Free Potter Springs by Britta Coleman Page A

street, where they passed a Dairy Queen, a tire shop and an orange building with
B-B-Q
painted in bold black letters.
    They veered left again, to a neighborhood with pastel houses with large front porches. Decades-old columns strained against
     pitched roofs like strongman Samson from the Bible. Some yards had dogs tied on long metal chains, and too many cars parked
     out front. Windows looked like mismatched little girls in various shades of curtains. Not the elegant wood blinds of their
     Houston apartment, in muted tones of bone and alabaster.
    Katy Thompson, he knew, would hate this neighborhood.
    On their new street, Mesquite, they turned right. About halfway down, trucks, minivans and people crowded around a yellow
     house with green trim and a bright red door. The garage yawned open, empty save for folding chairs and coolers beside tables
     with checked cloths.
    Mark slowed even more and they pulled into the driveway, narrow and cracked as an old woman’s face. He killed the engine,
     wondering what his bride thought of this strange threshold. “Ready?”
    “Yes.”
    She looked terrified.
    Katy Thompson would despise this house. Dragonlady, no doubt, would sneer at these people.
    But would her daughter?

CHAPTER 10

potter springs
    A manda had never seen a religious authority’s naked legs before. Not counting Mark’s anyway.
    Ervin Plumley’s legs looked like chicken limbs fresh out of the plastic bag. Pinkish white and plucked, with saggy skin around
     the joints.
    Over a barrel-shaped torso, he wore a monogrammed knit shirt tucked into coach’s shorts. The emblem on his shirt read LAKEVIEW COMMUNITY CHURCH. Sweat stains soaked through the underarms in spite of the Panhandle’s cooler temperature. What he lacked in appearances,
     he made up for in enthusiasm.
    “Howdy… howdy… hi!” he shouted up to the U-Haul. Pearly teeth shone through his beard as he waved a tanned forearm.
    Several women started up from folding lawn chairs in a circle on the driveway. A brunette smoothed her skirt over slender
     hips. An elderly grandmother type scuttled to a folding table and adjusted some serving pieces. One lady pulled a compact
     from her purse and checked her lipstick.
    Amanda realized they looked as nervous as she felt, and found strength enough to unbuckle her seat belt. She stepped down
     to the cracked driveway and leaned in to get Mr. Chesters in his traveling cage, covered with a towel to keep him from going
     ballistic. A bewildered mewl sounded from inside. The cat’s weight shifted, tilting the carrier in her hand.
    Mark came around the truck and took the box from her. “We can do this.”
    “I know. I’m okay.” She wasn’t okay, but he tried so hard. He’d handled everything from the planning to the packing, taking
     care of her along the way. Pulled all this together, not just for himself, but for her too. They both wanted this move to
     work, and she would do her best to see that it did. After all, she’d signed on for the long haul. For better or for worse.
    Looking at her new life, at a group of complete strangers, she couldn’t tell which end of that spectrum she faced.
    “You’ll see,” Mark whispered. “It’ll be fine. Hang in there.” His lips came soft against her hair. He faced the small gathering.
     “Well, we made it!” After setting the case down, he threw his arms wide. The triumphant traveler.
    A spattering of applause ran through the group, a few men in cutoffs and Wranglers came up and clapped Mark on the back.
    Amanda freed Mr. Chesters, coaxing his shaking form from the shadows near the back of the cage. She wished, for an instant,
     she could trade places with him and hide in a small, dark place.
    “Quite a rig you got there.” A tall man with a wide Western belt smacked the side of the U-Haul. “What kind of mileage she
     get?”
    “Eight to ten.”
    The man whistled through his teeth, low and long. “At least it’s a one-way trip,” he reasoned. “I’m