Brake Failure

By Alison Brodie

Brake Failure is a romance with a kick-ass heroine and a hero in uniform. The story is set in one of the most fascinating periods of America's history: the months leading up to Y2K "meltdown."

"Is it too late to tell him you love him when you're looking down the barrel of his gun?"

Ruby Mortimer-Smyth is an English debutante, destined for Ladies Day at Ascot and taking tea at The Savoy. She knows the etiquette for every occasion and her soufflés never collapse.

She is in control of her life, tightly in control. Until fate dumps her down in ... Kansas.

Ruby believes that life is like a car; self-control keeps it on the road, passion sends it into a ditch. What she doesn't know is, she's on a collision course with Sheriff Hank Gephart.

Sheriff Hank Gephart can judge a person. Miss Mortimer-Smyth might talk like the Duchess of England but just under the surface there's something bubbling, ready to explode. She's reckless, and she's heading for brake failure. And he's not thinking about her car.

With the Millennium approaching, Ruby gets caught up in the Y2K hysteria. She joins a group of Survivalists, who give her a gun and advise her to stockpile basic essentials, such as gasoline and water-purifying tablets. So she bulk-buys Perrier, Gentleman's Relish and macaroons.

Ruby, far from home, is making Unsuitable Friends and "finding herself" for the first time. She falls in with a gang of Hells Angels and falls foul of the law. At every turn, she comes up hard against Sheriff Hank Gephart whose blue eyes seem to look deep into her soul. She desperately wants him but knows she can never have him.

Confused and angry at the emotions he arouses in her, she bursts from her emotional straightjacket.

As the clock strikes midnight of the new Millennium, she's on a freight train with three million dollars, a bottle of Wild Turkey and a smoking gun.
What happened to Miss Prim-and-Proper? And why did she shoot Mr Right?
______
Note: Alison Brodie wrote this story from first-hand experience. She lived in Kansas during this time and was stunned by the hysteria, unnerved that the US government was spending $150 billion preparing for Armageddon. As Lionel Shriver says in her novel, We Have to Talk About Kevin: "1999, a year widely mooted beforehand as the end of the world."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alison Brodie
• Release date: Jan 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370059942

Alison Brodie

Alison Brodie is a Scot, with French Huguenot ancestors on her mother’s side.Alison's novels have been published in hardback and paperback by Hodder & Stoughton (UK) and translated into German, Dutch and Scandanavian.Now she’s gone “indie”! Look out for Wild Life, The Double and Brake Failure - coming soon.Brake Failure will be published by Smashwords on 9 January. Pre-order now! 99c for five days.Reviews are already coming in:"Masterpiece of humor" -Midwest Book Review"5/5 Empowering" -San Francisco Book Review"5* OMG...I freakin' LOVED this book!" -Star Angels Reviews"5* Everyone needs to read this book... it's blooming brilliant" -The Reading Shed"5* Hilarious, Sexy" -Lauren Sapala, Writing Coach and Book Reviewer"5* A laugh-out-loud tale that will keep you flipping the pages" -Tome TenderAlison lives in Biarritz, France with her rescue mutt, Bayley. She is an animal rights activist and loves swimming in the ocean. She would be honoured to connect with her readers.

Book preview

one

Shady Acres Retirement Home, Kansas City

11.56 pm. New Year’s Eve, 1999

‘There’s a dead man at the door,’ Mrs Whitaker hissed, leaning over the desk.

Nurse Betty sighed, took a bite of donut, closed the magazine on How to get Slim for the Millennium and heaved herself to her feet. ‘Come on, Mrs Whitaker.’ She curved an arm around the old woman’s shoulders and began to guide her along the corridor. ‘Let’s get you back to the lounge. You’re missing all the fun.’

Mrs Whitaker twisted away. ‘Didn’t you hear me? There’s a dead man at the door!’

Nurse Betty stopped, mid-chew. The doors to the lounge were wide open. Garlands festooned the ceiling; coloured balloons drifted over the carpet, paper-cups lay scattered like there’d been a stampede. ‘Where is everyone?’ she demanded.

‘Where do you think?’

Nurse Betty pivoted, turned sharp right and marched into the entrance lobby. Beyond the glass doors, the residents stood in the snow, illuminated under the porch light. The doors slid open and she was outside, cold biting her cheeks, shoes slipping on ice as she descended the ramp. She paused when she saw the snail’s trail of blood in the snow. It came out of the blackness, from the direction of the railroad, and into the light - a red line disappearing into the huddle of residents who were shivering and whispering.

