Texas Summer

by Hachtel, Leslie

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Warning

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgements

  ~ About the Author ~

  More Romance from Etopia Press

  Texas Summer

  Leslie Hachtel

  Copyright Warning

  EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published By

  Etopia Press

  1643 Warwick Ave., #124

  Warwick, RI 02889

  http://www.etopiapress.com

  Texas Summer

  Copyright © 2015 by Leslie Hachtel

  ISBN: 978-1-944138-10-3

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Etopia Press electronic publication: October 2015

  Dedication

  To Kort, who always believed, and to Bob, my wonderful husband, who gave me the gift of time.

  With domineering hand she moves the turning wheel,

  Like currents in a treacherous bay swept to and fro:

  Her ruthless will has just deposed once fearful kings

  While trustless still, from low she lifts a conquered head;

  No cries of misery she hears, no tears she heeds,

  But steely hearted laughs at groans her deeds have wrung.

  Such is a game she plays, and so she tests her strength;

  Of mighty power she makes parade when one short hour

  Sees happiness from utter desolation grow.

  (Boethius: A Consolation of Philosophy, Book II, translated by V. E. Watts)

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was western Texas, stifling in a way unknown to those who have never tried to breathe in melted air that sears the throat and scratches its way to the lungs, nourishing but not satisfying.

  The purr of his red sports car seemed like some bizarre dream the landscape had conjured to keep life interesting. He knew he moved like a bullet, straight and smooth. Then, for no apparent reason, the car swerved drunkenly, as if whoever was controlling this fantasy had lost focus. He heard a terrible grinding sound. The car stopped dead, as if a giant hand had grabbed it from behind.

  Wylie Nichols unfolded himself from the vehicle and stood glaring at his now nemesis. He made a fist, threatened to strike, and then backed off, realizing the futility of the action. Curious as to why he has been abandoned in hell, he shrugged in resignation. Reaching into the car, he took out a small duffel bag, a laptop, and a denim jacket. He slammed the car door. It was too hot to wear the jacket, but it was a better option than carrying it, so he put it on.

  “Typical beautiful woman,” he addressed the car. “Flashy and sexy and unreliable.”

  Wylie made a valiant effort to spot some landmark or sign, but the scenery looked the same. It was no man’s land, with sand and scrub and a sad little cactus or two the only breaks in the otherwise flat and seemingly endless landscape. Truly in the middle of nowhere. Maybe he’d actually crashed and died and this was hell. He had to laugh out loud at all the clichés that flitted through his brain.

  It was still early in the morning, but that didn’t dissuade the sun from beating down like a tyrant. Beneath its relentless gaze, the ribbon of road was deserted, shimmering under the relentless sun, yellow dust inching its way across the highway as if the temperature had made it too heavy to care. The blacktop melted into the pale earth that confined it and, at the same time, tried to consume it. Now and again, the wind coughed. Tiny swirls of dust had no choice but to move at its prodding. The lack of color had made the place almost without definition, like looking at a dull, yellow suffocating curtain. Wylie took a deep breath, coughed, and shook his head. The sweat dripped almost immediately. He had no option but to keep moving. Story of his life. Until he could find something that would actually root him. For now, writing novels gave him some satisfaction. The work motivated his search for…what? He didn’t know.

  Down the road, a sad little house became visible. Any sign of civilization thrilled him. He was even hopeful it was occupied. The relentless heat and choking dust had victimized the shack too. It looked about ready to surrender. Beyond it, a path stretched to nowhere, but to the side, a beautiful, well-tended garden boasted herbs, colorful flowers, and vegetables. The brightness of it was almost shocking in the faded yellow landscape.

  A screen door slammed. The noise caught his attention. A woman appeared on the broken-down porch. She leaned against one of the precarious supporting posts and scanned the horizon as if hoping for a miracle to appear out of the air. In her late twenties, she was sensuous, beautiful, and earthy. Dark-blonde hair, long and unbound, hung down her back. Her clothes were old but very clean and very tight. The sleeveless white blouse, cut just low enough, emphasized her full breasts. The short dark skirt highlighted shapely legs. Her face was young and fresh, but the wisdom of the ancients shone in those luminous gray eyes.

  She boldly watched him approach, braiding her hair as he drew closer. An almost imperceptible breeze lifted a few strands, making them dance to their own rhythm. He felt her eyes and met them with his own. The immediate fire between them was nearly palpable. Wylie drew in a breath, mesmerized, stumbled, then caught himself and continued forward, closing the distance. She raised her eyebrows as if daring him to speak.

  “Morning, ma’am.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I wonder if you could tell me how close I am to the nearest town.” He was fascinated by the directness of her look.

