Rescue Me, Ranger

by Sylvia Fox

  I hoped she was right, but I feared it wouldn’t be that easy.

  Once in the bathroom, the mirror showed me a pale, scared, pitiful girl with a small cut on her left cheek, right on the bone, surrounded by a purplish halo. Fuck.

  I gently applied concealer, and it did an adequate job, but I couldn’t imagine facing my coworkers in this condition.

  Coworkers.

  Work.

  Fuck my life.

  I didn’t want to return to Phoenix, let alone to work or to my condo.

  One of the perks of being dependable, and rarely ever calling in, is being taken seriously when you do need some time off.

  It was getting into that gray area of time when it might be too late to call someone who wasn’t family, but I called Michael anyway.

  I told him I needed some time off, which I chalked up to the nebulous excuse of having a “family emergency.” He told me he could cover the rest of the week for me, to take as much time I needed, but that if I needed to be gone into the following week, that I’d need to talk to his boss.

  That was agreeable to me, so I returned to my table, where the beautiful sight of waffles covered with chocolate chips awaited me.

  Heaven on a fork.

  I ate them slowly, savoring their perfection, and they helped to clear my head. I didn’t need to be back at work for the rest of the week, and I definitely didn’t need to be anywhere near Jake “Turtle” Henry.

  So, I’d keep driving. East into New Mexico and wherever the road took me. No maps, no Siri, just wandering for a few days. That sounded grand.

  Peg complimented me on my makeup and she gave me some advice as I gathered my things to leave. “Life is short, girlfriend. Too short to waste on a man who hits you. Trust me.”

  Looking at her, it wasn’t hard to picture her with all manner of black eyes and split lips. I leaned across the counter and hugged her.

  “Thanks, Peg. And you were right about the waffles.”

  I left and drove east, out of Tucson, into a starry wonderland where no man-made light interfered with my view of the sky. I scanned the radio and found a DJ speaking what I guessed was Navajo, and I found myself getting lost in the sound of his voice.

  After a while, I needed a break. I got out of my car in the middle of nowhere, close to the New Mexico border, not another car or sign of human life in sight, my hoodie keeping me warm, and just looked up in awe at the constellations; so much more bright and bold than I was used to, even back home in small town South Carolina.

  My reverie was interrupted by a howling coyote out in the darkness, and I beat a hasty retreat to the safety of my Toyota.

  Back on the road, I realized how tired I was getting. Deming, New Mexico, looked like the next town of any appreciable size, according to the signs and billboards flying past my windshield, so I decided to stop there for the night.

  I found a small mom and pop motel, The Cactus Inn, and I spent a quiet night on a surprisingly comfortable bed. Sleep was good for me. I woke up refreshed.

  My plans for the day were made for me when I looked at my phone. A text from Turtle, from shortly after I’d checked into the hotel, shortly after I’d fallen asleep:

  What’s in New Mexico? Where do you think you’re going?

  Shit.

  I sat on the bed and read the message again. He must have been monitoring the activity on our shared bank account, watching where and when I used my debit card.

  I took a lukewarm shower and checked on my bruise, which was the same as when I’d fallen asleep, minus some swelling. I did what I could to hide it with makeup, and checked out of the motel.

  At the gas station down the street, I topped off the tank, and grabbed a soda and a chicken biscuit that almost cracked my teeth for breakfast. I didn’t like the idea that Turtle might decide to follow me, so I withdrew some cash at an ATM and got back on the road.

  Las Cruces would be the next “city” I encountered, and from there I figured I’d drop down into Texas and maybe head for Austin. I’d never been, and I knew nobody from there, but everything I’d heard about Austin made it sound like a good place to lay low for a while and maybe hear some good live music. It would be a good escape.

  Just across the state line into dusty west Texas, my phone buzzed.

  Another text from Turtle.

  What’s gotten into you, girl? You didn’t have to check out so early. Turn your ass around and come back. I’ll get us a room here and we can have a little vacation. Chasing you across Texas is just going to be a big waste of gas for both of us.

