She glanced around the room. A group of middle-aged women chatted at a table, their voices obscured by Elvis singing from the corner jukebox about crying in a chapel. Three teenagers slouched against the old forty-five player, perusing the selections. Other patrons sat in the booths along the wall, smoke spirals rising above them.
Near the door, she saw a pudgy woman with spiked hair and dangly earrings leaning against a counter, a cigarette in one hand. The bronco on her brown-and-gold Wyoming Cowboys tee-shirt was stretched so taut it looked more like a weasel to Kate than a stallion.
The waitress blew a puff of smoke. “We serve breakfast and lunch until three, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Kate dropped her keys into her purse. Funny. She’d pictured Grandma in an apron, not a tee-shirt.
“Sit wherever you want, missy.” She aimed her cigarette toward the seating. “Smoking in the booths, non-smoking at the tables, unless …” She winked. “Unless the boss is out of town, which he happens to be today.” She flicked ashes into a small bowl. “Be with you in a minute.” Her husky voice suggested it wasn’t the first cigarette she’d ever smoked.
Kate sat at a table near the door, noting the vacuum cleaner in the corner and the map of Wyoming above it. Elvis was still singing about the chapel. That’s what she should have been doing at Highway Haven. Praying and crying out to God, not attacking an old lady. She studied the map until she located Copperville. The Whispering Pines Guest Ranch, she’d been told, was eighteen miles from the town.
Her insides fluttered, something that happened every time she thought about the Whispering Pines. Not only was she finally in Wyoming, she was going to spend an entire summer working on a guest ranch. As Aunt Mary had said, who’d a thunk she’d fulfill her marketing internship in paradise. If the owners were pleased with her work and their budget allowed, they might even make her a permanent employee. She closed her eyes. It would be so wonderful to have a normal job on the outside and …
“Here’s your water.”
Kate blinked.
The waitress plopped a laminated list in front of her and plunked a glass on the table. Water droplets splashed onto the menu. “I know you folks from back east lock your cars and expect ice in your drinks, but Harry only lets us offer it in July and August. It takes water and electricity to make ice cubes, he says, and we’ve been in a drought for going on six years.”
“Uh, no problem.” Just because the waitress saw her drive in didn’t mean she knew all about her. Kate snapped the paper ring from the napkin that bound the silverware. Too bad she wasn’t wearing her state-pen ID tag. That would get the woman’s attention. She unwound the napkin from the silverware and wiped the menu with it.
“Know what you want?” The woman pulled a pad from her apron and a pencil from above her ear. “Or you need a couple minutes?”
“I’d appreciate more time, please.”
“I’ll be back in a bit.” She ambled away singing a nasal duet with Bobby Vinton.
Kate studied the youths who surrounded the jukebox and who appeared to be ordinary teens. Maybe the selection didn’t include recent hits. Even so, it was a change from the country-western songs most of the stations this side of the Mississippi played.
She scanned the lunch menu, hoping to find something under five dollars. That would leave her a few dollars for gas.
Someone spoke. “Are you new in town or just passing through?”
After a moment, Kate realized she was the one being addressed and looked up.
A neatly dressed woman about her age sat in a nearby booth, a cigarette in her left hand. Kate slid a little lower in her chair, acutely aware of the contrast between her ponytail and travel-weary Pittsburgh Steelers tee-shirt and her neighbor’s starched blouse and perfect strawberry-blond bob.
The woman dipped a tiny brush into a bottle of fingernail polish and painted a reddish-orange swath across her left thumbnail. “Just curious. Haven’t seen you in here before.” She sucked at the cigarette then pursed her coral lips to blow smoke at her thumb.
Twin placards tacked to the wall above the booth caught Kate’s eye.
How can I miss you if you won’t go away?
I’m so miserable without you, it’s like you’re still here.
She swallowed a smirk. “I’m starting an internship near here tomorrow, so I guess I could be classified as new in town.”
“The redhead’s stenciled eyebrows arched. “Where?”
