Page 11 of Texas (Route 69 #1)

Eleven

T he shade under the city park’s oak tree is patchy, but it’s better than nothing.

I’m reclined against the bark with one boot stretched out and the other bent, book balanced on my thigh.

The paperback I picked up from Hank’s shop is cracked and sun-faded, pages curling at the corners a little, but I like it that way.

I like things with some wear. Some scars.

The park’s quiet. A couple of kids are chasing each other near the swings, their laughs sharp and high in the summer air, while a woman walks a dog, and I see two teenagers whispering with their heads together near the picnic tables.

I figure I’m the center of their attention, but I ignore it and instead take a sip of the iced coffee I picked up at a shop near the park.

Sweat clings to the small of my back, and I feel the heat creeping up my spine, but I don’t move.

I’m too comfortable. It’s a rare thing, this kind of peace, and I don’t want to spoil it.

While I was in the Army, I used to think I didn’t need peace.

That adrenaline was enough. That movement was safety.

But there’s something about a slow afternoon and a worn-out book that makes me wonder if I’ve been wrong about what I need.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, of my jeans, and I pull it out, swiping across the screen. Kristin. “Can you come by the clinic?” says her text. Narrowing my eyes, I’m not sure what to think. No further explanation comes. Just six words.

After a moment, I type back. “Everything okay?”

Her response is almost instantaneous. “Yes. Just want to show you around.”

I stare at the screen for a second longer than I need to, not sure how I feel about being shown around where she works.

It feels too… something. Finally, I message back.

“What’s the address?” She sends it. It’s someplace I recognize as close to the edge of town where I rode in.

Probably smarter to be out of sight of the heart of the town.

I tuck the book under my arm, dust off my hands, and stand.

The Harley’s parked on the curb, and as I walk to it, the heat sticks to my skin and my shirt clings to my back.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling into the lot behind the Dogwood Bluff Women’s Health & Wellness Center.

The building is newer than I expected, with sleek lines and new paint.

There’s a wide porch with a bench out front and a row of potted flowers.

It doesn’t scream clinic, and that, I think, is the point.

Kristin’s waiting inside the glass doors.

She’s in pale blue scrubs, hair pulled back in a low twist, and minimal makeup.

She looks calm. Capable. Professional as hell.

Still, when she sees me, her face lights up.

“Hi,” she says, stepping forward. “Thanks for coming.” Even in soft cotton and work shoes, she’s a commanding presence.

“No problem,” I say, wiping a bead of sweat from my temple, running my eyes up and down her body. “You look like a woman who runs the world.”

She laughs. “Just this corner of it.”

As she leads me through the front lobby, I look around.

The waiting area is cozy, with soft chairs and a stack of books on a low table.

There’s a bulletin board with flyers for prenatal yoga, free STI testing, and domestic violence resources.

I clock it all. It’s subtle, but intentional.

This place was built with women in mind.

“This is Denise,” Kristin says, nodding toward the front desk. The woman behind it looks to be in her fifties, with short silver hair and a glint in her eye.

She gives me a once-over and then smiles. “So you’re the Harley,” she says.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

Denise grins. “Kristin mentioned someone new staying in her guest house. With a motorcycle. I can see she was holding out a few details on us.”

Kristin clears her throat, but she’s smiling. “Denise has no filter.”

“I like her already,” I say, and Denise winks. We keep walking. The hallway is lined with framed prints of abstract shapes in soft colors, nothing clinical.

Kristin stops outside one of the patient rooms and knocks before opening the door. “This is Tasha,” she says. “One of our nurses.” Tasha is tall, Black, and gorgeous, with braids pulled back into a bun and a clipboard in hand.

She gives me a nod, then turns to Kristin. “This the one who’s has you distracted this morning?”

I watch Kristin’s eyes widen. “Tasha.”

“What? I’m just saying you have a different look about you today.” I cough to cover a laugh. Kristin glares at both of us, but there’s no heat in it. Tasha smiles. “It’s good to meet you.” Our eyes connect, and there’s a hint of concern there too. Maybe a warning. “I hope to see more of you.”

“Likewise,” I say with a nod.

Kristin leads me into her office next. It’s small but full of warmth.

Bookshelves line one wall, filled with medical texts and a few picture books for children.

