Page 10 of Texas (Route 69 #1)

Ten

K ristin’s clearing the breakfast plates, and I see the tension in her shoulders.

It’s subtle. Just a little tightness in the way she stacks the dishes, or the way her fingers grip the edge of the plate.

She’s quiet, focused, a robe tied loose at the waist, a soft tank top clinging to her skin underneath and I take a second just to watch her.

She moves like someone used to being alone, and not only alone in the room, but alone in the fight. I know that rhythm too well.

I’m sitting at the table, in my jeans, T-shirt, with my coffee cooling in my hand.

Maybe I should be up helping her, but I don’t want to break the moment.

She’s humming under her breath, something low and wordless.

Maybe jazz. Maybe grief. I can’t tell. “Thank you for breakfast,” I say, finally breaking the silence.

She glances over her shoulder and smiles. “Trust me. It’s my pleasure.”

“That so?” I say with a smile. Setting the last plate in the sink, Kristin wipes her hands on a towel. She leans back against the counter, arms crossed, the soft cotton of her tank pulling across her chest.

She’s not trying to be sexy, but Jesus, she doesn’t have to try. “I’ve got a couple of patients coming this morning,” she says. “Here. Not the clinic.”

That makes me raise a brow. “You running a black market out of your kitchen?”

Shaking her head, she gives me a look. “No. But there are women in town who can’t be seen walking into a clinic,” she says. “Not when their husbands are on the city council or their pastor’s wife is their neighbor. So they come here. Quiet. Safe. No questions.”

I realize this is a town runs on secrets, and Kristin’s the woman who dares to turn on a light instead of locking the door. The kind of courage doesn’t get parades but instead gets warnings and whispers and threats delivered with a smile.

I nod. “That’s why your business card has your home address?”

Kristin sighs. “It’s not official. It’s just… necessary.”

Sipping my coffee, I think about that. About the kind of woman who opens her home to the ones hiding in plain sight. “You’re braver than you look.”

She smiles, but there’s a sharpness behind it. “You’d be surprised what I’ve learned to hide.”

For reasons I don’t want to explore, I want to ask more. I want to pull the layers back and see what’s underneath, but I don’t press. Not now, probably not ever.

“I’ve got clinic rounds later,” she says. “I’ll be gone by three. You’re welcome to stay in the guesthouse if you want. Or you can ride. There’s beautiful scenery along the road to town or even further to Austin.”

Looking down at my coffee, I notice it’s only lukewarm. “Think I’ll take the bike into town. See what kind of place this is.”

Kristin pushes off the counter and walks to me, slow and barefoot. She leans down and kisses me. Her hand brushes the side of my neck, fingers curling into my short hair. When she pulls back, her eyes are darker. “Don’t get into trouble.”

“Me?” I wink. “No promises.”

Following me to the back door, she holds it open, leaning against it. “You’ll be back tonight?” she asks.

I nod. “I’ll leave my saddlebags.”

Raising an eyebrow, she smiles. “That your version of commitment?”

“Closest I’ve got.”

Kristin nods like she understands, and I kiss her. When I pull away, I see the way her eyes study my face. “What’s your phone number?” she says after a beat. I rattle it off. “Thank you. Maybe I’ll text you this afternoon. See how you’re getting on.”

With only a nod, I step into the early morning Texas heat and moments later I mount the Harley. The seat’s warm from the sun. I slide on my aviators, fire her up, and let the rumble settle into my bones. Slowly, I roll down the long driveway, the house shrinking in the rearview. I don’t look back.

I ride.

The road out of Kristin’s place is narrow and winding, flanked by wildflowers and the occasional stretch of pasture.

The sun’s already high in a hazy blue sky.

The wind cuts through the heat, but it doesn’t cool me.

It makes me feel alive. There’s something about riding solo in the Texas countryside that makes my blood hum.

The Harley purrs between my legs, and I shift my weight into the next curve, the tires hugging the road.

Fifteen minutes later, I crest a hill and see the sign.

“WELCOME TO DOGWOOD BLUFF Est. 1888 Where Heritage Meets Heart.”

I snort under my breath. Cute. Sounds like a place that makes a big deal about its Founders’ Day parade.

Rolling through, I see the town itself is tidy.

Maybe a little too tidy. Red brick buildings line the main drag, each with painted signage and flower boxes out front.

There’s a diner with a striped awning, a hardware store with hand-painted hours on the door, and a beauty salon with faded photos in the window.

