by Kaki Warner
He stood listening to the rumble and pop of the truck’s exhaust until it faded and all that broke the silence was the rustle of the gentle breeze through new grass, the distant hum and whir of big irrigation sprinklers in nearby hay fields, and the skree of a hawk floating past on rising thermals. After a year and a half living in close quarters with almost two thousand restless convicts and shouting guards, the still openness was a balm to his battered senses. Even the air felt better.
Dalton closed his eyes and breathed deep.
Gradually the stink of sweat, disinfectant, rancid cooking oils, and harsh cleaners gave way to the familiar smells of alfalfa, cow and horse manure, and good old Texas dust, all underlaid with the faint scent of petroleum rising out of the abandoned wellheads.
It was good to be home.
He turned and walked up the drive toward the sagging gate with the familiar plank sign that read cardwell in faded gray letters. But as he drew closer, he slowed to a stop and stared.
On the tilting post that anchored the gate was another sign. Smaller. Not familiar. Made of cardboard and carrying a single word in bold back script.
sold.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kaki Warner is a RITA-winning author and longtime resident of the Pacific Northwest. Although she now lives on the eastern slopes of the Cascade Mountains in Washington, Kaki grew up in the Southwest and is a proud graduate of the University of Texas. She spends her time gardening, reading, writing, and making lists of stuff for her husband to do, all while soaking in the view from the deck of her hilltop cabin.
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