There’s a framed photo of her and an older woman who looks a lot like her standing in front of the lake house.

A diploma from Vanderbilt. A mug that says “Trust Me, I’m a Professional. ”

Closing the door behind us, she leans against it. “For some reason, I wanted you to see this place.”

“It’s impressive,” I say, and I mean it. “You built something real here.”

She nods, but her eyes are distant. “Sometimes I forget that.”

“Don’t.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Denise’s voice comes through it. “Your three o’clock is here.”

Leaning closer, Kristin gives me a quick kiss. “Duty calls. It won’t take long if you want to wait,” she says before opening the door to step into the hall.

I follow her to the waiting area, where a young woman stands, holding a baby in a carrier with one hand and a diaper bag with the other.

She’s maybe nineteen, with tired eyes but a gentle smile.

Beside her, a guy stands. He looks early twenties, jeans too clean, and a ballcap pulled low. He’s not holding anything.

“Marie,” Kristin says, greeting the girl by name before looking at the guy.

“Tyler. Good to see you both here. If you’ll follow me.

” Marie starts to follow Kristin to the exam room.

The guy, apparently Tyler, hangs back, arms crossed, jaw tight.

I lean against the wall and watch him. He’s not coming across as dangerous, but he’s not happy to be here either.

Kristin meets his stare, and I watch him flush red, then follow her and Marie down the hall.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m still in the waiting room when I hear him say it.

“This place is full of feminist bullshit,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“All this talk about choices and empowerment. Like marriage vows don’t mean anything anymore.

” The exam room door flings open and the guy storms out.

I’ve seen that look before. It’s the slow simmer of resentment in a man who thinks everything belongs to him, even the woman trying to disappear into the wall beside him.

My spine straightens. My jaw tightens. Kristin steps out of the exam room, calm as ever. “Tyler,” she says, voice smooth. “If you’d like to wait in the lobby, you’re welcome to. But this is Marie’s appointment. Not yours.”

He glares at her, then at me as he walks past. I stare him down. Just enough to make him look away first. Kristin turns to me and mouths, “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to hit him,” I whisper back with a grim smile.

“I was only deciding which window to throw him out of.” The thing about guys like him is that they mistake kindness for weakness, but I’ve made men bleed for less.

It’s not about violence. It’s about reminding them that not every woman they underestimate is unarmed.

Kristin smiles, tired but grateful. “That won’t solve anything,” she says, eyes soft. “I’ll be home by six. You want to do dinner?”

“I’ll pick something up.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ll find us something greasy and wrapped in foil. You can pretend it’s gourmet.”

The tension breaks, she laughs, and there’s something real in it. Something unguarded. “Thank you,” she says.

I shrug. “Don’t thank me yet. I might bring tacos.”

“God, I love tacos.”

“Then we are in business. See you tonight.”

I step out into the parking lot, and the sun still blazing.

The Harley’s parked under a tree, and I slow when I see a man standing next to it.

In fact, he’s studying it like he’s never seen one before, and doesn’t straighten until I’m close.

“Can I help you?” I ask, and he gives me a grin like he knows something I don’t know.

“Nice ride,” he says, looking me right in the eyes. “Shame if something ever happened to it.” Narrowing my eyes, I pause about two feet from him. He’s broader than me, a little taller, but I can tell his muscles have turned to fat.

If he’s trying to intimidate me, it’s not working. “Guess I’ll be careful then,” I say, cold and low, and his shit-eating grin gets wider.

He slips on his sunglasses before giving me a nod.

“Yeah, good thinking.” Turning on his heel, he crosses the street to the truck sitting at the curb.

Big. Black. All it needs is a Confederate flag in the back.

I watch, not moving, while he fires it up, and with a little two-finger salute, drives away.

I stand there a moment, hands on my hips, heart thudding a little harder than it should.

Meeting this guy was no accident. Someone’s watching, and they know I’m here.

I smile. Good. Let them. Still, that changes the game.

Not only for me but for her. I’m used to being the one who walks into danger.

But now? Now there’s someone else, and I don’t want her caught in the crossfire.

Suddenly, I feel a chill running down my spine despite the heat.

The kind of chill that tells me this isn’t just small-town gossip.

It’s a warning. And the worst part? I’ve seen how fast things can escalate when a man with power starts feeling small.