Coming Home to Texas (3 page)

Nash frowned at her strangely, as if the choice of words had touched a raw nerve. “Yeah, believe it or not, I do know.”

She wasn't sure it was safe to ask. “How?”

A flash shot through his moss-green eyes. “Let's just say LA specializes in brutal, and I was done with it, too.”

“Are you hoping here will be less brutal? I'm pretty sure you'll get your wish as long as you stay outside of Austin. Martins Gap can come close to boring.”

He managed a slip of a smile. “Nobody calls the sheriff out because they're bored.”

She felt a smile—the first in what felt like ages—turn up the corners of her lips as she sipped her coffee. “Oh, I guess that's true. Bison Crimes Unit, huh?”

Now he genuinely laughed. “It's a far cry from vice and vandalism, I'll give you that. Gang members can be big, but they don't come in thousand-pound hairy versions with big horns. At least not yet.”

Ellie returned her gaze to the pastures. Blue Thorn Ranch had seen its share of challenges over the years, but it was hard to imagine anyone seeking to do the family or its animals harm, even for a thrill. “Why would someone want to harm the herd?”

“Maybe they're not trying to harm the herd. Maybe they're just proving something to buddies. For a thrill or a dare. To join some gangs in LA, you had to shoot someone. It didn't matter who, just that you shot to kill.”

Ellie felt the same distaste that drew his jaw tight. “That's awful. We don't have gangs out here.”

Nash shrugged. “Maybe not like in LA or even Atlanta or Austin, but kids anywhere will try to prove their worth in bad ways if no one shows them their worth in good ways.”

It should have made it better—to consider the attacks might not be deliberate and personal—but it still sent a shudder down Ellie's spine. “But to an animal? It's cruel. And even if you forget the compassion part—it's frightening when a big, dangerous animal could turn around and kill you.”

“All the more reason to think it's kids who aren't thinking through the consequences, wouldn't you say?”

Ellie wrapped her hands around the coffee mug, suddenly craving its warmth. “I don't know.” She caught Nash's eyes. “I didn't know I was coming home to an episode of cops and robbers.”

He grinned ever so slightly. “That's okay. I didn't know I was moving here to an episode of cowboys and Indians.”

“Then I guess we're both in for a surprise.”

Chapter Three

“T
h
at's one of them foreign sports cars, isn't it?”

Nash looked up from under the hood of his 1980 Datsun 280ZX to find Theo Kennedy, the local pastor, standing in his garage doorway. Kennedy was twice Nash's age—graying at the temples and a bit thick around the middle—but he was a likable guy, and it was clear people in town loved him dearly.

Nash had been to church once or twice since coming to town, liked the local congregation, but hadn't realized he'd drawn enough attention to warrant a pastoral visit. Evidently what Don kept telling him about small towns like Martins Gap was true—nothing ever truly went unnoticed.

“It's an import, yes. Japanese, to be exact.” Nash wiped his palms on a nearby towel and offered a hand to the pastor.

“Don't see too many of those around here. Looks fast,” the man said, peering at the array of tubes and parts under the vehicle's long, sleek hood.

It was true. Nash had seen nothing but domestic cars in his travels around the small town. He'd also noticed his share of glares that clearly translated to “Why ain't you drivin' an American car?” when he'd taken the Z out for drives. Some days the stares didn't bother him. Other days they made him feel about as foreign and shunned as the import. “She is fast. When she runs right, that is. She threw a fan belt on the highway two days ago and is currently giving me a hard time.”

“We got a hardware store and a garage in town. Both of them carry car parts.”

Nash laughed. “Not these. This little lady has very exclusive taste in accessories. I didn't bring all my spare parts in the move from LA, and now I'm regretting it.” At least the Z was reasonable compared to other foreign cars. Some of the Italian models could cost his yearly salary in parts and labor, but the Z sucked up only a slightly painful portion of his spare cash. “Still,” he continued as he dropped the hood down and heard it latch with a satisfying
click
, “I don't mind tinkering with a few things while I wait for parts to ship.”

“Like to get grease under your fingernails, do you?” Pastor Kennedy asked.

“It's a good stress release from law enforcement. And a nice change to be making things run instead of stepping in when they don't.” Nash moved his toolbox from one of the two metal stools beside his workbench and motioned for the pastor to sit down. “Something I can do for you, Pastor Kennedy?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Nash realized that was probably a dangerous thing to ask a pastor. Yes, he ought to get better connected in the community, but he didn't exactly feel ready to set down roots or open himself up to relationships.

“Please, just Theo or Pastor Theo if you like, since I am here on church business. There is something I'm hoping you might help with.” The man picked up an air filter from Nash's workbench and examined it. “Don told me you worked with at-risk youth in LA. I think we have some trouble brewing with ours.”

