Texas Standoff. Ruth Smith Alana

a damnation uttered years ago hadn’t brought him to this particular place to suffer a fate similar to the one that awaited the serial killer he’d defended once upon a time. In Texas the death penalty was carried out by lethal injection, not electrocution.

      He shook off the unsettling notion of karma playing a part in his traveling plans. He had no intention of becoming a sitting duck in the midst of an electrical storm. He forced his eyes and mind to dismiss the felled tree and its implications. “Get a grip, Majors,” he told himself. It was nuts for him to roost like a chicken on the hood of a car with floodwaters nipping at his butt. What did he think? That just because he was a cardcarrying member of the auto club, a tow truck would magically appear?

      “Yeah, sure. You’re having a real wet dream,” he scoffed, hoisting himself off the Mercedes and dropping into the now truly crotch-deep water. He’d have to wade his way to some unknown destination beyond that bridge in search of some shelter and he hoped, a phone. Of all the things he should be considering at such a time-the approaching night, the rough terrain and the distinct possibility of encountering a snake along the way-what kept running through his head was a familiar phone company slogan. Boy! If ever he felt the need to reach out and touch somebody, it was now.

      ELISE KNEW she was getting close to the crossing. The bridge ought to be coming into view any minute. She focused dead ahead. Her heart was working double time-two beats to every tha-thump of the wipers. The press of the pickup through the surging waters kicked up a lathered backwash. The water lapped at the door panels, and every so often she detected a distinct floating sensation. The sturdy old truck had taken her about as deep as it could. Hombre detected it, too. He began whimpering in earnest.

      “Easy, old fella,” she crooned, feigning a calm she did not feel. She reached for the radio dial, trying once again to tune into an updated weather bulletin. The only thing coming in loud and clear was a gospel station. The preacher’s sermon carried a hellfire and damnation message. “Deliver us, Lord,” he prayed.

      “Amen,” Elise chimed in. It was then that the front end of the truck dropped hard into a deep rut in the road, sending a brown breaker washing up over the hood and slapping against the windshield. Elise hung on to the wheel for dear life as the pickup bounced over the rut and shimmied precariously. She strained to see through the sheeting water.

      Hombre’s bark warned her a split second before a dazzling display of lightning lit up the horizon like the Fourth of July. Silhouetted against the blinding glare was a shimmering distortion- a person directly in her path, arms waving wildly. Her foot went for the brake. When she depressed the pedal, she met no resistance. Like in a bad, slow-motion dream, the truck kept bearing down on the figure ahead.

      Feverishly, she pumped the pedal. Panic swelled inside of her. “Get out of the way,” she shouted, frantically waving the wading fool off the road. A second before the impact, she squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the sickening thud.

      When she registered no such sound as a bumper colliding with a body, her eyes flew open. The truck slowed to a crawl in the deep cushion of water, then came to a stop at the edge of the bridge.

      Hombre continued barking. The hound paced between the side window and his mistress, alternately pressing his nose to the glass, then sniffing her over. Elise sat paralyzed, unable to pry her foot from the brake pedal or unlock her hands from the steering wheel. Hombre persisted. Satisfied his mistress was unhurt, he pawed and nudged at her until she responded to his fretting.

      Regaining control of herself, she flung open the door and hopped down from the high cab into the pelting rain. Being petite of stature, she found herself immersed waist-deep in the chocolate whirlpool. She struggled against the water’s drag, half stumbling, half sidestroking her way around the front of the truck to the opposite side. She was relieved to see what appeared to be the shape of a head sticking up out of the water.

      “Are you okay?” she hollered as she worked her way closer to the stranger.

      No answer was forthcoming. Her concern mounted. She fell in her haste, taking a dunking in the process. Now she was wet to the shoulders but almost even with the helpless, near-drowned creature a few strides away.

      In the darkness it was hard to distinguish the sex of this almost-road-fatality. Then the person spoke up.

      “What the devil’s wrong with you, lady! Are you blind or crazy or both?” It was a man’s voice. An angry man’s voice.

      “Sorry, mister. You’re lucky I saw you at all in this weather. Can you stand up? Where’re ya hurt?” She plunged a hand under the water, methodically feeling up his leg, certain she’d find a shattered bone protruding through the skin.

      “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I prefer to know a woman a bit better before playing grab-ass.” He made a clumsy but successful effort to get to his feet.

      She took his sarcasm in stride. No doubt the man was shaken, considering his brush with death and all. “Rest easy, mister. I don’t intend to molest you. I was just checking to see if ya broke anything,” she explained. “I said I was sorry. My brakes aren’t working. Now, are ‘you going to stand out here looking and acting like some puffed-up toad, or climb into that pickup so we can get the heck out of here? That bridge isn’t going to Jiold much longer.” She motioned for him to follow.

      Colin couldn’t distinguish the woman’s features, only that she was slim and just as wet as he. He nodded and she turned to make her way back to the driver’s side of the pickup.

      “Friendly of her to offer me a ride after running me down like some road lizard,” he grumbled as he sloshed his way to the passenger door and yanked it open. He froze upon meeting a pair of glowing yellow orbs and an unwelcoming snarl. Now what? Was he supposed to share the seat with a wild dingo sporting a collar? Terrific! Just terrific! He cautiously backed up.

      “Mind your manners, Hombre.” Elise settled herself behind the wheel, patting the place beside her for Hombre to take his former position.

      The hulk of a dog obeyed, stretching out beside his mistress but keeping an eye on the stranger.

      Colin hoisted himself into the cab, careful not to invade the hound’s space.

      Before attempting the bridge, she decided to try again to make amends with, the stranger. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Let’s try again. Hi, my name’s E.Z. Winston.” She stretched out her hand and smiled. Referring to herself by nickname came automatically. Elise Zoe Winston was a mouthful, so her daddy had decided on a simpler substitution shortly after her birth. The initials had stuck. It never occurred to her how odd the nickname would sound to an outsider.

      Had he heard her right? Did she say Easy? Good grief! What kind of name was that? He returned the handshake. “Colin Majors,” he supplied. “I do appreciate the lift.”

      “My place is only a few miles ahead. We’re in luck. The bridge isn’t completely under water yet.” Elise put the pickup in low gear and prepared to make the iffy crossing. She thought about her earlier premonition and found herself glancing over at the man on her right. He had a strong profile, an interesting look about him. Aside from that, all she really knew about the stranger she’d, picked up on the side of the road was that he tended to be a bit sarcastic. Considering the circumstances, she supposed he had a right.

      Colin was also mentally measuring the woman and the ridiculous situation. Why had he let his cousin talk him into this visit? Where in the Sam Hill was he, anyway? Dogpatch USA? So far he’d lost a costly car, almost his life, and now he was hitching a ride with Daisy Mae. He cast a circumspect glance in her direction. She looked like a drowned rat, but she was kind of an attractive little rodent. Yeah, the natural type, he decided. Which was not his type, as if it mattered. He wasn’t looking to get involved; he was just searching for the nearest phone.

       CHAPTER TWO

      COLIN EXPECTED