“The Whispering Pines Guest Ranch.”
Her eyebrows puckered. “Do you know Michael Duncan?”
“No, but I’ve talked with Laura Duncan on the phone.” Kate wondered if her bare arms were naturally tanned. Seemed a bit early for sunbathing, especially in the mountains.
The woman returned the brush to its container. “She’s Michael’s mother.” A look of distaste crossed her face. “Soon to become my mother-in-law. Michael and I started dating in high school. We’re almost engaged. Just waiting for the ring.
She took a business card from the Day-Timer on her table and wriggled across the booth to hand it to Kate. “My name is Tara Hughes. I own the Copper Fever Gift Shop up the street.”
Her perfume made Kate’s eyes water, but she accepted the card and held out her hand. “I’m Kate.”
Tara blew on the nails of her right hand before touching Kate’s fingers with her fingertips. “You may have seen my store when you drove into town.”
Kate nodded and sneezed.
“I’m also a real estate agent. My office is located in my shop, but it’s best to leave a message, because I’m usually out with clients. Or you can try my mobile number, but be warned—cell phone reception is hit-and-miss in this boondocks valley. Can’t even get it in this café. Makes it nearly impossible to get any work done.”
She slipped a lock of hair behind her ear. “I deal mostly with ranches and other large land transactions. However, if you’re ever in the market for a cottage—you know, something small and inexpensive, a house in sync with your income level—single bedroom, single bath, I can broker that for you.
“And …” She looked Kate up and down. “If you want to get in shape, I teach aerobics. Good way to firm up that flab.”
Kate thought of how hard and long she’d labored to regain her weight and health after the meth. “I don’t think—”
“Phone call, Tara.” The waitress was back at the counter, holding a corded phone in her hand.
“That’s probably Michael, wondering where to meet me.” Tara sashayed away, trailed by a mantle of perfumed smoke.
Kate looked at the menu. If Tara Hughes had flab, it wouldn’t have a chance to jiggle in those pants.
The waitress returned, pencil and pad in hand. “What’ll it be, missy?”
Kate handed her the menu. “I’ll have a cheeseburger, please.”
“We’re fresh out of ground beef, but Albert can fry you up a buffalo burger. Bison meat is good for you, you know—ninety-seven percent fat free, high in protein and essential fatty acids, whatever those are.”
“Okay, I’ll have a buffalo cheeseburger.”
“The bison is the Wyoming state mammal, you know.”
She did know that. And that bison meat was high in iron and low in cholesterol. She’d seen billboards in Iowa with pictures of grazing buffalo beneath the words: “An ideal meat for those who care about their health.” But right now, all she cared about was eating.
“Some folks prefer their meat rare.” The woman prattled on, her earrings swinging. “Pink center and all, you know, but Harry tells Albert to cook everything through and through. He doesn’t want the health department coming down on him again.”
Kate chewed at her lip. Should she leave the restaurant to avoid the painful giardia she’d experienced after eating food from a subway trash can? A hunger pang rumbled through her abdomen. “Well done is fine with me.”
“Want fries with your burger?”
“No, thanks.” She had to keep costs do
wn.
“Anything to drink?”
“Water, please.”
The waitress poked the pencil above her ear, grabbed the menu and strode across the linoleum to the kitchen window. “Albert, get up off your big fat behind!” Her voice rose above the Beatles singing about yellow submarines. “You got a first-time Pennsylvania customer here who wants a taste of your wild-west buffalo cooking.”
Kate felt her face flame. If she hadn’t been so hungry, she would have walked out. To think she used to dream of the day she could order her own food instead of eating mass-produced meals. She grabbed the newspaper someone had left on the next table and turned her back to the door, ignoring its squeak as it opened and closed. She’d had enough interaction with the locals.
She’d barely had time to read the front-page headlines, when a hand clasped her shoulder. She twisted—and her heart sank. Jerry Ramsey, one of the Patterson’s most hated correctional officers, stood next to her, leering down at her.
She wrenched from his grasp. “What are you doing here?”
