Sunrise Crossing (6 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Periwinkle starlight

P
ARKER
DUG
THROUGH
old boxes of files that should have been thrown away years ago. It was almost midnight and she was running out of time. She had to find the name of the cowboy who'd sold her that farm in West Texas. He might be her only chance.

She'd never bothered to remember the names of people who weren't in the art world. After all, there were hundreds of gifted and brilliant people worth knowing, so why bother with those who don't even have a membership to a public gallery?

Parker realized she sounded like a snob. She
was
a snob. Her parents had been snobs. They'd sent her to all the right schools where snobs send their children. And she'd also learned young never to be too open, never to trust completely, never to get involved in other people's lives or let them too close to you.

But now she did need someone to trust, and after three days of looking, she had come up with no one.

The cowboy seemed to be the last on a short list of people who might help
and
keep quiet about it.

Finally, she found the deed. The amount she'd paid for the farm made her smile. She remembered the guy had been taller than she was, bone-thin, dust-covered, and had had dead eyes. If she'd offered him half the price, he probably would have taken it. Neither of them had bothered to try to make conversation when they'd signed the papers. He hadn't even removed his hat. He'd just sat across the table, his arms folded over his chest like the world could end any moment and he couldn't have cared less.

Parker didn't like the idea of having to call him. Even his name sounded like it should be a character in a Western. Clint Montgomery.

She walked to the window of her town house and peeked through a tiny break in the curtains. The beefy guy who'd claimed to be an FBI agent was still there on the corner, circled in pastel blue light. He had been for several days, either him or someone who looked just like him. If she drove away, she had no doubt they'd follow. If she booked a flight or took the bus, they'd probably be in the seat behind her. She might not be much of a lead to finding Victoria, but she might be the only one they had.

Parker had thought of calling the FBI and asking if they were really watching her, but she decided if they didn't suspect her now, they would after the call.

No calls. She had to follow her play. Convince the office she was out scouting for new artists while losing this guy outside.

Sitting down, she stared at the cowboy's number. She was about to do the very thing Tori had done ten days ago. Ask someone she barely knew for help.

She dialed the number and waited.

Two rings. Three. Four.

Parker closed her eyes. This might not even still be his number. Montgomery might have moved—after all, it wasn't like he'd call her and tell her if he did.

Six, seven, eight.

Logic told her to put the phone down, but this was the one person she could think of who knew no one in her world. Even the beefy guy on the corner wouldn't put them together. If she drove her Jaguar, they'd spot her on the lonely roads. The bus had worked for Tori, but the odds of it working again weren't good.

“Pick up, cowboy,” she demanded.

Nine, ten...

“Yeah, what do you need?” a low male voice growled into her ear.

“Mr. Montgomery?”

“You got me, but I'm not buying.”

“Wait! Don't hang up. This is Parker Lacey.”

There was a long pause. “Who?”

“Your invisible neighbor.”

“I remember. The lady who buys a farm and then never steps foot on it.” He didn't sound too friendly.

“Right, that's me.” She needed to rush on before he disconnected. “I was calling to see if you might be coming to Dallas anytime soon?”

“Look, lady, I'm knee-deep in calving right now. Could you call back in a month or so and we could have a chat about my travel plans?”

“Don't hang up,” she said again. “I need a favor. A big favor.”

“Can't you call a friend? Or family?”

“I have no family,” she admitted, “and I have no friend I can trust.” In fact, if she asked anyone she worked with to help, it would be discussed at length in the break room even before she could finish packing. Plus, if they knew she was helping the famous artist Victoria Vilanie, they'd probably be texting the media while they gossiped.

“I'm sorry for that, lady.” He didn't sound sorry at all or even interested in talking.

“Stop calling me
lady
,” she snapped, then realized that being rude to him probably wasn't the best road to take. “I just need you to drive to Dallas. Pick me up at the north exit of the Galleria Mall. You know where that is?”

