The Secrets of Rosa Lee. Jodi Thomas

locking himself out and we didn’t want to leave the door unlocked, so he installed a latch above the door. Lights flash in the kitchen and my office when this back door swings.” She led him down a hallway lined with boxes and mops to a tiny kitchen.

      “Of course, I lock it when I head upstairs for the night. We figure only a tall drunk could reach the latch, providing they knew about it.”

      He wondered if she often told her secrets so easily. Looking around the kitchen he tried to understand her. The kitchen appeared to have been added to the bar in the fifties. Nothing had been updated. The counters were red linoleum, stained and worn through in a few places. Pots and knives hung on the wall behind a stove. The refrigerator clanked out a steady beat. The place was spotless.

      “Frankie used to serve hot appetizers years ago, but it got to be too much trouble.” She pulled a string on a bare light swinging from the center of the low ceiling. “I keep it open so when I’m stuck here I won’t starve.” She winked. “A girl can’t live on bar nuts alone.”

      The cleanliness of the place surprised him. There was a wildness about this woman, but there was also an order.

      “If you want to dry off, there’s a stack of towels by the back door.” She combed her hair with her fingers and twisted it into a wild knot behind her head. “How do you like your eggs?”

      “Any way but scrambled,” he answered thinking of the thousand church breakfasts he’d eaten with scrambled eggs. He heard her banging around the kitchen while he dried his hair in the hallway between the back door and the kitchen. Using paper towels, he wiped mud off his shoes then washed his hands in a big sink that looked as if it would only be used to clean mops. The Rogers sisters’ rosebush had torn a two-inch rip in his trousers at the knee, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Since he had no comb, he raked a hand through his hair, hoping he wouldn’t frighten her.

      Then he laughed. The woman owned the roughest bar for thirty miles around. Probably nothing frightened her. In all likelihood she told him about the back door’s latch because she wasn’t the least afraid of him.

      When he walked back into the kitchen, the smell of steak and onions grilling drifted across the room. She motioned for him to sit before turning back to the stove.

      Micah tried not to stare but couldn’t help himself. The lean woman in tight jeans and a rain-dampened Western shirt that stopped an inch above her waist was unlike anyone he’d ever encountered. She moved with an easy grace, but everything he knew about her told him she must be made of rawhide.

      “How do you know the sisters?” She didn’t turn around.

      “Maybe I grew up here and they were my teachers?” he offered.

      “Nope,” she answered as if being tested. “I grew up here and they were my teachers. You’re definitely a transplant.”

      “That obvious?”

      She grinned over her shoulder and pointed with a spatula. “It’s the shoes.” When he didn’t answer she added, “No man from West Texas wears shoes with tassels. Those are for the big cities like Dallas and Houston. And while I’m at it, any self-respecting working man lets the mud on his shoes dry, then stomps it off.”

      “Anything else?”

      She set two plates filled with eggs and steak on the table. “In my line of work I’ve learned to read people. You’re not married, but you were. Divorced, maybe with a kid, grade school probably. You see him often.”

      “Widowed. One child, seven.”

      “Sorry.” She met his eyes. “I’m the same. My husband was killed in an oil-rig accident a few years back.”

      “Cancer took my wife.” He wanted to change the subject. “How’d you guess so much about me?”

      She opened two beers without asking if he wanted one and sat down across from him. “Wedding band you didn’t try to hide. Socks that don’t match. No woman would let you out of the house like that.”

      Micah stared at his socks. They looked like a matched pair to him. But, one might be more gray than black now that he studied them.

      “And I sat on a coloring book in the back seat of your car so either you’ve got a kid, or you’re not quite as bright as I thought you might be. A boy, I’d guess, since girls usually don’t color Spider-Man.”

      He smiled. “I made it too easy, Sherlock.” He cut into his steak. “Now for the big question: why did you invite me in? I could be a serial rapist for all you know.”

      She laughed. “Not with those shoes.” She took a bite, then added, “I knew you were safe, first because you were a friend of the Rogers sisters. They’re not the types to hang around with dangerous men. Second, you turn red every time I get within waltzing distance. That doesn’t sound like a trait a rapist would have. You’re safe all right, Micah Parker. Safe as a crosswalk.”

      Micah wished he could think of a funny comeback, but he was too busy eating. She’d cooked what he was sure must be the world’s best steak.

      Randi picked at her food. Every time he raised his gaze from his plate, she watched him. He always turned away first. He didn’t want to think about what else she’d be able to guess about him.

      After finishing his steak, Micah started on hers. She moved her plate toward him without comment. He stopped to take a drink of the longneck, then made himself slow down as he ate the rest of her breakfast. She probably thought he was homeless by the way he consumed food.

      “I’m on a committee with the Rogers sisters. Though, I knew who they were. Everyone does.”

      “The committee that got interrupted by a flying drill bit this morning?” She leaned closer.

      Micah nodded. Clifton Creek didn’t need a paper. News spread faster than butter on lava.

      “I heard a few of the oil guys talking about it, but I didn’t pay a lot of attention. When the sisters came in, they wanted to talk about everything but what frightened them.” She wrinkled her forehead. “One of the oilmen said there’d been a little interest in the Altman property as a drill site, but no oilman would send a drill bit as his calling card.”

      Micah leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What kind of interest?”

      Randi shrugged. “Just rumors. The men in the bar are always talking about where to drill next. Most of it’s speculation and guessing. Since the old house sets on a rise, it would be the prime spot to drill if anyone decided to test for oil below.” She studied him. “You think someone was trying to tell the committee something this morning? Or trying to hurt one of you?”

      “It could have been an accident. Kids may have found the bit and thought it would be great for shattering windows.” He stacked the empty plates and stood. “Maybe they didn’t take the time to notice people were sitting at a table on the other side of the glass.”

      She followed, sipping her beer as he scraped the dishes. “Maybe someone wanted to stop the committee. I don’t know who else serves on the panel with you, but the Rogers sisters must have been frightened half to death. They’re tough old birds, but I’m not sure they’ll be interested in going back into that house. To tell the truth I’m surprised it didn’t fall down around the committee this morning.”

      Micah dried his hands. “It bothers me to think that someone could have been hurt. Really hurt.”

      She put her hand on his shoulder. “It could’ve been you.” Her words were soft against his ear.

      He took a long breath and for once in his life decided not to think, but to act. In half a turn his body brushed against hers and he lowered his mouth toward her lips.

      She slowly molded against him, as smooth flowing as liquid passion. Then, when they were so close their breaths mingled, she smiled. A smile that told him she could read his thoughts.

      “I