to anyone in days.”
He grinned, thinking no one at the retirement home would believe this story when he told it tomorrow. A pretty woman, about his age, with hair as black as midnight, hiding in his loft. And even stranger, she said she didn’t like to talk but yet she still talked to him.
He liked the idea that they shared a love for walking the shadowy roads and also for not having much to say. He was usually the one folks skipped talking to. “You’re welcome here anytime. I’m Yancy Grey and I’m remodeling—or probably more accurately, rebuilding—the old Stanley house.”
“I know. I can see that.”
She had a soft, easy smile, but sad eyes. Old-soul eyes, he thought, like she’d seen far more sadness than most. He remembered a few people in prison like that and had watched sad eyes go dead, even though the person looking out of them was still breathing.
“You live around here?” Yancy knew he would have remembered if he’d seen her before. At first glance she looked more like a sixteen-year-old kid, but in the light, she seemed closer to her late twenties.
“I have to go.” She backed toward the door. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
He saw panic in those beautiful winter-blue eyes. He forced himself not to react. One more question and he knew she’d bolt.
“No bother.” He turned back to his work. “It was nice to have the company, even if I did think you were a rabbit.”
She whispered, more to herself than to him, “How would a rabbit get up there?”
He shrugged. “How would a pretty lady? Come back anytime, Rabbit. No questions, I promise.”
She took one more glance around the shop. “I like this place. It makes me feel safe. My father had a shop like this one.”
“You are safe,” he added, knowing without asking that her father must be dead. If he’d been alive, she wouldn’t be searching for a safe place. “Drop by anytime. Only, beware—I might put you to work.”
She ran her small hand over the wood he’d just sanded. “I’d like that. I grew up helping build things. Some folks said my daddy was an artist, but he always said he was just a carpenter.”
Without a word, he handed her the sander and went back to work. She stood on the other side of the workbench for a few minutes, then began to polish. For an hour, they simply worked across from each other. Her skill was evident, and he found himself wishing that a woman would touch him as lovingly as she touched the wood.
When he lifted the final board, she set her tools down and whispered, “I have to go. Thank you for this calm evening, Yancy.”
“You’re welcome, Rabbit. Come back any night.” He sensed what she might need to hear. “I could use the help, and I promise, no questions.”
She slipped through the doorway so silently he almost thought he’d imagined her.
Folding up his toolbox, Yancy turned out the light. He’d enjoyed her company, even though he knew nothing about the woman, not even her name. For all he knew, she could be crazy. Maybe she’d run away from prison or a husband who beat her. Or maybe she was a drifter, just waiting to steal everything she could get her hands on. If so, it wouldn’t be too hard; he’d never bought a lock for the barn.
But she had no car. She couldn’t have come far walking and she wouldn’t be able to carry off too much. She also had no wedding band, so no one was probably waiting up for her. He sensed that she was as alone as he was.
He reached for his coat and wasn’t surprised to find it missing from the latch.
As he started back toward his little room behind the activity hall of the Evening Shadows Retirement Community, he smiled, glad that Rabbit was warm at least. At her size, his coat would be huge, for he had to be over a foot taller than her and probably weighed double.
Maybe he should have more questions running through his head, but the only one he could think of right now was, could he call what they shared tonight a date?
Yancy swore to himself, thinking how pitiful he was to even consider the question. She was probably just lost, or maybe hiding from something, and definitely a thief—she’d stolen his coat. Not dating material even for someone as desperate as he was to just do something as ordinary as holding a woman’s hand.
But, considering all her possible shortcomings, she was still the best time he’d had with a woman in months.
DEPUTY FIFTH WEATHERS rushed into the county offices on Main Street in Crossroads, Texas, as if he were still running offensive tackle for the Texas Longhorns.
Grinning, he realized it had been four years since he’d graduated. He was forty pounds leaner and long past talking about his football days, but now and then he yearned to run with the crowds roaring once more.
He headed straight for the sheriff’s office. All hell was about to hit and he hadn’t even had breakfast.
He’d overslept, again, and that was something Sheriff Brigman thought should be a hanging offense. Plus, even though he’d worked until long after midnight, the report due today still wasn’t done.
Pearly, the county’s receptionist and secretary, who sat just right of the main entrance, always jumped when Fifth walked past. She was a thin, little woman who’d probably blow away if he sneezed, and in the two years he’d been working with the sheriff, she’d never smiled at him.
The first six months he’d been in town she’d asked weekly when he planned to leave. Lately, the question hung silently between them like last year’s Christmas tinsel caught on a slow-moving fan, fluttering silently as it circled.
He nodded at her.
At six feet seven inches, Deputy Weathers wasn’t likely to sneak up on Pearly, but she frowned like she could see doomsday coming when his shadow blocked the sun.
“There you are,” she snapped. “The sheriff’s looking for you.”
Fifth moved closer to her massive desk. If he got any nearer than five feet, it always made Pearly start to fiddle with her shawl fringe like she planned to unknit the entire thing if he came within touching distance.
“You all right, Miss Pearly?” he said in a tone he hoped sounded more kind than threatening.
“I’m fine,” she snapped. “You just startled me. Someone should have put a brick on your head ten years ago, Deputy Weathers.”
Fifth gave up any attempt at conversation and headed toward the sheriff’s office. He couldn’t help it if his father had cursed him with height and his mother hadn’t been able to think of a name for her fifth son, so she’d just called him a number. Everyone had crazy families. His was simply supersized.
“Sheriff Brigman is not in there,” Pearly announced, about the time he reached the door. “He’s out on the Kirkland Ranch. Said to bring the missing-persons flyers for the past month and maps of the county. Wants your help as soon as possible, so I’d suggest you start backtracking all the way to your car.”
Fifth thought of asking her why she hadn’t let him know right away. She could have radioed the cruiser he drove, called his cell or dialed the bed-and-breakfast where he’d overslept this morning. But he knew what Pearly’s answer would be if he asked: she always said that she’d been about to. The woman’s about to list would last her into the hereafter.
He turned and walked back past her desk, trying not to notice how she leaned away like he’d accidentally knock her down on his way out.
A few minutes later he climbed into his cruiser, wondering why some people treated men over six-six like they were alien invaders. Men who were six-four were apparently fine, but grow a few