She pushed in to see what they were staring at. A big man in a sheriff’s uniform lay spread-eagled on the ground. The snow around him looked like Strawberry Slurpee. She couldn’t see his face because Mrs Peterson, who was eighty-two and wore leopard-print blouses, was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. As Nurse Betty pulled her off, she gasped.

Hank! Blood stained his neck, his uniform, his hands. She dropped to her knees and opened his jacket. He’d been shot. Above their heads, the sky exploded in bangs, fizzing and popping. A high, keening whistle screamed low over the rooftop.

The new Millennium.

She struggled to her feet to go call an ambulance. Mrs Peterson was again bending over the body. Nurse Betty had to shout over the noise of the fireworks. ‘Don’t give him mouth-to-mouth!’

‘I’m not!’ Mrs Peterson shouted back. ‘He’s delirious. I’m trying to hear what he’s saying.’

‘And?’

A huge explosion shook the air. Silver starbursts lit up the sky.

In the sudden lull, Mrs Peterson again lowered her head to the sheriff’s mouth and when she looked up her mascaraed eyes were big.

‘He’s saying: Don’t do it, Ruby. Don’t do it.’

London. Sixteen weeks earlier …

two

Swiss army knife (for an on-the-spot tracheotomy)

Eye-wash (flying grit)

Tweezers (splinters)

Card with Blood Group O (emergency transfusion)

Ruby knew she wasn’t a hypochondriac. If she were, she would not have had her blood group printed on a card she would have had it tattooed on her ankle like a Special Forces op. She continued rooting in her organiser handbag, finally found her mirror and held it up. No lipstick on her teeth. Mascara still intact. Her large hazel eyes were her best feature. Her worst feature was the electric shrubbery of used-tea-bag coloured hair that framed her face.

She smiled smugly at her reflection. Should she tell Claire immediately, or savour the news until the end of the evening?

A delicious choice.

She replaced her mirror and glanced about. The crystal-lit dining room was filled with the civilised sounds of tinkling glassware, subdued laughter and conversation. Women in diamonds. Men in dinner jackets. Refusing to be intimidated by all this opulence, Ruby gave a look of indifference, as if she not only belonged here, but was bored sick of the place.

Claire was late. Normally her stepsister was punctual, but not when she wanted to undermine the enemy - and Ruby was the enemy. They’d been at war since they became sisters at the age of eight. Then, it had been a blitzkrieg of hair-pulling and shin-kicking; but now they were adults it was more stealth and guerrilla tactics. That was why Claire had insisted on meeting at The Dorchester: to make Ruby feel inferior.

But this tactic wasn’t going to work. Because, tonight, Ruby was going to drop a bomb!

Claire appeared, framed between the looped-back curtains at the entrance to the dining room. She was a picture of European elegance, in a pink lambs-wool suit, her wrists alive with jewellery, her fine pale hair sculpted to her head like a helmet. ‘Jean-Luc!’ she cried, proffering her cheek to the maître d’ while squeezing his hands as if he’d just survived major surgery.

As Ruby watched, she assessed the vast gulf that had grown between her and her stepsister:

-Claire lives in an elegant seventeenth-century apartment in Grand Place, Brussels.

-I live in a basement in Crouch End.

-Claire hosts glittering functions for minor royalty and major artists.

-I feed Doris the bag lady every Friday with a Big Mac with extra, extra ketchup.

-Claire’s husband writes French sonnets, such as: La Belle Rose.

-My soon-to-be-husband writes: Take a Jump on Fleas.

-Claire sings soprano and was Queen of the Night in The Magic Flute.

-I’ve spent ten months organising the Particle Physics Department of Imperial College of Science and Technology. I’ve tracked down hundreds of irreplaceable files - from lockers, from the men’s lavatory in Spectroscopy and even from Left Luggage at Paddington Station. Files graffitied in Greek, tea-stained and torn about; looking less like ground-breaking physics of world-shattering importance but more like the shredded bedding of a hibernating hamster. I know these documents should be shared with the global science community but I don’t care. I’ve locked the cabinet and hidden the key.

