Lone Star Diary. Darlene Graham

Marynell had snapped. “That’s all you think about, isn’t it, P. J. McBride? Fitting in? As if giving a two-fingered salute to some good old boy means you really belong?”

      Frankie remembered how unwarranted it was, like all of Marynell’s attacks. Her father simply loved his neighbors, loved Texas. His friendliness wasn’t some sycophantic effort to fit in.

      “This it?” Luke’s deep voice interrupted Frankie’s sad memory.

      They had come to the turnoff, where a cluster of live oaks with gray-green limbs dipped low to the ground. The foliage remained attached in winter, waiting for spring when new leaves would push off the faded ones. Maybe, Frankie thought, she was like those trees, stuck with the old. Dormant until something new pushed it aside. She looked at Luke Driscoll as he slowed the truck and the sun reflected off his shades. “Yes. Turn here.”

      He steered the pickup off the highway onto a gravel ranch road.

      For three miles, a straight and dusty path led past first Frankie’s parents’ white-frame two-story, with its gray-metal windmill and neat outbuildings, then past her sister Robbie’s squat old farmhouse, in much better condition these days thanks to Zack Trueblood, until at last they were arrowing across Kilgore land.

      The truck strained into a gentle climb as the rock-strewn landscape grew higher, drier. This hilly land was fit for little but ranching. Its winter coat ran from tan to faded gray-green broken only by dark lines of trees along the creeks and down in the riverbed.

      Finally the Kilgore ranch house appeared in the distance, a limestone-pillared three-story that stood out like a timeless fortress. Smoke curled from tall chimneys at either end of a steep-pitched red tile roof. A small collection of low stone buildings huddled behind.

      Justin had converted his family’s historic ranch house into communal living quarters and offices for the Light at Five Points. Frankie was astonished at the changes in the place.

      The undocumented aliens that took shelter there had restored most of the stonework, cleared a tremendous amount of cedar and erected sturdy modern fencing in place of the crumbling split rail. Her sister Markie had started teaching English classes right after Christmas. The place already felt settled, productive, and Frankie was impressed.

      Yolonda, however, was not. She folded her skinny arms across her chest and glared at the back of Luke’s head.

      Luke ignored her, braked the truck and said, “Vamos.”

      They got out and the smell of cedar smoke hanging in the cold air made Frankie nostalgic. Nothing was quite as magical as a clear Hill Country morning out on a ranch.

      Markie stepped out onto the porch, looking stylish at eight in the morning as only Markie could, wearing tall boots, snug jeans, a black turtleneck and a red boiled-wool vest. The sisters shared a similar brunette prettiness, but Markie wore her shiny dark hair in a more casual style than Frankie’s classic pageboy.

      Frankie could see that marriage agreed with her little sister. Her alabaster complexion was glowing and her smile was huge. A young Hispanic woman—very pregnant, Frankie noted with a familiar pang of envy—accompanied her.

      They mounted the steps, where the sisters exchanged a quick hug and Frankie did the introductions.

      “What brings you here, Mr. Driscoll?” Markie eyed Luke. She sneaked Frankie a sly little glance that said, Wow.

      Luke was impressive, Frankie thought. And married.

      She felt her cheeks heating again and wished Markie would mind her own beeswax. But that was not the McBride sisters’ way.

      “I’ve come back to continue my investigation.” Driscoll cleared his throat and looked at Yolonda, who was starting to fidget nervously. “And I wonder if you’ve heard anything from Juan and Julio Morales.”

      The pregnant girl gasped and covered her lips with shaky fingers.

      “No. Nothing. But we’d sure like to. Julio is the father of Aurelia’s baby.” Markie then spoke in Spanish to the pregnant girl, who tried to spirit the new girl off into the house like a hen taking a chick under wing.

      But Yolonda balked. She carefully removed the denim jacket, with its warm sheepskin lining, and gave it up to its owner. “Gracias,” she said with sad eyes.

      “No hay de qué,” Luke said quietly.

      “She’s going to be a handful,” Luke explained when the girls were gone. “Doesn’t want to be here. But I need her kept safe.”

      Markie smiled. “We’re used to handling scared teenagers. There’s always a lot of mistrust at first. Aurelia will help her adjust.”

      “She’s more scared than most. She witnessed the thing with the Morales’ sister.”

      Markie’s bright smile vanished. “We heard about that. You think that’s related to your investigation then?”

      “Absolutely.”

      Frankie felt a mild irritation that her sister knew more than she did, and that Driscoll seemed more forthcoming with Markie.

      Markie shook her head. “Danny’s murder. Whatever my father-in-law is covering up. The Morales brothers. Now this trouble on the border. What a mess.”

      “Yes, ma’am. A mess that needs addressing.” Then to Frankie’s surprise, the laconic Driscoll launched into a kind of speech.

      “This sort of thing is bad for relations. I’ve been deep into Mexico, even on down into Central America, and it’s my opinion that we’d better learn to get along with these people. We could easily take U.S. prosperity all the way into Honduras. And if we don’t let them work for us and improve themselves, everything will end up being made in China.”

      “You sound like my husband.” Markie’s smile returned, broader and brighter. “Justin said he liked you. Y’all want to come inside? Aurelia just made fresh coffee.”

      Frankie was tempted to sit by the big window in the cool stone kitchen and sip Markie’s rich ranch house coffee while the sun rose higher over the hills.

      But once again, Driscoll proved focused. He turned to Frankie. “We’d better get going.”

      “To the caves?” Nosy Markie.

      “Yes.” Frankie wished she hadn’t told Markie that part. She turned to go, hoping to avoid this topic. She knew her youngest sister had suspicions about that area ever since Congressman Kilgore had pulled a gun on her son inside one of the caverns. Old man Kilgore had claimed he mistook the boy for a trespasser, and the local law bought it, but Frankie sensed there was something bad, something unfinished, about the whole affair.

      Markie grabbed Frankie’s arm. “What do you all expect to find in the caves?”

      “Won’t know until we look.” Driscoll took command of Frankie’s arm and touched the brim of his Stetson, steering her out and dismissing Markie.

      When the truck lurched to a halt under the rusting wrought-iron Kilgore ranch gates, Luke said, “Which way?”

      Frankie looked up and down the narrow gravel road. “You want the scenic route?”

      Driscoll inclined his head, and even with the brim of the Stetson and the reflective sunglasses shielding his eyes, Frankie could tell he was favoring her with a patient look. “I prefer the fast route,” he drawled.

      “Left,” she said with a teensy nudge of disappointment. After years with a dour husband, Frankie was in no mood for a guy with no sense of humor. Luke Driscoll might be handsome as hell, but Frankie had a feeling he wasn’t exactly going to be bunches of fun.

      CHAPTER THREE

      AS LUKE DRISCOLL’S PICKUP bounced past her sister’s unoccupied farmhouse, up a winding gravel trail to the top of a hill, Frankie took the measure of the man driving. He had a sturdy build.