The Judge. Jan Hudson

Carrie went downtown again and parked in front of the old stone courthouse that had probably been built a hundred or more years ago. Three stories tall, the handsome pillared structure was similar to a dozen or two original courthouses still in use in Texas—Texas Renaissance the style was called, a combination of architectural styles popular during the period. Carrie hadn’t been in all the 254 county courthouses in the state, but she’d visited a large number of them and she was always glad to see one of the old ones preserved.

      The Naconiche courthouse showed community pride of the sort that was responsible for the original construction of the town’s heart. Several large trees shaded the grounds and well-tended flower beds flanked the walks. She looked forward to exploring the inside.

      A variety of businesses occupied the buildings that faced the square. She noted a couple of antique stores that looked interesting, an ice-cream shop called the Double Dip that she wanted to try out later. Now she needed to familiarize herself with the courthouse, determine where the documents she needed were housed and how the town’s records were kept.

      As a petroleum landman she first had to find out who owned the property and the mineral rights to the large area that her company wanted to lease. Locating the property owners wasn’t too difficult—the county tax roles could tell her that. But frequently the current owners didn’t own all the mineral rights. Former owners—sometimes two or three sales back—often retained a percentage of the mineral rights on their acreage, usually a half interest. That meant that she had to track down deeds and locate heirs as well as check on any existing leases.

      She couldn’t afford to make any errors, and the tedious work took a lot of time. But actually, she kind of enjoyed doing the research. It was like working a crossword puzzle.

      Inside the courthouse Carrie smelled the familiar mélange of aging papers, cleaning solutions and the lingering odor of old tobacco smoke. Even though there were No Smoking signs now, years of cigars and cigarettes had infused the walls with the faint distinctive scent common to so many of the courthouses she’d been in. After a tour of the fine old building with its polished marble and rich oak trim, she located the tax office on the second floor, just down the hall from the chambers of the judge of the County Court-at-Law.

      Judge Frank J. Outlaw, the brass nameplate beside the door said. She smiled. Outlaw—a peculiar name for a judge.

      With a few directions from a clerk, Carrie located the records she wanted to study, took out her minicomputer and a pad and got to work.

      CARRIE’S STOMACH growled, and she glanced at her watch. Five of twelve. Her yogurt was a faded memory, and she was hungry. She couldn’t believe she’d been working all morning without a break, but as usual she’d gotten absorbed and time had flown by. Stretching, she loosened the kinks in her back, stiff from bending over the papers so long.

      Her first thought was to go across the street to the City Grill for lunch, then she decided that the tearoom was a better choice. She packed her briefcase and left the tax office. Not a dozen steps away, her cell phone rang, and she dug through her shoulder bag to retrieve it.

      While she was looking, she collided with someone. “Sorry,” she said, glancing up.

      Her heart lurched, and she could feel the blood leave her face. It was Horace P. Pfannepatter.

      “My God,” she said. “It can’t be. You’re dead!”

      He smiled. “I don’t think so.” He looked down at his hands, turning them over and back. “Nope. I seem to have all my working parts. Your phone’s ringing.”

      “But…but the waitress this morning said that you’d had a heart attack and died.”

      He frowned. “Which waitress?”

      “Vera at the café across the street.”

      “I can’t imagine why she would have said that. I had breakfast there this morning with my brother. You’d better get that,” he said, pointing to her ringing purse.

      Not taking her eyes from his face, she grabbed the phone, said, “I’ll call you back,” and crammed it back into her bag. “Maybe it was your father they were talking about. Do you have the same name?”

      “Nope. My father’s name is John Wesley Hardin Outlaw, Wes for short.”

      “Outlaw? Then…how…Aren’t you the JP?”

      A slow smile spread over his face. “You thought I was Horace? No, I’m Frank Outlaw.” He stuck out his hand.

      Bedarned if she didn’t feel herself blush as she took his hand. “Carrie Campbell. Sorry that…” She forgot what she was about to say. He had a million-dollar smile. And a kind of charisma that radiated from him and enveloped her in its magnetism.

      “Have you had lunch?” he asked.

      She shook her head.

      “I was on my way to eat during the noon recess. Why don’t you join me, and I’ll explain about Horace.”

      “At the City Grill?”

      “I’m not too keen on their special today. I’d planned on the Twilight Tearoom. It’s not too far.”

      “I know,” Carrie responded. “I’m staying at the motel.”

      “Of course you are. I remember that Maureen mentioned that.”

      She drew a blank. “Maureen?”

      “The clerk at the JP office.”

      “Oh, yes. I…uh…need to drop by my room for a minute. Why don’t I meet you there?” She suddenly realized that he was still holding her hand, and she withdrew it quickly and started for the stairs.

      “Where are you parked?” he asked as they descended.

      “By the south entrance.”

      “And I’m by the north. I’ll go ahead and get a table before they’re all gone.”

      “Is the Tearoom a popular place?”

      “Very. They have the best food in town.”

      At the foot of the stairs Carrie’s cell phone rang again. “Excuse me,” she said. “I suppose I should take this.”

      He waved and turned down a hall while she answered. It was her uncle Tuck.

      “How are things going in the boonies?”

      “Going fine. I’m at the courthouse now. I’ve just stopped for lunch.” She continued out the door while she talked.

      He asked for some figures from another job, and she promised to e-mail them to him that afternoon.

      “Carrie, play this one extra close to your vest. I ran into Wyatt Hearn at the Petroleum Club last night, and he was sniffing around too close for comfort. I’d hate for him to get wind of things and steal this out from under us. You haven’t seen any of his boys around town have you?”

      Wyatt Hearn was another independent oilman and a bitter rival of her uncle. “Nope. I haven’t seen anybody. I’ll keep an eye out. Think I should dye my hair and wear a fake nose?”

      Uncle Tuck hooted with laughter. “I don’t think you have to go that far, darlin’. Just don’t let on to anybody why you’re there until you’re ready to get their names on the dotted line.”

      “Gotcha. I’ll report in at the end of the week.”

      At her car, she tossed her bag and her briefcase onto the seat and climbed in. If she hurried she’d have time to freshen up a bit before lunch. It wasn’t often these days that she got to have lunch with a good-looking guy.

      Remember that he’s married, she told herself.

      She sighed. For a few minutes she’d forgotten. Wouldn’t you know—the first guy who turned her on in ages, and he was taken. Just as well, she told herself. She had work to do and didn’t need the distraction.