Claire was with someone. Who would it be this time? An Icelandic sculptress from the cover of Time magazine? Or a Catalonian artist with links to the Spanish Royal Family?

Ruby also had a show-off friend with her. She glanced at Sandra, who sat beside her on the banquette staring vacantly into space. Dr Sandra Brown was twenty-seven with beautiful blue eyes behind crooked wire-rimmed glasses and, although voluble on electron separation, she was incapable of girly chit-chat. The only thing Ruby knew about her friend was that, for some reason, she was using the biggest thing in the universe to find the smallest thing in the universe.

Claire released the maître d’ and pivoted. ‘Ma petite!’ She waved as if Ruby were far out to sea. She always had to do something that stopped a room talking. Leading the maître d’ like a favoured slave, she sailed over, her head tilted to one side as she studied Ruby. ‘Why do you insist on having that hair?’ she said irritably.

‘Because I don’t want to be bald?’

Claire blinked, astonished at the sarcasm. ‘You know very well what I mean.’ She leant forward and gave Ruby two air kisses. ‘You need pruning.’ She laughed - after all she was paying the bill and could be as rude as she wanted. Ceremonially installed, she flashed a smile across the table at Ruby.

‘May I introduce Olga Milyutin,’ she announced, presenting her companion beside her. ‘She’s just won the Nobel prize for literature.’

Let the battle begin.

Ruby presented her companion. ‘This is Doctor Sandra Brown. She’s been giving lectures at the Albert Hall.’

‘The Albert Hall!’ Claire was visibly impressed. ‘What sort of doctor?’ The question was directed at Ruby - their show-off friends were not here to speak but to be paraded. They used to do the same sort of thing with their dolls.

‘She’s a physicist.’

‘Really?’ Physicists were way beyond Claire’s sphere and she was intrigued. ‘What field does she specialise in?’

Ruby, who wasn’t even going to try to pronounce it, turned to Sandra for the answer. With two pairs of eyes targeting her, Sandra suddenly looked as if she couldn’t pronounce it either. ‘Einspired isosinglet quark and detecting teraelectronvolts,’ she answered. Faced with a - seemingly - fascinated audience, she perked up. ‘We’re collaborating at CERN to build The Hadron Collider: a particle accelerator that will find the Higgs boson and reveal the origin of the universe. Basically, we aim to collide two beams of protons at ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine percent of the speed of-.’

‘How fascinating.’ Claire was waving at a waiter like a Titanic survivor waving at a lifeboat. But Sandra was just getting started.

‘Dr Eduardo Santos is heading the Imperial College team. He’s Brazilian. You’ve heard of the Big Bang?’

Claire’s eyes shot wide. ‘He sounds a veritable stud!’

Sandra looked bewildered - a NASA computer trying to process a Tesco loyalty card - prompting Ruby to protest. ‘This is serious, Claire.’

‘Absolutely!’

Claire would always mock what she couldn’t understand. As cultural doyenne of Brussels, her forté was The Arts. She adored Aïda but complained that Madame Butterfly was hackneyed from overuse - although, when her amateur group was asked to perform it, she stampeded her way into the lead role. Ruby had flown over for the opening night, weeping slow tears when Claire sang ‘Un bel di vedremo’. Her stepsister’s voice had been so pure, so heart-breaking that Ruby couldn’t believe the hard-boiled-Claire and the sweet and despairing Cio-Cio-San were one and the same person.

Aware that their Russian guest was being left out, Ruby leant forward with a friendly smile. ‘Congratulations on winning-’

‘She can’t speak English.’ Claire was re-arranging the table’s floral centrepiece with nimble authoritative fingers, picking out a baby fern and crushing it into a ball.

‘What sort of thing does she write?’

Claire grimaced. ‘It’s all naked trees, snow, and more snow.’ She eyed their two guests with disfavour. ‘Marvellous. One wants to bore the world, the other one wants to blow it up.’

Ruby smothered a laugh. Right from the start, Ruby had wanted to be friends with Claire. If only Claire had given her the chance, she would have followed her round like an adoring puppy. But it was too late now. There had been too many bruised shins, too many dolls strewn across the battlefield.

The waiter arrived and everyone gave their orders, all except Claire, who thrust the menu at him. ‘Jean-Luc knows what I want.’