  She pointed up the road. “That way, about a quarter of a mile. Snakewater.” Her hand shook a little as she pointed.

  He couldn’t help but notice. He was surprised; this didn’t seem to be the kind of girl who let someone upset her equilibrium.

  “Good. Thanks.”

  “Ain’t no work.”

  Why she would she say that? “That’s fine. Not looking for any. My car broke down about a mile up the road.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Wylie Nichols.”

  She looked at his hand but didn’t make any effort to shake it. He felt self-conscious and dropped it back to his side. She looked him up and down, as if assessing him.

  “Kennedy.”

  “Beg pardon.”

  “Yeah, like the president. My mama was hoping I’d make something of myself.” She shrugged as if the joke had long ago lost its humor.

  “Oh. Do you know if there’s a good mechanic in town?”

  “I think so. You’ll see his garage on
ce you get there.”

  “Well, I’d best be on my way.” Wylie hesitated. “Do you think I might see you again?” The hope in his voice definitely embarrassed him.

  Kennedy smiled, exuding bravado. “Oh, I think you can count on that.”

  Wylie grinned his happiness.

  “It’s a real small town.”

  His ego shattered.

  He angled toward the town. He was still near enough to hear an older woman call out from inside the house. “Who was that, Kennedy?”

  “Oh, just a man selling tickets, Mama.”

  “Tickets?”

  “Yeah. E tickets.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Like at Disneyland—and they’re the very best rides.”

  Wylie’s ego reasserted itself, whole once again.

  Twenty minutes later the scruff and dirt gave way to something like civilization.

  The town of Snakewater, Texas, looked like the remains of an Old West ghost town from the movies. It had the distinct air of better times. The buildings had the look of old whores long past their prime. It was near enough to a city that it obviously didn’t feel the need to be one but could sit contentedly without putting on airs. And sink into lethargy in the process. Just enough breeze blew this morning to stir up more dust, as if enough wasn’t swirling around already.

  The requisite general store stood forlornly next to the old drugstore. From the look of them, it was hard to know if they were even open anymore. For all Wylie could tell, they could have been cardboard storefronts set up just for looks. The flashing stoplight directed no traffic to stop or go, and very few pedestrians were around. The people he saw seemed to fit his original impression. The men were in jeans or coveralls, the women in simple cotton dresses without a lot of style or color. Wylie was dressed in jeans and a comfortable faded work shirt under his jacket. He would probably blend right in.

  He ambled up the street and paused now and then to glance into the streaked display windows, knowing their wares would never tempt him. He waited for a horse-drawn wagon to trundle down the center of the main road any minute or for two cowboys to saunter into the middle of the street and draw their guns. A few cars parked at the curb were so caked with dirt it was impossible to tell the makes and models, let alone the colors. It was only clear they were old.

  Luckily, the mechanic’s garage wasn’t too far down the street. Just as she had said, it was easy to find. Kennedy.

  He walked to the building and peered inside. The thick dust on the office windows of the garage obscured the fact that they were even made of glass. The open work area consisted of a lift and several old, dented, red Craftsman toolboxes. The sound of pounding metal on metal came from somewhere out of sight. The smell of oil assailed the nostrils. If Wylie had conjured this in his imagination, he would have considered it too cliché to write down. After seeing the state of the few vehicles in town, he had to assume this man was kept pretty busy.

  “Hello?” he called out. No response came. “Hello?”

  “Yeah, be right there,” an older man’s voice returned. In a few moments, a set of black-streaked coveralls appeared with a man inside them. The person was hard to distinguish since his skin was as dirty as the clothes. “Can I help you?”

  “Hope so. My car broke down on the highway about a mile and a quarter from here. Do you think you can help me? I think it’s a tie rod.”

  The man eyed him suspiciously. “Why would you think that?”

  “I know a little about cars. It’s a '68 Camaro. You can’t own one of those for long without learning some things.”

  “OK,” the mechanic seemed to agree grudgingly.

  “The steering went out, and the front wheels felt as though they were trying to go in two different directions. Then there was a grinding noise. What does that sound like to you?”

  “Yep, sounds like a tie rod. But I don’t stock it here. I’d have to order it. Probably take a few days, more if it has to come from Dallas. Might get lucky and find one in Abilene though. Gonna have to tow it, and it’s gonna cost you.”

  “Don’t have a choice now, do I?”

  “Not unless you want to move here permanent.”

  Wylie laughed. “No, I think we’d better fix it. Do you take cash?”

  “That’s the only thing I take, buddy.”

  “How long do you think once you get the parts?”

  “Couple of days. After I get the parts. So don’t come by and keep asking me. I’ll let you know when she’s ready. Where you staying?”