  I nearly drove off the road. He was at The Cactus Inn? From Deming, I could have gone anywhere. I hadn’t used any plastic since Deming. How did he…

  I caught my foot getting heavy on the gas pedal, and I’d gotten up to over ninety miles per hour before I noticed the car shaking a little with the effort and I eased back. There wasn’t another vehicle around on my side of the highway, just a pair of eighteen-wheelers going the other direction.

  The area was downright desolate.

  As I drove, I noticed a small “community” of trailers a few hundred yards off the road, alongside several large shipping containers. It set my mind wandering. What sort of life did those people have? How did they make money? Where did they go when they needed a gallon of milk? Did they have running water?

  The whole scene was creepy. Like the kind of place a serial killer would bring his victims. Or, in this case, an entire family of sickos. Texas. Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Yikes!

  It’s not like there were any police anywhere nearby, even if somebody could escape and find a phone.

  I shuddered at the thought of being alone out here with just the sagebrush, cacti, and rattlesnakes to keep me company. I grew up in a small town, but there was a difference between small town and the surface of the moon, which is how civilized this part of West Texas seemed to be.

  When I’d made the drive west to move to Phoenix, I’d traveled a more northerly route in order to visit family near Memphis and then a college friend from Oklahoma. My only experience with Texas was crossing the Panhandle.

  My cell service was spotty, and when I found a spot with two bars, I pulled over and looked at Google Maps to figure out just where the hell I was and how I might get to Austin, or at least somewhere bigger than a pinprick on the map. Being so isolated, and with Turtle apparently in hot pursuit, had me spooked.

  My growling stomach decided that San Antonio and Austin were too far to go without stopping. Odessa and Midland seemed to be a more manageable distance, and I had a better chance of finding somewhere to eat a real meal and strategize there than somewhere on the great swath of blank map between my current locale and the Alamo City. I’d given up on the gas station biscuit I’d picked up for breakfast before I was halfway finished with it.

  As I drove, I kept checking my rear-view mirror for Turtle’s blue pickup truck, even though I knew the chances of him finding me way out here, or even wanting to, were remote. Hell, he was probably back at our condo, taking advantage of my absence to make time with Amber.

  My mind wandered to what it was about this arid, desolate landscape that made people want to settle here in the first place. Was it oil? If this was the part of Texas that produced oil, then it made sense. If there’s money to be made, people will come, and rich people need places and things on which to spend their money. Presto, you have a town.

  If you have a town, and lots of money, bad people are going to want to get their hands on it. Even back home in Palmetto Creek, we had Flynn’s Roost, the biker bar which was home to Bamberg County’s criminal element. And we certainly didn’t have anything resembling oil money for people to want to steal or con their way out of us.

  The law in Palmetto Creek was bought and paid for by the Flynn family, and everybody knew it. I wondered who the West Texas desert version of the Flynn clan was, and if they had a similar arrangement with the small-town local police. But then I recalled something else Texas was known for – Texas
Rangers. Rugged, virtuous lawmen who operated sometimes hundreds of miles from any backup, on the modern equivalent of the frontier, breaking up rings of cattle rustlers and saving damsels in distress – like girls on the run from abusive boyfriends who had become hopelessly lost on unmarked rural routes and dirt roads.

  As I just had.

  Shit.

  While I daydreamed, I became more paranoid that Turtle was in hot pursuit, and my mind wandered back to that spooky compound of trailers and shipping containers. I was sure I was going to stumble upon cartel members making a deal far from prying eyes…

  In my panic, I’d left the highway and made a left turn, then a right, or was it a right and then a left? And I’d followed a fence line for miles and miles and now I realized I had no idea where I was. And no signal. And even if I did, very little charge left in my battery.

  I hadn’t remembered to charge my phone at the Cactus Inn, and now I was regretting this entire adventure. I was pissed, sure, but why didn’t I just go spend the night at a friends’ house? Desiree or Kara would have let me stay over for a few days. Wine, pizza, and Netflix while commiserating over our lousy choices in men would have been much more therapeutic than exploring the godforsaken desert.