Yes, Claire always knew what she wanted, and got it - with one exception. At the age of eighteen, she decided that Paris was where she truly belonged. She auditioned at the Conservatoire de Paris, fully expecting to be welcomed with open arms and a fanfare of trumpets. When she was rejected, the shock was so great she sat in a daze at a pavement café on the avenue Jean Jaurès, unaware of the impeccably dressed gentleman attempting to engage her in conversation. Slowly her antennae for all things intellectual started twitching.

The gentleman was Arnaud van de Ghellinck, the Belgian junior minister for culture. So, on the rebound from her only love (Paris), Claire married Arnaud and settled in Brussels. Madame van de Ghellinck - she would toss her name into conversation like a stun grenade.

She took a sip of Chablis. ‘Last week the Vienna Chamber Orchestra came to supper. The Ambassador said to me: Madame van de Ghellinck, you are too kind. Naturally, it was all very restrained - unlike the American Embassy with their bacchanalian blow-outs. I served Petits Chaussons au Roequefort and Cromesquis Crustaces. They’re so easy to eat.’

Easy to eat, not so easy to say.

Ruby studied her stepsister over the rim of her glass. Soon I will have your confidence, she thought. Soon, I will have your life.

Unaware that her Russian guest was knocking back the vodka, Claire continued working on the floral centrepiece. ‘One week to the wedding.’ She glanced up at Ruby, her eyebrows peaked into questions marks. ‘You must be a bag of nerves, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Oh, gosh, no!’

This was a lie. Ruby had a dread of attracting attention. In contrast, Claire would get up in front of an audience of thousands as if she were doing them a favour. Claire was supremely self-possessed, assured that life would give her what she wanted or, if not exactly what she wanted, then something better.

Ruby was distrustful of life. A chest rash and neck pain (meningitis) would have her hurrying to Doctor Strachan; a Scotsman who, quite frankly, had the tenderness of a Third World dictator. Yesterday, he’d spoken to her most severely, his finger-tip hitting his desk as if hammering each word into the wood, his hairy eyebrows converging like fighting rodents.

‘I repeat, Miss Thompson: You are no’ Afro-Caribbean. Therefur, ye cannae have Sickle Cell Anaemia, even if yur landlady’s window cleaner did work behind a bar in Jamaica fur three weeks.’ His expression had been so severe she had been too frightened to ask if he was absolutely sure.

‘And how is Edward?’ Claire snapped the stem of a pink tulip. ‘Is he still in cat litter?’

Ruby paused, feeling the glorious sensation of a warm balloon expanding in her chest. ‘He has a new account … Louis Treize.’

Claire’s head shot up. ‘Louis Treize?’ Realising she had shown awed astonishment, she pretended to lose interest. Sliding the tulip in among the flowers, she began to sing softly: O zittre nicht … She stopped as if on a sudden thought, ‘Did you know? I was Queen of the Night in The Magic Flute. The critics couldn’t believe I wasn’t a professional.’ Interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone, she scooped it out of her bag.

‘Hello? … Did I? … I shall be utterly charming, je promets.’ She passed the phone to Ruby. ‘My mother wants to speak to you.’

She’s MY mother, too! Ruby took the phone. ‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Hello darling. Are you two behaving yourselves?’

Ruby laughed. ‘Just about.’

Ruby recalled the first time she’d called Vanessa mummy. She’d been sitting in the headmistress’s office, arms folded tight, kicking the desk. ‘Wait until your stepmother gets here!’ Mrs Fotherington threatened. Minutes later, Vanessa’s voice was heard out in the corridor. ‘Ruby needs time, Mrs Fotherington. I need time. Give her one more chance.’ Vanessa entered the office alone and closed the door; her eyes anxious, her mouth trembling into a smile. Ruby watched her for a moment then stood up and slipped her hand into hers. ‘I’m sorry … mummy,’ she’d whispered.

Vanessa chuckled. ‘I remember a time when you two girls fought like demons. Now look at you: having dinner together. I’m so thrilled.’

‘Me, too.’

‘Everything is organised for your Big Day. And your Grandfather promises to behave himself.’

In adopting Ruby, Vanessa had also adopted Ruby’s maternal grandfather - an anarchist and man of the soil, who could fix anything that leaked and who seemed to attract middle-aged, middle-class ladies like shoppers to a Harrods sale.

