Page 49 of Mail Order Bride: A Psychological Thriller

I look at her, cocking my head to the side in confusion. “It's nothing, really,” she tells me.

“It ain't nothing,” her father says. “He starts comin' around and sure enough, so does trouble. Funny coincidence, that.”

I'm staring at Gina with my brows raised.

With a huff, she says, “The cops were asking about you.”

“About me? What about me?”

“It's really not a big deal,” she says, shooting a look at her father. “They just wanted to talk to you about Chad Hensley.”

“Who's Chad Hensley?” I know who Chad Hensley is, but if there were ever a time for questions, this is it.

“The guy from the dance,” she says. “The guy I slapped.”

I watch as she crosses the room. “But I told them you'd left town.”

Gina's father breaks into a smile, revealing a set of yellowish, crooked teeth. A chill runs up my spine, and I have to take a step back to keep from bolting out the door.

“You have no business with my daughter,” he says. “You don't have a pot to piss in, boy, and now you're wanted by the law.”

“I think it's time I hit the road,” I say, knowing a sign when I see it. My welcome has run out.

“Wait!” Gina cries. “I'm coming with you.”

I shake my head. “I don't think that's such a good idea,” I tell her. “Your father needs you here.”

Gina's eyes, which looked like warm pools of melted chocolate, turn to steel. “Mona will stay with him,” she tells me, her brow furrowed with confusion.

In a few quick strides, she's embracing me, and her father is staring at me, shotgun in hand.

“If you love me, you'll let me come,” she says.

I want to tell her I don't even know her; that I just wanted to marry her. But that was before I realized she might be more trouble than she's worth. Not to mention the shotgun—a liability I can't afford.

But I don't say any of this. I look into her eyes and I can see the fear and uncertainty there. I feel like an ass. She senses my uncertainty, and she takes my silence as a sign of weakness. I'm not sure what just happened, but I'm not good at backing down, and I'm not used to being on the defensive. I'm used to making my own moves.

She glares at me with a fiery determination in her eyes and says, “I'm going to Texas with you,” she says. “So you might as well let me.”

I glance over at her father, and then I look back at her. He is watching me intently, his gun at his side. I will never forget the look in his eyes.

“What are you going to do in Texas?” I ask, trying to reason with her.

“Be with you,” she says, as though it's the most obvious answer that has ever been given.

“I'm aware of that. But like I said, something's come up—an emergency—and I'm going to be tied up for a little bit. How about—”

“I don't care,” she says, cutting me off. “Whatever it is, we'll figure it out.”

I nod. “Okay then, go pack a bag and let me talk with your father.”