Nash's stomach tightened. He'd always found “at risk” a sanitized and clinical term for hoodlums and gangbangers who seemed closer to savages than humans some days. He often could glimpse the person hiding under the animal, and he knew the value of that sight. But what he'd told Ellie was true; he wasn't ready to go back to that kind of brutal. He returned a wrench to its place in the toolbox rather than respond.

“Don also tells me you agree with him that whoever's making trouble over at the Blue Thorn is most likely young folk,” Theo went on.

Nash sat down opposite the man. “Seems like it, yes. Only it's too early to say for sure.”

“Kids need something good to do, or they find something not-so-good to do, don't you think?”

Nash tried to calculate polite ways out of this conversation, regretting that he'd sat down. “That's been my experience.”

Theo shifted on the stool. “Our boys need something good to do. Something new and interesting.”

The pastor was staring at the car. It wasn't hard to see where this was heading. Nash snapped the lid of the toolbox closed with what he hoped was finality. “There's always auto shop at the high school.”

Theo chuckled. “If you met Clive Tyler, you'd know why I might be lookin' for someone with a bit more...appeal.”

Nash remembered Mr. Smith, the bug-eyed, odd little man who'd been his own auto-shop teacher in high school. “Smitty” was as uncool as could be and no one Nash had ever wanted to spend his free time with at that age. “I guarantee you, a deputy has probably just as little appeal to boys that age.”

“Well, a sheriff like Don, maybe. But you're different. They'd take to you.”

They do take to me. And I take to them. And then they shoot me and I end up in Texas.
“Not so much, Pastor.”

“Don't sell yourself short. Our boys who play sports—they've got places to go and coaches looking after them. The boys who don't, well, I feel like they're falling through the cracks.”

“It happens.” How like a pastor to find and hit Nash's soft spot: kids who fell through the cracks. Kids who didn't fit the mold, who either didn't stand out or stood out in all the wrong ways.
A knack is not an obligation. I moved here to get away from all that.

“The thing is, Nash, I want to start an after-school program for them at the church. Someplace positive for them to go. Something constructive for them to do, even if only for one day a week. I need something that catches their interest. Something like that car over there.”

To Kennedy's credit and Nash's growing regret, the pastor was dead-on in his thinking. To a high school boy, was there anything more attractive—other than a high school girl—than a cool car? A year ago Nash would have jumped at this opportunity. Building relationships with the local teens was always a good idea in law enforcement. It was just that the past six months had trampled Nash's desire to do anything with teens, at least for now.

Nash wiped his hands down his face. “Look, Theo, your idea's a good one, but I don't think I'm your guy.”

“Why not? No one around here drives anything like this. It's a head turner of a vehicle. Are you afraid a foreign car won't—” Theo searched for the word, obviously not a man who spent time under the hood “—translate to the beat-up domestic cars they drive? Folks out here pretty much divide between Ford and Chevy and that's it.”

Nash laughed. It was the most absurd version of giving a guy the benefit of the doubt he'd heard in months. “No, I know how to work on American cars. Most of it ‘translates,' but I'm still not your guy.”

“Why? Don told me you worked with inner-city youth for years at your last post.”

Pastors must take a course in persistence at seminary. “Did he tell you why I left?”

“No.”

There was no way around it now. “I left because one of those inner-city youth I worked with put two bullets in me. I'm only here now because he missed what he was aiming at and hit my shoulder and my leg. So you can see why I'm not your guy.”

Theo looked down for a moment, and Nash rose off the stool to close the rest of his workbench drawers. That wasn't so bad. His gut didn't knot up at the words like it usually did.

“Actually, I still think you are the right guy,” Theo said. “We got a saying around these parts about getting back up on the horse that threw you.”

Nash sent him as dark a look as he dared. “That particular horse
shot
me. With intent to kill. So believe me when I tell you I'm in no hurry to mount up again, Pastor. There isn't an ‘it'll do you good' version of this.”

“You're what those boys need. Half the boys I want to reach have cars, and the other half are saving up for one. We have an old garage in the back of the church parking lot. It's been used for storage in the past but it's mostly empty now. I got Willie down at the garage to say he'd donate a junker for them to learn on, only Willie doesn't have the time to do the teaching. I was hoping you would help.”

“What those boys need is someone who will believe in them. And right now, that isn't me.”

“Don told me the sheriff's department would be in favor of anything that built connections with the local youth. He'd let you have the time to run the program and even kick in toward expenses if there are any.”

Pastor Theo had done his advance work. Where was the slow drag of big-city bureaucracy when you needed it? “Don should know this isn't something I can say yes to right now.”

“You don't have to agree this minute. Just say you'll think about it.” Theo held out a hand for a shake.