He flipped a chair around. He sat down facing her, his elbows on the chair back, a beer bottle swinging between his thumb and two fingers.
A melancholy tune filtered through Kate’s disbelief. Someone sang of butterflies and told her not to be concerned, promised not to harm her. She crumpled the newspaper. Jerry Ramsey would do everything he could to harm her, to ruin her new life, to steal her freedom.
He sneered. “Just like at Patterson, you thought you could walk out on me. But as usual, I outsmarted you. You could a driven all the way to the Pacific Ocean, but I’d still find you.”
She stared at his iceberg-gray eyes, his rigid jaw, his greasy black hair beneath a brown western hat. Cowboy hat? She’d never seen him in one before. But then, she’d only seen him in uniform. His aftershave made her head hurt, like always, and unearthed memories she’d buried long before she left Patterson.
Kate clutched the edge of the table. “Why did you follow me?”
“Because …” He noisily sipped the beer, his gaze wandering from her face to her chest. “You belong with me.”
She opened her mouth, but he held up his hand. “If you behave yourself, we’ll get married and have a honeymoon with the birds and the bees and the bears in Yellowstone National Park. And we’ll make us another baby.”
He reached for her, but she jerked her chair backward, nearly tipping it over. “I never belonged with you.”
The other patrons turned to stare.
She glared at him. “Get away from me and stay away.”
His lips twisted into a sardonic smile she knew all too well. “So, what are you going to do? Call the cops? Who do you think they’d believe? You, the jailbird, or me, the recently retired correctional officer?”
“You liar. You were fired.”
The music stopped.
Ramsey’s eyelids narrowed. “Thanks to you, slut.”
She jumped to her feet, fumbling through her purse and trying to see beyond her anger as she felt for money. She had to get away from him, but they would send her back to prison if she didn’t pay for the hamburger.
Singing of words and tunes, Neil Diamond’s voice eased into the deathly quiet room. Ramsey sang along, his voice soft and off-key.
Kate glanced at him.
His jaw had relaxed. A soft smile touched his lips.
She wanted to vomit. “Go back to your swamp, Ramsey.”
He grabbed her hand. “I know you miss my lovin’.”
She snatched her hand away and hurried to the counter to toss her only money, a ten-dollar bill, beside the register. She avoided eye contact with Tara who, though she still held the phone to her ear, was as silent and watchful as everyone else in the restaurant.
Kate pushed the door open.
“Where are you go—?” called the waitress. But then she interrupted herself. “Hey, you. You can’t have booze in here. Grandma’s doesn’t have a liquor license.”
Kate ran to her car, unlocked the door and yanked it open. She steered the Honda through the parking lot, past the waitress standing at the doorway with a plate of food in her hands, and onto Main Street, barely missing a dog.
That’s when she saw the patrol car. She hit the brakes.
The officer rolled by, handset at his mouth.
Kate pounded the dashboard. “Why, God? Why did you let him find me?” She skidded the car to the side of the road. “How far do I have to go to get away from Ramsey?”
She clenched the steering wheel. That brown truck. It had to be his. He’d followed her from the church, and before that, from Pennsylvania. And he was probably telling everyone at the café all about her. Her reputation would be ruined before she reached the ranch. She’d be fired before she started. She should keep driving, maybe go to—
She stopped. This was not a time for panic. She lowered the window. “This is my life now, my life.”
She was so tired of running—running from foster homes, social services, boyfriends, pimps, break-ins, police. And now, Ramsey.
She took a breath. “Ramsey no longer has control over me.”
Another breath. “He will not drag me into his cesspool again.”
Breathe. Breathe.
She dried her cheeks with the bottom of her shirt and opened the glove box to retrieve the directions to the ranch. She hadn’t driven all the way to Wyoming to abandon her education. She had to complete the marketing internship. But this wasn’t what she’d envisioned. In fact, it was a stinking, lousy way to live her dream.
