Jodi Thomas - Wild Horse Springs

“No. It’s a friend. A kid in Crossroads. I was hoping you could come help.” She realized she wasn’t the right one to talk to a lawyer about Thatcher’s case. He obviously didn’t even want help, and her father might be mad that she hadn’t waited to see if he could figure things out.

She heard paper shuffling and a click like a lamp being turned on.

The voice that finally came back was cold, a stranger. “Give me the facts.”

She suddenly wished she hadn’t called. “It’s really only an assault charge. I thought you might be able to do something. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Give me the facts, Lauren.”

“I shouldn’t have called.” It dawned on her how Lucas probably made sure their paths never crossed. He’d never called. Never texted. She knew he was still on the other end of the phone waiting for her to make sense.

“Goodbye,” she whispered, as she fought not to cry.

Just before she ended the call she heard him say, “I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

The phone went dead before she could say no.

CHAPTER FIVE

Tuesday night

THATCHER JONES WALKED to the barred window in his cell and looked out at the snowy streets three flights below. Most folks thought of Crossroads as a wide spot in the road and had little reason to slow down as they passed, but he’d always viewed the tiny place as grand. When you’d grown up out in the Breaks where folk hunted their own meat and some did without electricity, the town felt like big time.

Few people who lived between the city-limit signs knew what it was like to check the house for snakes before you turned in at night, or wash your clothes on a board and hang them out to dry. They’d never had to eat a potato or a can of beans and call it supper. Or to grow up, not only without cell phones and computers, but without TV or microwaves or heat in more than one room.

He’d known that life and felt lucky for it, but Thatcher didn’t want to go back. He loved living in his own little place on the Lone Heart Ranch. He’d walk over to the main house for meals, or to work with Charley, or help Lillie, Charley’s daughter, with her homework, then the rest of his time was his. Thatcher heard someone say once that the measure of wealth was being in control of time. If so, he was a rich man at eighteen.

Or he had been, before he ended up here in jail.

He knew some of the people on the two floors below worried about how he was surviving being locked up. They didn’t understand this was a five-star hotel to him compared to living in the Breaks when he was younger. Great meals, company sitting up with him and being toasty warm. If he hadn’t had to give up freedom for the place, he might ask if he could stay awhile.

Crossroads might not have a movie theater or a Starbucks, but the town had stores and a clinic and churches, and, unfortunately, a jail with locked doors. Kristi told him she was ashamed of him because the whole town knew he was there. He guessed she was right. The window’s light reflected out on the crossing of the two main highways, so anyone who looked up could see him.

Staring out over the sleeping town, the porch lights shining like tiny stars and the shadow of a half-finished bandstand right in the middle of it all, he tried to figure out where his life had taken a wrong turn. All he was trying to do was help out, and somehow it ended him up here.

He’d seen a frightened little girl no bigger than Lillie, Charley’s daughter, had been when he’d met her. The girl had on an old red coat that was way too large for her and was trying her best to lug a big backpack along the muddy side of the road.

“Who wouldn’t help?” he murmured to himself. But somehow it had all turned bad, and he couldn’t figure out how to get out of trouble without bringing harm to the little red riding hood.

Lauren and Tim took turns lecturing him after the sheriff left last night, but nothing they could say was as bad as what he was yelling at himself inside. He had his future all planned out. He was focused. He’d saved enough for the first year of college, even though Charley Collins had said he’d pay.

Thatcher had Kristi waiting for him to get to Texas Tech. He figured if he got to Tech and studied hard, she’d plan the rest of their lives. Marriage, a couple kids, maybe a farm.

He looked around, hoping Lauren would bring her phone up and he could call Kristi back. Man, she was mad at him. Like this was all his fault.

The sheriff’s daughter was still somewhere beyond the doors of his prison, and Tim seemed busy writing notes. He’d mumbled that he had to get inspiration down when it hit. Thatcher had read a few of his books, and apparently inspiration came to “Hemingway” more as a dribble than a solid hit.

Maybe they’d left him alone to think, but Thatcher had given up on that, too. What good was it doing him? He might as well become an outlaw. Too bad it wasn’t the Wild West, where a man lived by a code and his Colt. Where right was right and wrong was wrong.

He wished it were that simple now. When he’d stopped to help the little girl, she’d run away from the truck stop, and he knew she’d stolen the food in the old backpack that looked like it weighed as much as she did. It took him ten minutes to get her to trust him enough to talk. He’d taken her to not much of a home, parked way back in a junky trailer park. The run-down model home was in a cluster of others that looked to be in the same shape. She said she lived there, but it didn’t look like any kind of place a child would stay. No toys or bikes. Only old loading crates and empty beer cans.

He talked the girl into letting him take the canned goods back, even gave her a twenty to buy food. But as he stood to leave, a man inside spotted him looking in the trailer window and threatened to kill him for trespassing. A few of his drunk buddies spilled out behind him, offering to help with the murder.

Thatcher took off with them yelling what they’d do if they ever saw him again. The leader even threatened to hurt the kid if Thatcher ever spoke to her again.

The worst part of it all for Thatcher was the shame he felt. There might have been five or six of them and only one of him, but he felt like a coward running and leaving her there. She wasn’t his kin. He had no right to interfere. But somehow it didn’t seem right leaving her there.

Then, when he was thoughtful enough to take the stolen food back, Luther accused him of stealing the cans. Like he’d drive two miles out of town to shoplift beans probably two or three years out-of-date.

Thatcher had had enough and he’d swung, not so much at Luther, but at the whole world.

Now, he stared into the night as if he could find an answer. So much for being a Good Samaritan. He knew how it felt to be hungry. He’d wanted to help. Now one good deed might just screw up his whole life.

He’d told people that he wanted to major in criminal justice. Maybe be like the sheriff. Only that was a pipe dream now.

Word was that there was a real hero living around the Panhandle of Texas. A Texas Ranger who’d survived a gun battle on the border. He’d been dealing with genuine bad guys and not some bum smoking pot in a trailer with his buddies while his little girl had to shoplift to eat. Thatcher wanted to fight for right, but yesterday he’d had his chance and ran.

Why couldn’t his life be exciting like the ranger’s? It must have been something to be in a real fight against drug runners. Thatcher guessed he already had most of the skills to be a lawman. He was fast, and much stronger than most gave him credit for. He’d been shooting game for food since he was nine.

Only, people with a criminal record didn’t become rangers or sheriffs. They didn’t become anything Thatcher wanted to be.