“Nope,” he said. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes.” Parker fought back tears for the first time in years. “Don't tell anyone. Not your buddies or your wife or your priest. Just pick me up and drive back to your ranch. I'll walk over to my place from there.”

He was silent for so long she decided the guy had probably fallen asleep. For all she knew, he was Crossroads' resident nitwit. She'd thought of a dozen possible ways to get to her farm, but any other plan left a path that could be followed.

Finally, the cowboy cleared his throat. “I can't tell a priest—I'm Baptist. I don't have a wife. She died a month before you bought the place next door. As far as my buddies, it would be a waste of time to tell them a secret. After a few beers, it'd fall out of the back of their heads.”

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

“Can you pick me up or not? Can you keep it a secret?”

“What time?”

“Noon tomorrow. Remember, north door of...”

“I got it, lady. I'll be there.”

“I'll be happy to pay you.”

He swore. “Don't insult me. It's a favor you asked for. I'm not looking for a job.”

“How will I spot you?”

“Blue pickup. You can't miss me. I'll be pulling a trailer-load of hay.”

“Thank you, Mr. Montgomery.” She whispered, after she heard him disconnect, “You don't know it, cowboy, but you may have just become my best friend.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Crossroads

Y
ANCY
CARRIED
TWO
huge bags to the gypsy house and put them on the bar. The late afternoon sun streamed into the wide living space through the cracks in the boarded windows, making the room seem like it was glowing. The outside of his house might still look ugly as coal, but the inside was definitely polishing up like a diamond in the rough.

Last night he and Rabbit had worked late, but tonight they'd complete another project. One more step toward being finished.

He pulled objects out of the bags he'd brought in: a picnic quilt he'd borrowed from Miss Bees. Two camp stools he'd found in the storage room at the retirement center. Coat hangers he'd straightened. Three pieces of wood he'd picked up in the alley. A book of matches. And last, marshmallows.

Tonight they'd put in the banister, then celebrate, maybe talk for a while. And they'd kiss one more time. He liked that part of the plan the best. She was starting to mean too much to him to rush her. Yancy told himself just being near her, working together, talking was enough.

He checked, making sure all was in place, before he crossed to the barn. Rabbit wouldn't be coming until later, but he wanted it all ready.

Tonight, when the stairs were finished, the house would seem like a home. His grandmother's house, the house where he was born, was taking shape. But something else was happening inside him. Yancy, for the first time in his life, was falling in love.

It made no sense. He didn't even know her name. But he swore he could see her soul, and it was beautiful, just like Rabbit was on the outside.

He smiled as he laid out his tools on the worktable. Nothing in his life made much sense, but he knew Rabbit was a blessing he hadn't even known to wish for.

His childhood had been a struggle to survive. His mother had cared more about her drugs than she had about him. By the time he was in his teens he was running wild in the streets. He'd gone to prison before he thought of himself as a man. When he'd been released, he'd stopped in Crossroads because he'd heard his mother mention the place. Yancy had no idea that the old house at the edge of town had been left to him in an unknown grandmother's will.

He'd read a book once about gypsy lore: the book said that, according to these beliefs, a man can damn his offspring. Yancy had never known his father, but he must have been bad, because his mother never mentioned him. Once, when Yancy had insisted that she tell him one thing, she'd simply said that he'd died a horrible death.

When he'd learned about the house, Yancy couldn't help but wonder if the grandmother, his father's mother, had left Yancy the place in an effort to say she was sorry for something that had happened long before he was born.

After learning that his father had died tragically, Yancy didn't ask any more about his family. If it hadn't been for the Franklin sisters, he might never have known that the gypsy house was his. If he hadn't remembered his mother saying that she'd lived in Crossroads, he might never even have stopped in the town.

If somehow his life did have a plan, Yancy hoped Rabbit would be a part of it. When he worked beside her, he felt whole. That he might find his place after drifting in the wind for so long.