Chapter Four
MIKE TRUDGED UP THE hill to the solar unit that provided the electric current for the fence. Just as he’d anticipated, the line from the box to the fence had also been cut. He looked around, half expecting to see someone watching him from behind a tree.
But who? His dad’s only enemies were the Clifford brothers, two harmless old men who thought they ran all the area ranches. They did dumb stuff like stop by hayfields to tell people they watered too much or too little. Or mowed too early or too late. Or didn’t let the cut grass dry long enough or rotate their fields often enough. All the while, their own place went to pot.
He lifted his hat to scratch his head. His dad had never thought much of those two. But his dad was gone, and Mike didn’t have any enemies that he knew of. He kicked a stump, which didn’t do much to ease his frustration, and plodded back down the hill. To his relief, no bison nosed around the pickup, which was a surprise. Bison were curious animals. He tugged at the dented lid on the attached toolbox. If he could reach his tools, he could use the lumber that had fallen from the truck bed to repair the fence. The vehicle wobbled, but the lid didn’t budge.
He released an exasperated huff. That would have been too easy. On to Plan B. He picked up a two-by-four and bent the fence strands around it, the barbs stabbing his gloveless fingers. He did the same with a second board and the other strands of loose wire. When he finished the makeshift sections, he leaned the boards against the pickup. Bison vision wasn’t as good as their hearing or their sense of smell, but they’d eventually notice the truck and check it out. With any luck, they wouldn’t knock over the fake fence.
He heard his mom’s voice and looked in the cab window. The CB handset dangled from the dashboard.
“ …asked why you weren’t at church. They missed you and your guitar.” A moment later—“Mike, are you there?”
He couldn’t reach the CB, and he’d already tried the two-way. He pulled the cracked, water-soaked radio from his belt, tossed it in the passenger window that now faced the sky and picked up a rock. He hurled it as hard as he could against the nearest tree trunk then motioned to his dog resting in the shade of the vehicle. “Come on, Tramp. We’ve got a long, uphill hike ahead of us.”
***
Kate crammed the gearshift into second. The Honda’s ascent up Battle Mountain had slowed to a chug. The perfect metaphor for her life—dragging herself up yet another incline, trying to do better, always
trying to do better. She’d climbed endless mountains, only to careen back down when the newest foster family was as uncaring as the previous ones, when the latest boyfriend was even more abusive than the others, when she’d fallen for a pimp’s lies and prostituted her body, when she’d allowed Jerry Ramsey to ruin her prison rehabilitation ...
The road leveled out and the car gained speed. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, hearing his ugly snicker when he fondled her body during bed check. “Never forget, baby—this belongs to me.”
She groaned, sickened by his arrogance and the smell of sweat fused with Brut aftershave that surfaced unbidden. She felt again the blows that knocked her to the ground the day she ended the affair. She heard her ribs crack as he kicked her into unconsciousness.
A dirt crossroad came into view. She stomped the brake pedal and spun the steering wheel to the right. The car fishtailed, but she gained enough control to slide behind a stand of trees, open the car door and vomit. Though she hadn’t eaten since the night before, she couldn’t stop throwing up, nor could she quit sobbing.
The nausea finally subsided. Exhausted, she cut the engine and leaned her head against the headrest. After a moment’s rest, she opened the glove box to find a tissue and blow her nose. She swished water around her mouth to rinse away the acrid taste before spitting at an exposed tree root. If only she could wash Ramsey out of her life.
She flipped the visor mirror down. The sight of her swollen eyelids made her grimace—not exactly how she’d expected to look when she started a new job. Using the edge of the tissue and lotion, she removed mascara smears before reaching for her cell phone. She didn’t dare call Aunt Mary, but Amy would understand.
She looked at the screen—No Service, turned the phone off and dropped it into her purse. What would she have said?
“Amy, you’ll never believe who I ran into today.” Or, “Remember Ramsey, that psycho officer in prison?” Or, “Hey, do you remember the correctional officer who got me pregnant?”
Winds of Wyoming (A Kate Neilson Novel) Page 3