Vicki Lewis Thompson - Boone's Bounty

She leaned closer to the waitress. “Listen, since he’ll have to spend the night in the café, could I leave some money with you to pay for whatever food he eats? I’d like to find some way to repay him for being so kind.”

“I’ll be leaving soon, myself, but I suppose I could arrange that with Mrs. Sloan. Why don’t you just stay and eat your dinner when he eats his? Then you could just pick up the check for everything.”

Shelby trotted out the excuse she’d been about to give Boone. “Well, I would, but Josh has a program he wants to see on TV, so we need to get back to the room.”

The waitress rolled her eyes as if to say that Shelby was crazy to let something like that stand in her way. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” She pulled some bills out of her purse and gave them to the waitress. “That should cover ours and anything he has, don’t you think?”

The waitress looked at the cash Shelby had given her and chuckled. “That’s more than enough. I’ll go put in your order.”

Shelby positioned herself with her back to the counter so she could see the front door of the café. No one had come in for some time, and hardly anyone had left, either. The booths along the wall were still occupied. The place had taken on a party atmosphere, as if being stranded here together had made everyone friends.

Except her. A woman on the run didn’t stop to make friends along the way. Too risky. Boone Connor had helped her out, and she was grateful. Under different circumstances, she would have liked to get to know him, but once she left this café tonight, she never expected to see him again.

She’d driven out of San Antonio without much of a plan except an instinctive urge to head for Yellowstone Park. But she couldn’t stay in Yellowstone. She’d continue north to Canada.

Once out of the country, she’d find a good lawyer and assess her chances of legally keeping Josh. But she’d keep him, legally or illegally, because she knew one thing for sure. No matter what a judge might say, as long as she was alive Mason Fowler was never, ever getting custody of his son.

BOONE HATED TO ADMIT how much he missed Josh and Shelby once they’d left the café with their bags of food. But no way would Shelby stay to eat. Something was going on with her, and Boone was afraid he’d never find out what it was.

When he learned that she’d left money to pay for his food, he had half a mind to go over to her room and give it back. Then he recognized that he was only looking for an excuse to see her again, which was a fool’s errand, for sure. He was the sort of guy who needed time to build a relationship, and after tonight, he and Shelby would probably never cross paths again. That was probably just as well.

Still, he couldn’t let Shelby buy his dinner. It didn’t seem right. So he asked Mrs. Sloan to put the money aside for Lucy, who could probably use some extra cash for that baby she’d be having soon.

By eleven the café had emptied out and Boone had his pick of booths, not that one looked any more comfortable than the other. He was on a first-name basis with Norma Sloan and her husband Eugene. The couple reminded him of Jack Sprat who could eat no fat and his wife who could eat no lean. They’d been more than kind, providing a pillow and a blanket to help him through the night.

About eleven-thirty, Norma sent Eugene into the café’s back room to grab a catnap while she kept the coffeepot going. Who they were brewing coffee for was a mystery to Boone, because no other customers showed up. Boone crammed himself into his chosen booth and pulled his hat over his eyes.

When Eugene came out to relieve Norma at one in the morning, Boone unfolded himself from the booth. He didn’t think he’d slept much, and he felt as if he’d been rode hard and put away wet. Stretching the stiffness from his spine, he walked over to the counter.

“Want some java, Boone?” Eugene asked around a yawn.

“No, thanks. But why don’t you go on back to bed and let me take care of anybody who comes in? I doubt anybody will, anyway.”

“That’s a nice offer, but my conscience wouldn’t let me.” Eugene yawned again and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You’re a customer, not my hired help.”

“Speaking of that, who usually mans the counter when you’re open all night? Don’t tell me Lucy works graveyard.”

“Nope.” Eugene unwrapped a sweet roll as he talked. “We have another gal, Edna. She’s older than Lucy and says she likes working nights. Prefers the peace and quiet. But I didn’t want her on the road tonight, so I called and told her to stay home, that we’d handle it. That’s what Norma and I always do when the weather gets like this. We’d rather stay up all night ourselves than worry about an employee skidding all over the road trying to get to work.” He bit into the sweet roll. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.” Boone turned to gaze out the window at the snow still falling. “Then how about closing the place until morning?” He glanced back at Eugene. “Nobody but a crazy person is still on that road tonight.”

Eugene smiled. “No can do. Staying open is a matter of pride with me. My daddy used to own this place, and when I took over he made me promise to keep the coffee going twenty-four hours a day. He said we’d never know how many lives we’d saved by giving people a place to pull off the road, get some coffee and a bite to eat, but he figured we’d saved our share.”

“I’ll bet you have, at that.” Boone rubbed his chin and felt the stubble there. He’d grab a shave in the rest room before he left in the morning. “I’ve stopped here myself a few times, when I was feeling groggy. You might even have saved me.”

“And there could be someone else out there battling his way through the storm, and the light from our sign could be a beacon in the night.”

“Like a lighthouse,” Boone said. He could understand Eugene’s urge to save people. He had that sort of urge all the time. That’s why he was sleeping in a booth tonight.

“Exactly,” Eugene said. “A lighthouse. You sure you don’t want some coffee and one of these rolls?”

Boone sighed. “Yeah, why not. I’m not having much luck sleeping, anyway.” And he could tell Eugene wanted somebody to talk to. So he sat at the counter and swapped fishing stories with the guy for a good hour.

He talked so long and grew so tired that sleep sounded like a real possibility, even in a hard plastic booth. But before he could excuse himself from Eugene, the café door opened, bringing with it a blast of frigid air and blowing snow.

Boone swiveled on the stool to see if one of the motel customers had decided to come over for a midnight snack. For one crazy moment he hoped it might even be Shelby. Instead it was someone he didn’t recognize from the crowd that had filled the café earlier that night.

The man was built like a fireplug, short but solid. His ski jacket bulked him out even more, but Boone could tell from the fit of the guy’s jeans that he probably worked out in some fancy gym to build up his muscles.

“Damn!” The man pulled off a black stocking cap as he stomped his feet on the mat just inside the café door. His hair was cropped close to his head, military-style. “It’s a bitch out there!”

Boone usually reserved judgment on folks until they’d had a chance to prove themselves one way or the other, but for some reason this guy put him on edge. There was something hard and unyielding about him that showed in his voice, in his movements, even in the bristle of his haircut.

“I’ll bet you could use a cup of coffee,” Eugene said eagerly. “And there’s some pie left, if you—”

“Black coffee,” the man said.