  The gravel crunched beneath my tires as I came to stop on the side of the road.

  I got out and walked over to the endless fence, gently pressing the tip of my index finger down on the barbed wire until I was sure I was nearly going to bleed before backing off. I repeated the action with all five fingers of my left hand, letting the wind blow through my hair, scanning the horizon for something, anything, but finding nothing but a large hawk, lazily circling overhead.

  After sitting on the trunk of my car for ten minutes, finishing off the warm, flat soda I’d purchased back in Deming, I hopped down and kicked the ground, watching a small puff of dust grow and then dissipate within seconds.

  Not your proudest moment, Darcy.

  Frustration set in, and I decided I’d follow the fence as long as the road stayed manageable. It was paved, although sections were in varying levels of disrepair. I still had just under half a tank of gas, and the road had to lead somewhere. People were out there, I just had to find them.

  And hope they weren’t Texas Chainsaw Massacre-style cannibals.

  Gulp.

  My stomach growled to remind me that it was lunchtime, and breakfast had been less than satisfying. My phone still showed no signal, so I turned it off to conserve the battery. I got in and cranked my car back up, easing onto the road and accelerating toward my fate. Immediately, the temperature gauge jumped almost to the red line.

  Terrific.

  3

  Ten slow miles of fence later, I saw two silhouettes on horseback, wearing cowboy hats, a few hundred yards from the road. I decided to take a chance. I didn’t want to appear nearly as lost or desperate as I really was, but I pulled over and honked my horn to get their attention. Waving both arms over my head, they spotted me and trotted over.

  “What can we do for you, little lady?”

  The man who spoke looked just like the West Texas desert that was his home; dry, cracked skin eroded by the wind so that it just barely covered the bones of his face. His companion was younger, in his teens, I guessed. Both wore boots, jeans, light blue shirts and brown cowboy hats.

  “I’m a little lost, I was hoping you could point me in the right direction.”

  “Where ya tryin’ to go? And who hit you?” the youngster piped up, but the old man shot him a glare.

  “Pardon my grand-nephew. He left his manners at home. I’m Monroe, this is Darrell,” he signaled to the teenager. “I figured you weren’t from around here; I know all the pretty ladies in this county.” Monroe winked at me. He was at an age where such bold flirting was charming. Coming from Darrell, it would have seemed creepy.

  “Well, thank you, I was driving to Austin and I got a little turned around,” I explained.

  “Unless there’s an Austin in Oklahoma, you’re heading in the wrong direction. But it’s going to be tricky to guide you to your destination without getting you more lost. No map, I reckon?”

  “No. No map. I was on the freeway and got distracted and here I am. Except, honestly, I don’t even know where here is.” I hadn’t planned on being so forthcoming, but Monroe had a grandfatherly quality I found reassuring.

  “This is Lonely Pine, Texas. The seat of Lonely Pine County. You’ll have to forgive our traffic, but you’ve hit us smack dab in the middle of rush hour.”

  I hadn’t seen another car, truck, or maybe more apropos, a covered wagon, since I left the interstate.

  We all laughed, but Darrell’s horse rose and whinnied, kicking up a swirl of dust. Before I knew what was happening, Monroe drew a pistol and fired into the scrub near where the horse had been standing.

  It all happened in the blink of an eye, and I yelped in surprise. I grew up around guns, and Daddy had taken me shooting since I was in elementary school, but I’d been caught completely off-guard. He’d drawn, shot, and replaced the pistol in his holster before I’d even seen him move.

  “Sorry, Ma’am. Rattler. Big one.” Monroe pointed to where he’d fired. His horse hadn’t moved, and Monroe himself looked as though his blood pressure hadn’t changed by even a single digit. Darrell calmed his horse and dismounted, walking over to examine his grand-uncle’s work.