The courthouse sits at the center, white stone and proud, with a clock tower that probably chimes every hour on the hour.

People look as I pass them. Some wave. Some stare.

One guy in a ballcap gives me a nod like he’s not sure whether to be curious or suspicious.

I give him nothing back. Just keep moving.

I coast down Main Street and catch sight of a storefront that makes me hit the brakes.

“DOG-EARED & DUSTY Used Books – Rare Finds – Coffee in the Back.”

The windows are cluttered with books and hand-written signs.

A little bell dangles from the door handle, and it’s the kind of place I can’t pass up.

I park out front, killing the engine and swing my leg over, stretch my back, and push the door open.

The bell jingles. Inside, it’s cool and dim, the air thick with the scent of old paper, cedar, and something earthy.

Maybe pipe tobacco. The shelves are tall and uneven, packed tight with books in every direction.

Some are stacked on the floor, a few lean in precarious towers against the walls, and there’s a cat sleeping on a cushion in the sun, orange and fat, tail twitching every now and then like it’s dreaming of mice.

Behind the counter, an older man looks up from a paperback.

He’s got an impressive beard and glasses that sit low on his nose.

His plaid shirt is rolled at the sleeves, and there’s a coffee mug near his elbow.

“Well now,” he says, voice warm and rough.

“Don’t get many riders in here unless they’re lost or literate. ”

I grin. “What if I’m both?”

With a chuckle, he sets his book down. “Name’s Hank Martin. This place is mine. Been here since the eighties.”

“Reggie Holliday,” I say, stepping deeper into the store. “Nice setup.”

“Appreciate that. You lookin’ for anything in particular?”

“Something I can finish in a night. Two max. I don’t carry much.”

He nods like that makes perfect sense. “You travelin’ light.”

“Always.”

He gestures toward a shelf near the front. “Try that one. That’s where I keep the good ones,” he says. “Women with grit. Men who die badly. You know. The classics.”

I chuckle. “My kind of shelf.”

Starting to thumb through the titles, there’s a battered copy of Shane and a few old westerns with pulp covers.

Continuing to browse, one book catches my eye.

Faded red spine, a woman on the cover in a trench coat with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a pistol in her hand.

I slide it off the shelf and flip through the pages.

The spine cracks like it hasn’t been opened in a decade and is exactly what I’m looking for.

Hank leans on the counter, watching me. “You just passin’ through?”

I hesitate for a beat, realizing I’m not sure of my answer, but then I recover. “For the most part.”

He nods. “Most folks who pass through don’t stop at the bookstore.”

“I’m not most folks.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, only studies me. “You staying anywhere particular?”

That makes me raise an eyebrow. “I am,” I pause, not sure what all to offer up, but then figure he looks like a man I can be honest with. “Lennox guest house.”

“You don’t say.”

“She’s a friend.”

Hank’s eyes narrow. “You be careful with that. She’s the kind of woman this town doesn’t know what to do with. Too smart. Too principled. Too willing to help a certain kind of people.”

“Like who?”

“Like women who say no.”

The words make my skin tingle and not in a good way. “I like her,” I say, voice flat.

“I figured you did,” he says, picking up his mug, sips, grimaces. “But I’ll warn you, Will Cleveland’s not a man who lets go easy. His daddy built this place, and Will thinks he inherited the keys to every door. Including hers.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be afraid of what he can make other people do.” I see his point. That’s the real danger. Not the punch you see coming but the one someone else throws on command. Men like Will don’t need to lift a finger. They just tilt their head, and things start to break.

I tuck the book under my arm. “Do you always give advice to strangers?”

“Generally, no,” he answers. “But I would if they look like they might stick around long enough to matter.”

“You think I’m staying?” I ask with a small smile.

With a shrug, he points at the paperback I hold. “Doesn’t matter what I think.” I start to set the book on the counter, and he waves it off. “Take it. On the house.”

I nod once. “Thanks.”

As I step outside, the sun hits me. Getting too hot already.

The Harley’s waiting at the curb, chrome glinting in the bright light, and I straddle the seat, the worn paperback tucked into my jacket.

The engine rumbles to life beneath me, but I don’t take off right away.

I only sit there, watching the slow crawl of Dogwood Bluff go on around me.

It’s a pretty town, but I can feel it under the surface.

Something’s not right. And unfortunately, I’ve never been good at walking away from trouble. I shift into gear, and I ride.