town is Hellfire. On account of his temper.”
“You mean he’s violent?” Henry rushed to ask.
“He’s been tryin’ to pass himself off as respectable since he bought out the local watering hole, but everybody knows he’n Frankie have always been quick to take offense and even quicker with their fists. I’ve heard Sheriff Canter joke about naming one of his jail cells the McFarland Suite.”
Jessie’s stomach twisted with sudden apprehension as for the first time it occurred to her that her sister might not be deliberately hiding from her family, but in trouble. The kind of trouble that came with being involved with a violently abusive man.
An approaching rumble cut like a chainsaw through the small-town quiet. Swiveling her head, Mandy gasped and whispered, “Oh, gosh. Here he comes now. That’s Hellfire.”
As a big chopper-style motorcycle came into view, the waitress glanced from Henry to Jessie and begged, “Please don’t tell him I said anything about his temper. Or that stupid joke the sheriff made, okay?”
“It’s already forgotten,” Jessie promised.
But she was talking to thin air, for Mandy was already hurrying back inside as Danny McFarland roared up, his ragged, reddish beard and hair wild in the wind beneath the level of the skull-and-crossbones bandanna he was wearing. A big man with a bigger belly, he hid a portion of his bulk beneath an oversize black leather jacket. As he dismounted, she saw the name Prairie Rose Saloon had been emblazoned across the back. Beneath those words, a rattlesnake, all coiled menace, gaped among yellow roses with wicked, blood-tipped thorns.
As biker art went, it was impressive. But Jessie had neither the inclination nor the time to appreciate the view as Hellfire turned around to look her over. Though his eyes were hidden behind wraparound reflective glasses, Jessie’s skin crawled at the contempt that seemed to roll off him in waves.
“Careful with this guy,” Henry warned, shrinking back as she stepped forward.
Though Jessie had interviewed motorcycle “thugs” who’d turned out to have hearts of gold underneath their rough exteriors, her instincts screamed at her to retreat to safety. But McFarland was the only lead she had to follow, so she held her ground, even when he removed the glasses to reveal a pair of teardrops tattooed beneath his right eye. Teardrops that often signified a stint in prison—or worse.
In a moment, the mask shifted, morphing from simple toughness into fury before he burst out with, “You stupid bitch. You think anyone’s gonna be fooled by a freakin’ haircut and some fancy clothes? What’d I tell you about—”
“Haley is my sister,” Jessie said, jolted by the knowledge that he’d mistaken her for her twin. That he clearly knew—and hated—her. “She’s also your brother’s girlfriend, from what I hear. Can you tell me where they went?”
“Your sister? What the hell’re you trying to pull, girl?” He stopped abruptly to scowl at her, grooves furrowing his weathered face before blinking in surprise. “Wait a minute. You ain’t kidding, are you?”
“Our mother’s— Our mom’s dying,” Jessie admitted. “She only wants to see my sister one more time.”
“Well, I can tell you, Rusted Spur’s the last place you’re gonna find that girl, or my brother, either. Now you get on down the road, too—if you want to stay alive.”
Jessie’s jaw tightened. Does everyone in this one-horse town intend to threaten me? Nevertheless, she stood her ground, insisting, “I can’t go anywhere without Haley.”
McFarland looked from her to Henry and back again, his lip curling to reveal tobacco-stained teeth. “Maybe then you won’t be leaving. Alive, anyway.”
Jessie didn’t give an inch, demanding, “Where is she, Hellfire? Where’d your brother take her?”
As the biker’s gaze turned dangerous, Henry grabbed at her arm. “Let’s get out of here, Jessie. I’ll drive this time if you want.”
Jerking her arm free, she didn’t budge and didn’t take her eyes off McFarland for a second.