‘He’s very excited about this Millennium Bug.’ Vanessa chuckled. ‘He has Mrs Symmonds-Elliott stockpiling corned beef in her gazebo and-’

‘What actually is this bug?’ Ruby interrupted. ‘I heard-’

‘Don’t you dare start worrying. It’s nothing. Anyway, the reason I’m phoning is to say the Audrey/Brendas will be there any minute. Claire forgot her chequebook and since they’re in the area they volunteered to drop it off. Can you make sure she’s nice to them? I know how they twitter, but they’re just so overwhelmed to be in her presence.’ Vanessa’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I think they’re hoping some of Claire’s glamour will rub off on them.’

Glamour. Ruby did not feel the usual dart of jealousy. On the contrary; in less than two months, her life was going to be far more glamorous than Claire’s.

‘They’re here,’ she announced, spotting the Audrey/Brendas grinning outside the window. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow, Mum. There’s something I have to tell you.’

The three women bustled across the restaurant, sank down on the banquette in a nest of carrier bags and smiled winningly across the table at Claire. ‘A little birdie’s been telling us what a bizzy bee you’ve been,’ one of them began brightly.

Claire, who was still re-arranging the floral centrepiece, took a long moment to look up and bring the woman into focus. Another moment ticked by, and then she said: ‘What?’

‘Vanessa told us you sang Music of the Night.’

Claire glared at the woman as if they’d just exchanged insults. ‘I was Queen of the Night.’

Another Audrey/Brenda giggled. ‘I bet you were!’ She wriggled shyly. ‘I’m a bit of a soprano in the shower.’

Claire winced. ‘Tell me,’ she said pleasantly, ‘have you heard of coloratura?’

This was a vocal lexicon of trills, runs and staccati that Claire was especially gifted in; but Ruby had an awful feeling these women didn’t know that. The Audrey/Brenda turned to her friend for the answer, ‘You did your kitchen ceiling in that, didn’t you, Brenda?’

Claire snorted a laugh; and the women blushed, knowing they had somehow embarrassed themselves. Sharing their embarrassment, Ruby swiftly offered them wine, but they refused and, leaving the cheque-book on the table, hurried out.

Ruby rounded on Claire. ‘Why were you so horrid to them?’

‘Because they irritate me to distraction. How can they possibly believe they can become acquainted with me? I don’t even invite Helga Guttenberg to my soirées and she’s had two seminal novels published.’ Claire gave the floral centrepiece a final, decisive tweak and sat back to admire her handiwork. ‘That will be you in two years: a suburban English housewife with the sophistication of a door mat.’

Ruby shouted a laugh. She didn’t care that everyone stopped eating to stare at her. Confidence was coming at her in tidal waves. She even began to re-arrange the flowers that Claire had so artfully worked on.

‘What are you doing?’ Claire kicked Ruby’s shin. ‘I had that perfectly symmetrical. Leave it alone.’

‘No.’

‘You’re acting positively demented!’

‘Am I?’ Ruby stuck a petunia behind her ear. Olga, their Russian Nobel prize-winner, who hadn’t smiled all evening, let out a roar of laughter.

Claire shot her guest a furious look before turning back to Ruby, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘I am curious, Ruby. You still haven’t told me why you wanted this meeting.’

Time to drop the bomb.

‘Ah, yes.’ Ruby sipped her Chablis, savouring the moment. ‘I thought you should know. I am going to live in … Paris.’

three

Hank was six-two with a lean hard-muscled body, but in thirty seconds he was gonna be as fragile as a Barbie doll. The crowd waited silent under the scorching Kansas sun. They wanted to see him win, they wanted to see him ground to pulp. He balanced on the corral fence and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

The loudspeaker announced him: ‘In the third round we have Hank Gephart. He’s riding Hammer - a bull that kicks high and spins fast.’

The bull burst into the pen, coming up hard at the gate, horns crashing the bars in fury. As Hank dropped onto the broad back, the animal bellowed, spit foaming at its mouth. This was the second time in four years Hank had ridden Hammer, a Charolais-cross, built like a rock but agile. The animal was a legend with PBRs because nobody had ever stayed on him more than five seconds.