  “I’ll let you know,” Wylie responded. The lack of hospitality he had encountered so far amazed him.

  He remembered a dilapidated motel at the edge of town that looked as if it had seen better days. It was one of those places that probably thrived before a major freeway was built that had travelers bypassing the area altogether. He retraced his steps.

  Under the sign announcing the Sleep Tight Motel was a door marked Office. He went in. An old man was sitting behind the counter half asleep as the TV behind him filled the room with the local news and weather.

  Somewhere a fan pulsed in a steady rhythm but didn’t seem to be winning against the thick air. Wylie cleared his throat several times before the man acknowledged his presence.

  “Excuse me, but can I get a room?”

  The old man blinked a few times, almost in disbelief. “Sure.” He smiled, revealing to Wylie the spaces in his mouth that should have been occupied by teeth. “You alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long?”

  “Well, I imagine I’ll be here a few days.”

  “It’ll be thirty-five dollars a night. First night in advance.”

  Clearly business wasn’t exactly booming, but Wylie feared he wouldn’t have too many options in this town. He could only hope for something clean and bedbug-free at this point.

  “Cash OK?”

  “Long as you don’t try to run out on the bill. I usually need a credit card.”

  “Usually” probably dried up ten or more years ago. Wylie smiled at him. “I won’t run out, I promise.”

  He counted out the bills, and the man handed over a key, then indicated that the room was down to the left. Wylie thanked him. He stepped back out into the blazing sunlight, found his room, and unlocked the door. Without really looking around, he put his bag and laptop inside and closed the door, checking that it locked. Then he went back to the garage and informed the mechanic of his new address.

  That done, he decided to explore. Maybe he’d even see a friendly face. Maybe.

  As he walked, his thoughts went to the woman he had encountered. Something about her was almost haunting. She had an unknown quality that was exciting. Would he really see her again? His car would be down for a few days at least, so that would give him time to seek her out. He was curious if Kennedy had some sort of mystique that touched him on more than a visceral level. Wylie loved women, appreciated them, but he’d never really felt the need to stay and create a future with one. His parents had set the bar high, and he wanted it to be right the first time.

  He slipped his hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small wad of bills. He looked at them and, satisfied, stuffed them back into his pocket before walking on up the street. Ahead was a restaurant—more of a diner, really. Its sign was missing a few letters, and the name appeared to be “NO…A’S.” Maybe it was Norma’s? He wasn’t really hungry, but he had nothing but time to kill. He headed for the door and then stopped. So much silence. Not another living soul was in sight. The dusty streets and empty storefronts seemed to mock him. He shivered, feeling as if he were the last man in the universe, stranded in the twilight zone of this godforsaken desert town with no hope of comfort, human or otherwise. He shook off the dreary thought and moved inside to get some coffee and distraction.

  His eyes took a second to adjust to the dimness. The number of people crammed into this place shocked him. Obvious locals, all feasting on eggs and bacon and grits a
nd coffee, filled the tables to bursting. Their voices blended together in a pleasant cacophony that immediately lessened in intensity. All eyes were on him. He felt like a bug pinned to a wall. He stood frozen, undecided what to do.

  As quickly as the eyes fastened on him, they all looked away as one and refocused on the food in front of them. He was a stranger, but he didn’t seem to be a threat or even of much interest. The conversations rose again, filling the air. Wylie scanned the room. A seat at the counter was open next to two men who personified the word “redneck.” Both were dressed in dirty denim coveralls with wife-beater T-shirts underneath. One of them, broad backed and obviously well fed, wore a red checked scarf tied around his head. The other man was wiry and tall. They didn’t appear particularly clean, and the skinny one exuded an odd, sour smell that became apparent as Wylie got closer. He opted to scrunch in next to the fleshy one with the scarf.

  A fat waitress, whose name tag declared her Judy Jane, pushed a cup of steaming, fragrant coffee toward him. He nodded his gratitude. She was wearing a bright-pink uniform. Why did older women who looked like her always seem to choose pink? Judy Jane looked as though she had spent too many years around food: serving it, eating it, and cleaning up after it. Her face was oily and puffy, and her stained uniform was pushed to its screaming limits, trying desperately not to expose her generous girth. No one wanted to see that, especially not when they were trying to eat.

  A swishing sound emanated from the swinging door as another woman came out of the kitchen wearing a uniform that resembled Judy Jane’s. Hers fit her well-proportioned shape. It clung in all the right places, emphasizing her slim waist. Her dark-blonde hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck and hung down below her shoulders, swinging with every movement. She was carrying a tray full of food, and she moved efficiently as she delivered the plates. Placing the empty tray on a nearby stand, she stepped to another table whose occupants had just arrived.