In Emmylou's Hands. Pamela Hearon

left your motorcycle behind?”

      Joe Wayne rubbed the back of his neck. “Had to. It was a near-death experience. I was hoping—” he drifted toward the sliding glass door, looking out on the beach “—that maybe you and me could figure out some way to get it back.”

      Sol lifted the sandwich with the spatula to check its progress as he shook his head. “Sorry. You’re on your own.”

      “Come on, man.” The sound was as close to a man-whine as Sol had ever heard. “Ramona’s husband’ll kill me if I get anywhere near that house. He’s probably already done something horrible to Patsy—that’s my cycle.”

      “And what makes you think anyone else would be safe?”

      “I thought...” Joe Wayne shrugged, cutting his eyes in Sol’s direction and downward. “Maybe he wouldn’t do nothing to a guy with a fake leg.”

      “Use the cripple to garner some pity, huh?” Sol tossed the plastic bowl into the sink, sloshing the remainder of its egg-and-milk contents up the sides.

      “If gardenin’ pity’ll get Patsy back...hell yeah.”

      “Hell no.” Sol found the plates in the cabinet and took two down. “Get us each a bottle of water.” He used the spatula to point at his companion. “Only water.”

      EmmyLou’s brother did as he was told, slinking to the refrigerator like a whipped puppy, as Sol plated the sandwiches and cut each one in half, adding a dollop of strawberry jam for dipping.

      “Let’s eat on the deck,” he suggested. “I can’t stand it in here with...” He paused. “This fresh air and sunshine is too nice to miss.”

      Joe Wayne followed him out, and they settled into the chairs at the table. His companion wolfed a fourth of his sandwich down without saying a word, but grunting often with approval.

      “What do you call this? Some kind of fancy French toast?” Strawberry jam oozed out the side of Joe Wayne’s mouth.

      “Use your napkin.” Sol scooted one across the table. “And it’s a Monte Cristo.”

      Joe Wayne snorted with his mouth full, sending crumbs onto his plate and the surrounding area. “Like those funny British movie guys? Dad used to love their stuff. Thought they were hilarious.”

      “That’s Monty Python. This is Monte Cristo—as in the Count of...”

      Joe Wayne shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

      Sol took another bite to block the sarcasm poised on his lips.

      “Gonna be hard for me to leave—” Joe Wayne shook his head and gave a regretful sigh “—till I get Patsy back. But once I do, her and me’ll hit the road quicker’n a frog on a june bug.”

      “Forget it. You’re on your own.”

      Joe Wayne took another giant bite. “Have it your way. But seeing as how you and I are going to be hanging out together for a while longer, why don’t you tell me what really happened to your leg?”

      “I don’t talk about my leg,” Sol responded.

      “Well, maybe you should. Might make you less of a turd.”

      * * *

      “HELLO?”

      That was not Joe Wayne’s voice on the other end of her brother’s cell phone.

      “Sol?” Emmy crossed her fingers and hoped not as she tossed her luggage onto the hotel bed.

      “Who is this?” The threatening edge sharpened, going beyond the aggravation of Sol’s normal tone with her. This was...mean.

      “It’s EmmyLou,” she said.

      “Well, when you get ahold of your friend, tell him...”

      Oh good Lord. This wasn’t Sol, either.

      “...that if he ever comes sniffing around my wife again—”

      The husband!

      Emmy ended the call.

      The guy still had Joey’s phone. Not a good sign. Where was her brother?

      Her thumb scrolled through her recent calls and pressed the number from early that morning.

      “Hello, EmmyLou.” Definitely Sol. Her toes curled at the sound no matter how hard she tried to stop them.

      “Hi, Sol. I was trying to reach Joey, and—”

      “Hey, sis.”

      So Joey was still alive. That neither the husband nor Sol had killed him after last night’s fiasco was a pleasant surprise. Her brother might not have fared so well if she’d been the one staying at the beach house. But if he thought that friendly tone would get him out of a lecture, he had another think coming.

      “Don’t you ‘hey, sis’ me. Acting like everything’s all hunky-dory after making an ass of yourself in front of my friend last night. What in the cornbread hell did you think you were doing? And with a married woman? Shame on you, Joe Wayne Fuller.”

      “So y’all are friends. The way Sol acts, I wasn’t sure. ’Course, it was a little weird that he had your phone number so readily available last night. And here you are, calling him again.”

      “Don’t go trying to shift the attention away from your stupid-assedness. Just tell me you got out of Sol’s way as soon as you grabbed some clothes last night, and right now you’re there simply because you stopped by to apologize.”

      The dead silence on the other end crawled up her spine and confirmed what she already knew.

      “Joey, please tell me you did not...”

      “I was too drunk to go anywhere last night. I passed out on the bed.”

      “But you left first thing this morning, right?” Bentley whined in exasperation, eager for his walk.

      “Noooot exactly.”

      “You are not still staying there!” She took out her frustration on the luggage zipper, jerking open the compartment holding the dog’s gear, and took his water bowl to the bathroom sink to fill it.

      “I got nowhere to go and no way to get there ’cept on foot. Patsy’s in Ramona’s yard, and I’m sure that pit bull husband of hers is laying in wait to bite me in the ass. Sol refuses to help me get her back—”

      “Oh good Lord, do not drag Sol into this. I drove all night to get down here, and I’m checked into a hotel. Give me a few minutes to walk Bentley, and I’ll be by to pick you up. We’ll go get Patsy.”

      “Forget that bullshit. You shouldn’t’ve come, ’cause you’re not going over there with me.”

      “Oh hell no!” Sol’s voice, in its typical aggravated mode. “Give me that phone.” There was a shuffling sound of the phone being passed, and then Sol’s growl came over the line. “EmmyLou, this is Sol. Are you in Gulf Shores?”

      “Yes, I am.” She lifted her chin defiantly to the reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I came to help Joey.”

      “That’s completely uncalled for.” He was all Mr. Take Control. And while her head wanted to tell him to mind his own business, everything below her neckline tingled appreciatively. But his sigh was pure aggravation, reminding her who she was speaking with. “All I need is another Fuller down here...” Emmy stiffened at his use of her real last name. What had Joey told him? “...needing me to take care of her during my relaxing time at the beach.”

      The last phrase was drenched in sarcasm, and she couldn’t let the cut-down pass without a comeback. “As I recall, taking care of my needs wasn’t one of your strong suits, Mr. Beecher.” A total lie—Sol had been fabulous in bed. But he’d never called her back, so he’d get no accolades.

      “Aw