Nash was cornered. Don was on board, Theo was standing right in front of him and Nash would look like a jerk if he turned the pastor down cold for such a worthwhile program. The best he could hope for now was to say he'd consider it and start up a search for a better candidate. He tried not to grimace when he shook the pastor's hand. “I'll give it some thought. But I don't think I'll change my mind.”

“You'll forgive my saying so, but it'll be my prayer that you will. Remember, the place we least want to go is often where God brings the most fruit.”

Nash gave him an “I doubt that” look as he snapped off the garage light.

Theo sighed as they walked out of the garage. “I'm glad that's settled. Now all I need to do is figure out a class for the girls and we'll be all set.”

Nash's memory swung back to Ellie's description of her knitting. “I may have an idea for you there.”

* * *

Ellie held up her cell-phone screen to Gran as they sat on the porch swing. “Two messages—one from Katie and one from Derek.”

Gran squinted at the notifications. “What do they say?”

Ellie exhaled as she placed the phone facedown on the porch table. “I don't know. I haven't listened to them. I'm ticked that it took Katie this long to call, actually. I think this is Derek's seventh message.”

Gran's eyes held a gentle reproach. “You're not going to hear what either of them has to say?”

“What is there for them to say, Gran?” Ellie felt her chest pinch the way it did every time that painful image resurfaced. Derek and Katie had looked completely enthralled with each other.
Derek was supposed to feel that way about me
. “Part of me wants the apology he couldn't manage to choke out when I found them. Another part of me doesn't want to let him sweet talk me out of ending it.” She let her head fall against Gran's shoulder. “Or worse yet, not bother even trying.”

“I know it hurts bad, darlin'.” Gran's arms wrapped around her—something Ellie had ached for every moment since getting her heart broken. Since she'd arrived, she'd spent hours just sitting near Gran, trying to let the pain work itself out. On the outside, she'd been sitting still staring at the pastures, but inside she'd been churning through all kinds of emotions.

Gran gave a tender laugh. “And I know it hurts extra bad because you're not knitting.”

It was true. Ellie worked out most of her problems with yarn and needles. The repetitive stitches gave her time to think and process and even unwind. “Do you know what I had been knitting? A shawl for Katie to wear in the wedding. She was acting like she was my best friend. We picked out the yarn together.” Ellie felt her voice catch—it seemed as if she'd cried five times a day since then. “How could she do that to me, Gran? I tell you, right now I never want to see that shawl again.”

Gran shook her head. “I can't say I blame you. Seems a waste of good yarn, though. I say rip the shawl out, and enjoy doing it, but then save the yarn for something else.”

Rip it out. Undo it all. Disassemble the memory and the pain. Why not? Ellie looked up. “You know what? You're right. It's even in the back of my car.” She hadn't even realized until just this moment the project had made the trip with her, sitting in the backseat of her car since before she'd decided to leave town. Suddenly dismantling the beautiful, intricate shawl seemed like the most satisfying thing she could do. “Want to help me?”

In a matter of minutes Ellie was seated back on the swing with her knitting bag and the mound of delicate sky-blue yarn that in another dozen rows would have been Katie's wedding shawl.

“Oh, honey, it's lovely,” Gran cooed as she held up the nearly finished project.

It was. Ellie prided herself on the quality of her lacework—the shawl would have been stunning with the periwinkle dress she and Katie had picked out as her maid-of-honor gown. Now no one would see it. No one except Gran, that was. Ellie's heart both stung and glowed at her grandmother's praise. “Thanks for saying so. I wanted it to be special. Now it's anything but.”

Gran ran her hands across the stitches. Ellie liked that Gran took time to admire the piece. It struck her just how much she needed someone to know this had been in the works. The shawl needed a witness before its demise—if so strange a thought made any sense. It felt just right when, after a few minutes, Gran handed the cloud of soft blue lace back to her and said, “Let's take this apart so it can become something new someday.”

A perfect metaphor for her current life. Ellie meant it when she said, “I'm ready.” She pulled the long needle from the work with a flourish, feeling weight slide off her shoulders as the stitches slid free. Finding the loose strand of yarn, she handed the ball to Gran. “I'll rip, you wind.”

A tiny piece of her began to heal as she pulled the shawl apart row by row.
So you can become something new
, she told herself and the yarn. This was the wonder of Gran—she always knew just what to do to make someone feel better. Ellie couldn't yet knit with this yarn—couldn't yet create something new from such a painful memory—but she could rip out what needed to go away. She knew that tonight she would pack away the beautiful sky-blue yarn in one of Gran's trunks, and tomorrow she would start some other project. Whether or not she would listen to Katie's or Derek's phone messages would be a problem for another day.