Free Highway to Hell by Rosemary Clement-Moore Page A

had more bite. It was like she'd decided she didn't deserve any friends, and her prickly demeanor kept everyone distant. I knew her history, and her need for atonement, so I was immune, but I wondered what things were like for her at Georgetown. Lonely, I'd bet.
    The girl on the phone outside was more like the old Lisa. I wondered which came first: Had Zeke slipped through her guard because she'd decided to be “normal” (for Lisa, anyway)? Or was she acting more like old Lisa because she'd decided to let herself like Zeke?
    Since I couldn't hear her conversation clearly enough to eavesdrop, I flung back the covers and went to the bathroom to wash up. Lisa came in while I was brushing my teeth, and she tossed her phone on the bed.
    “How is Zeke?” I asked, mouth full of foam.
    “Fine.” She pulled the rubber band out of her hair and combed through it with her fingers. “His grandmother wants to meet us. That should be interesting.”
    I paused, toothbrush clamped between my molars. “Really? Why?”
    “She's a pistol. After Granddaddy Velasquez died, she ran the ranch alone for fifty years, and still hasn't completely given up control of it.”
    “Good for her.” I spit and rinsed. Eyeing my humidity-frizzed hair, I gave up and brushed it into a headband. “Want to get some breakfast?”
    “You go.” She grabbed clean clothes and headed to the shower. “I'm not sure I can handle another round of the chupacabra follies just yet.”
    I picked up the room key and my cell phone. “Suit yourself.”
    “I usually do.”
    Her skepticism didn't seem to have let up any overnight. I wondered if that was Zeke's influence, too. I thought about telling her about my dream, but figured it could wait until I came back. The Lisa follies were also hard to handle, at least on an empty stomach.

    The Duck Inn was more crowded than I expected on a Sunday morning. The neon signs were dark and the jukebox was quiet. Sunlight fell on Formica, and coffee cups had replaced beer bottles, but other than that, the men who hunched over propped elbows or sprawled with their denim-clad legs out and their boots crossed at the ankles looked pretty much the same.
    I walked to the bar, my flip-flops slapping the hardwood floor. There was a guy behind it today, and as he turned, my step halted. He was the man who'd told Dave we'd be fine on the walk to the room.
    “Where's Teresa?” I said to cover my surprise.
    He set a mug in front of me and filled it with steaming coffee. “Not even she can be here twenty-four-seven. I'm Hector.” His thin, craggy face creased with a friendly smile. “What can I get for you, little missy?”
    He was the only one who said that with any irony, and I liked him for it. With an exaggerated sigh, I reached for the cream. “Where to start?”
    “Why not start with some breakfast, and go from there.”
    “In that case, I'll have one of those
taquito
things.”
    “You got it.”
    The coffee was good, strong enough to take the polish off a spoon. Hector put in my order, then returned to wiping the scarred wooden bar. “You're not having much of a spring break, Miss Maggie.”
    “Not what I'd planned, no.” I didn't question how he knew my name. I would bet money that most of the town knew my bra size.
    He flipped his towel onto his shoulder. “But sometimes things happen for a reason.”
    My brows made an involuntary climb toward my hairline. My gran said that all the time. “What do you mean?”
    With a shrug, he straightened the napkin holder. “Just that we don't know the big plan. Maybe this is where you're meant to be.”
    “You sound like my Granny Quinn.”
    “She must know what she's talking about.” He grinned.
    I narrowed my eyes, tilting my head to look at him from an angle. “What did you mean last night when you told Dave we'd be safe on the way back to our room?”
    He shrugged. “Just that it's a short walk.”
    “Fine.” I let him be mysterious, for now. Maybe he knew about the