Hank took a firm grip on the rope, feeling the hard spine beneath him. The gate opened and the bull thundered out into the arena in an explosion of grit and dust. Hank had to stay on for eight seconds to win. The bull dove forward and kicked out its hind legs. Hank clung on to the rope with his right hand, his left hand counter-balancing each violent move, anticipating every buck and jerk. Sweat blinded him, dust clogged his throat. He counted the seconds: one, two, three … A sudden swerve threw him into the air. He landed hard, rolling away from the giant hooves inches from his face. Then he was up, scrabbling to get across the arena to safety. The bull came at him. There was a flash of colour. The clowns were diverting the animal, and Hank ran low and vaulted the fence.

The crowd applauded half-heartedly. Hank acknowledged them with a wave of his Stetson. He was thirty-seven, too old for this game. As he headed out of the arena, his fellow teamsters slapped him on the back good-naturedly, their hands like planks of wood. He came out of the shade and into bright sunshine and the smell of French fries and cigarettes. He’d have an ice-cold beer, go home, take an Advil and soak his bones in the tub. Then he saw Roxanne. She stood at the bar with a guy twice her age. Even from this distance, Hank could tell he was bad company, a prison tattoo on his forearm saying he didn’t play by the rules.

Hank was too tired to confront the guy and go through all the macho leave-her-alone crap. He sighed, knowing he’d have to forget his beer.

‘Roxanne,’ he called across. ‘Let’s roll.’

Pretending not to hear, she pushed her beer into the crowd of bottles on the bar. Seemed she wasn’t going to budge. Since ma and pa died, Hank had been a surrogate father to his two brothers and one sister. The boys had never been trouble, but once a girl hit thirteen, she was one big headache. And Roxanne wasn’t getting any easier. She was now sixteen but made herself up to look thirty. Every time he tried talking sense into her, she’d get antsy; treat him like he was the enemy.

He remembered a time when she was happy with a puppy or a doll. Now she was a woman in skin-tight jeans with long flowing red hair - a beacon to any hot-blooded male. And that was what was worrying Hank right now: the sleaze-ball with the decorated arm hunkering over her like a vulture shielding its kill. Reluctantly Hank changed course. Roxanne was going to accuse him of being a control freak all the way home but she’d never had to go to the morgue and see a young girl’s broken body because of some bad-ass fucker like this guy.

‘Hey, buddy.’ Hank saw ZZ Top printed across the guy’s T-shirt, saw the cut upper-lip, the old blood purple and cracked. ‘She’s only sixteen.’

The guy sneered. ‘So? She’s old enough to play.’

A hardness was getting into Hank’s back, moving up his spine, and it had nothing to do with bull-riding. He turned to his sister. ‘Roxanne, we’re leaving.’

‘I don’t wanna.’

He held her gaze, his look telling her he didn’t want this bullshit. She was about to capitulate but the guy muscled in, chin jutted. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’m her brother. And she’s going home’

‘You sound like a fuckin’ cop.’

Hank stayed silent. You didn’t broadcast something like that to someone like him. He turned to Roxanne. ‘Let’s go.’

The man planted a heavy hand on Hank’s shoulder: ‘Leave her be.’

Hank stared at the guy, his eyes promising all the pain he would do to him.

Doubt flickered over the guy’s face then he flung his hand away like Hank was dirt and swung back to the bar. ‘Asshole.’

Hank took Roxanne by the elbow and marched her to the truck. ‘We were just talking,’ she whined. Hank ached for the little girl who used to run down the path every day to greet him, waving a drawing of him: a stick figure in a Stetson hat riding a flying pig with horns. He sighed. That little girl was gone, forever.

They reached the truck. Once, the bodywork had been red before the sun bleached it to pink. Hank lowered the tailgate, waited for Rex to crawl out from the shade of the cottonwood tree then lifted him up and in. ‘Good boy.’ Hank jammed the water bowl inside a coil of rope. Rex was a greyhound, too old to be raced, but Hank had gotten to him before he’d been tied in a sack and dumped in the reservoir.

‘I’m sick of you treating me like a kid,’ Roxanne bleated from the front seat. ‘There was nothing wrong with the guy. We were talking about ice-cream for Christ’s sake!’

Hank stared at her narrow back; saw how the bracelets caught the sunlight as the slim arms thrashed the air in a one-sided argument. He shut the tailgate, raised his Stetson to wipe the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He just wished some guy - a doctor, a teacher, even a county brownie - would marry her and take her off his hands.

For him, marriage was definitely off the books. He’d been a father-figure for most of his adult life and