Lone Star Diary. Darlene Graham

in Five Points was going to take some getting used to. In a big city like Austin, even a woman of her social standing could be anonymous. But here, everybody and everything got noticed.

      She wrestled the ladder inside, turned the deadbolt, fastened the chain. Bright morning sun backlit the frosted oval glass that had graced the entrance since territorial days. Thank God the front half of the store, with its antique charm, hadn’t been damaged by the fire. On a sideboard where Robbie had set up a charming coffee service, she started a carafe of her favorite blend. Frankie had convinced Robbie that elegant touches like candy dishes and demitasse-sized cups of flavored coffee would encourage shoppers to linger.

      With the coffee dripping, she hurried to the storeroom. She was pulling out rolls of wallpaper when a loud rapping on the front glass made her jump.

      She frowned. Had Robbie misplaced her keys to the store yet again? Living with Robbie was starting to tax her patience.

      “Coming!” she snapped, trying not to be annoyed at the scattered ways of her sister.

      The flotsam and jetsam of moving lay everywhere, as it did at Robbie’s house. Frankie determined anew to help her sister get more organized. Starting with her keys, she thought as the rapping ricocheted through the store again.

      She came up short when she saw, framed in the oval frosted window, the silhouette of a tall man in a cowboy hat. Her stomach plunged when she recognized Luke Driscoll’s profile. Memories rushed back. His handsome face, piercing eyes, laconic manner, broad-shouldered physique. She even remembered the sound of his voice—low, gravelly, emotionless.

      “Mrs. Hostler?” that very voice now caused a flutter at her core.

      She opened the door a crack, kept the chain lock on.

      He actually touched the brim of his Stetson. “It’s me, Mrs. Hostler. Luke Driscoll.”

      She hated the very sound of Kyle’s last name now, but that was not the Ranger’s problem.

      “Mr. Driscoll. Of course I remember you.” She undid the chain and opened the door wider. You didn’t forget a man you’d shot at with a revolver, though she had certainly never expected to see, much less speak to, this one again.

      “Just Luke. Remember?”

      “Yes. I do…remember. What…what are you doing here?” Despite the cold air, she could actually feel her cheeks heating up.

      “I saw you unloading the car while I was in there getting her something to eat,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the Aggie.

      Her? Only then did Frankie notice a painfully thin girl with dark Hispanic looks, cowering behind Driscoll’s big shoulder. The teenager was wearing filthy sneakers, threadbare jeans, a baggy denim jacket and a thin shawl clutched tightly about her head. Probably an illegal. There were plenty of them around here.

      But before Frankie addressed the girl, she had to ask, “You…you were watching me?”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said unapologetically. “Um…” He looked around. “Can we get in off the street? Yolonda’s a little skittish.”

      The young girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, did indeed look frightened. She mumbled something in Spanish while her wide black eyes pleaded with Frankie in a way that needed no interpretation.

      “Of course.” Frankie stepped back to allow them in. Driscoll’s boots clumped loudly on the hardwood floor. “This your sister’s shop?” he asked as he steered the girl inside.

      “Yes,” Frankie said as she closed the door. Although she had developed proprietary feelings about the place lately. “I work here.”

      “Oh?” He gave her a curious frown. “I thought you said you were just visiting. Remember? A while back? When we met out at your parents’ farm?”

      How could she forget? Frankie felt her color rising higher. She’d pointed a gun at a Texas Ranger, shot a snake, then gotten all flustered and teary. She did recall saying something about going back to Austin. But now she had no intention of reconciling with her husband. She sighed. One day she said one thing, the next she did another.

      Why she cared what this man thought of her was a mystery. Maybe it was the way he was looking at her—as if he cared. Or maybe it was because he came across so…pulled together. From the top of his tan Stetson to the muscular, relaxed way he moved, the man exuded an air of strength and competence.

      “I…uh…” she stammered, realizing he was still waiting for her answer. “I never went back to, uh, to Austin. I stayed on to help my sister.” Not strictly true. She’d stayed to sort out her messy life.

      “As you can see—” she swept around in front of his imposing frame, leading the way through the piles of clutter on the floor “—we’re still getting organized. We had a rather unfortunate fire. We’ve fixed the damage, but…” She looked back and he was regarding her patiently. “We can sit down back here in the storage room.”

      “I know about the fire,” Driscoll’s voice came calmly from behind her. “I interviewed the arsonist.”

      Frankie spun around, surprised. “Really?”

      “Old guy named Mestor. Interrogated him at the jail.”

      The day they’d met, Frankie thought this Texas Ranger had told her he was looking for some Mexican Coyotes. Was this related? “Why ever did you question him?”

      “I’m working on a string of events. But that’s not why I came over here this morning.” He pushed his Stetson back on his head. “I need to take Yolonda here out to the Light at Five Points.”

      “My sister and brother-in-law’s place. You need directions?”

      “No, ma’am. Already talked to Justin Kilgore.”

      Goodness. This man seemed to know everybody. “So, is Yolonda an…an illegal alien then?” Frankie tried not to cast any wary glances at the child and prayed the girl didn’t speak English.

      “Yes, ma’am. Crossed two nights ago. Not under the most ideal circumstances.”

      “Are circumstances down there ever ideal?” Frankie frowned, but again, not at the girl. In Frankie’s world, undocumented aliens were never acknowledged as such, even if they were cleaning your house or doing your yardwork. She hoped this Ranger wasn’t going to ask her to take charge of the girl.

      “Her case is even worse than most,” Driscoll went on dryly. “And now she needs protection.” A glance from the Ranger caused the girl to adopt that big-eyed, fear-filled look again.

      Quietly he said, “¿Estás bien?”

      It was then that Frankie noticed that the jean jacket the girl was wearing was way too large for her, a man’s size in fact, and that Driscoll was wearing only a Western-cut denim shirt. Running around in January weather in his shirtsleeves? Likely because he’d given his jacket to a freezing child.

      The child gave him a quick nod, but Frankie didn’t think this girl looked okay at all. “Mr. Driscoll—Luke—I can’t…I’d like to help, but…”

      “Yolonda’s not the reason I’m here. I hate to interrupt your work, but I didn’t have a number where I could reach you. It’s a pure stroke of luck that I saw you. I need a favor.”

      “Of course.” Frankie reasoned she should cooperate with the law, but she suspected it would be closer to the truth to admit that doing a favor for this handsome man would be no hardship.

      “Would you care for some coffee?” she said. The aroma filling the cozy store was suddenly working on her.

      “No, ma’am. Thanks anyhow,” Driscoll drawled.

      But when he said something to Yolonda in Spanish, the girl mumbled back, nodding. “She’ll have some, if it’s no trouble. Black.”

      Frankie