  “This’ll make a nice hatband,” Darrell said, lifting the carcass of a snake bigger around than my forearm into the air. Its head was conspicuously missing.

  I definitely wasn’t in Phoenix anymore.

  Monroe nodded at Darrell, who carried the dead snake over to his horse and placed it in one of his saddlebags before smoothly ascending back atop his mount.

  “Your car’s overheating. I can smell it. Think it can go five more miles?” Monroe asked.

  I was startled that from fifteen feet away, he could smell a problem with my car, but he wasn’t wrong.

  “It’s not too bad, I think if I take it slow I can go that far. What’s there?”

  “Main Street! We can have J.P. take a look at that radiator and you can get a bite to eat at Rosie’s, if you’re so inclined. Then we can fix you up with a map and get you back on the road to Austin. How’s that sound?”

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. Thank you,” I replied.

  “Keep going the way you’re going, then. In about four miles, you’ll come to a fork in the road. No sign. Go right. About a mile later, you’ll come to town. Look for the big white rose. You can’t miss it. Tell Ms. Rosie you talked to me and she’ll sort you out. I’ll have Darrell watch to make sure you don’t break down before you get into town. My eyes ain’t what they used to be.”

  The way Monroe spoke made me feel like I was home. All the old men in Palmetto Creek talked like Monroe.

  “Thanks so much. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

  “I wouldn’t be much of a man, or a Texan, if I didn’t help a lady who needed it,” Monroe replied, touching the brim of his hat and turning to lead his horse back out into the desert to continue doing whatever he’d been doing before.

  4

  My poor car sputtered and crawled to the fork in the road, Darrell popping up in my peripheral vision from time to time.

  I was within sight of town when my car lurched, made an awful sound, and refused to budge.

  I walked the rest of the way, escorted for the last hundred yards by a scrawny, but friendly mutt who looked like she wanted very badly to be a golden retriever, if only somebody would give her a bath.

  She wagged and licked at my hand, which reassured me. I felt like I’d made a friend in Monroe, but since he was probably still out with Darrell, I at least had a dog to vouch for me.

  “How far?”

  A man’s voice called to me from across the street, from deep inside a garage.

  “Excuse me?” I replied.

  “You ain’t from here, and you sure
didn’t travel all this way on foot, so you must have a broken-down vehicle out on the road somewhere. So, I ask again, how far?”

  “Oh. Yes, I do. It’s the red Toyota just down the road. It overheated, then it just died.”

  “That’ll learn you! Buy American next time!” the grease monkey shouted, his laughter echoing in the garage.

  “Are you J.P.?” I asked, recalling Monroe’s instructions.

  He stepped out into the sunlight, a beer-bellied man with curly dark hair, wearing bib overalls.

  “Depends. Does this J.P. fella owe you money?”

  “No, my friend Monroe told me I could get my car looked at in town by a man named J.P.”

  A broad grin broke out on his face as he crossed the street, patting his leg. My canine friend trotted over to him in response to the signal.

  “In that case, J.P. Moorer, at your service. I’ll go out and get your car after I finish lunch. I’m guessing you’ll be over at Rosie’s?”

  “I believe I will. Can you show me where to go?”

  “Lester here will take you. Lester, take Miss…” He looked at me to finish that sentence.

  “Darcy,” I offered.

  “Take Miss Darcy over to Rosie’s,” J.P. instructed his dog, who yipped and stood up on his hind legs to get his head rubbed.

  J.P. went back inside the garage, and I followed Lester, the dog, a bit further down the street and then to the left, where a row of shops, many shuttered, awaited. A red sandwich board with a large white rose hand-painted on it sat on the sidewalk, and Lester bounced over to it and scratched at it with his paw.

  I opened the door and Lester shimmied between my legs and inside. I tried to squeeze him back out, but the woman behind the counter laughed and said, “Hello, Lester,” before tossing him a treat. “We don’t discriminate here, young lady. One leg, two, or four, everybody’s welcome at Rosie’s.”