But he didn't forget that he
had
landed in Crossroads with nothing worth keeping in a backpack and enough money only to buy breakfast. That day had changed his life. He'd decided to walk over and help two old men trying to trim a tree and they'd taken him in, given him a job and a place to stay. He'd worked for the Evening Shadows Retirement Community ever since, loving caring for the old folks as he learned from them.

A tap on the barn door made him jump. It was barely dark. Rabbit wouldn't be dropping by so early. Plus she never knocked.

Hesitantly, he shoved the door open.

A man about his height stood just outside. He was unshaven and had salt-and-pepper hair, but nothing about the guy looked lost or homeless. He wore a wool fedora and a bulky black coat. The kind that cost hundreds of dollars and would easily conceal a weapon.

Instinct—and a life spent hanging around the wrong kind of people—put Yancy on full alert. Hitchhikers sometimes got dropped off in Crossroads, but something told him this guy wasn't just drifting.

“Sorry to bother you, mister.” The stranger tapped the brim of his hat in greeting and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I was just wondering if you knew who owns this house.”

“I do,” Yancy answered without putting his hammer down. “I'm remodeling it.”

“I can see that. Peeked in the window before it got dark. Hope you don't mind. You're doing a great job. This house looks like it's been on this spot for a hundred years.” The man glanced back at the place. “Might fit in nicely with some research I'm doing.”

“It has, and thanks for the compliment.” Yancy wanted the man gone. He didn't care about research. Rabbit wouldn't come anywhere near the barn if she saw this guy, but Yancy couldn't be rude. It wasn't the way of folks from these parts. “I'm not that skilled a carpenter. I'm kind of learning as I go, so don't expect to see the project finished anytime soon.”

The stranger straightened slightly. “I was thinking of retiring and settling here in Crossroads. You wouldn't want to sell this place, would you? Save yourself a lot of work.”

“No.” Not for any amount, Yancy almost added. While growing up, he never remembered having a real home, just trashy apartments and run-down back rooms of wherever his mother found a job.

“I could give you a good price,” the man said.

“Not interested.”

The stranger rocked his head. “I understand, but you see, I used to know the family who lived here.”

“So did I.” Yancy decided he didn't like the stranger. The hat's brim shadowed his eyes but he still had the feeling he was being studied. “There is no family left around here. A widow lady named Stanley used to own it, but she died over twenty years ago. House went to ruin after that.”

The stranger nodded. “Stanley, right. I remember that was the name. Gypsies, if I remember right.”

“Like I said, all gone. Moved away or died off years ago. Folks say the Stanley clan was cursed.”

“Your name wouldn't happen to be Stanley, would it? With that dark hair you could have a few drops of gypsy blood.” The stranger moved a few inches closer.

“Nope. I told you, as far as I know, there are no more Stanleys.” Yancy had said it three times now, but the stranger acted as though if he asked enough times the answer might change.

Yancy took a step backward, not liking the man being too close. “I wish you luck on your house hunting, mister, but I need to get on with my work. You might ask the Franklin sisters about what happened to anyone you remember. They own the bed-and-breakfast in town and do a good job of keeping up with folks.”

“I'll do that.” The man pulled his hand from his pocket. “Thanks for your time. I'm Gabe Santorno. Hope to be living in Crossroads when I'm not down in Austin.”

Yancy gripped his hand. “Yancy Grey.”

Gabe Santorno's grip tightened, and for a moment, he looked a little lost.

“You okay, Mr. Santorno?” Yancy, being in charge of a retirement center, was always on the lookout for signs of a stroke or heart attack. This guy didn't look old enough, but something about his on-guard stance made Yancy think that he'd had a hard life.

“I'm fine. I'd best get back to my motel. It's been a long day.”

Gabe Santorno moved away so fast he seemed to melt into the night. One second he was standing right in front of Yancy, and the next, he was gone. Shivering, Yancy moved back to his work. He had an eerie feeling, like someone had just walked over his grave.

But he didn't have time to worry about some stranger wanting to buy a house. He had a surprise to get ready for Rabbit tonight.