My arms and shoulders ached, but I mentally patted myself on the back. Then, out of nowhere, something that looked like a full-grown bull slammed into my windshield. I braked hard, then finally came to a stop on the side of the road. Gravel was still settling all around me when I forced the door open and pushed against the wind as I walked back about fifty yards to where I expected to see a mangled body lying.
I forgot about being hungry and sleepy, and my shoes felt like they were filled with concrete. My heart thumped around in my chest so fast that I thought surely it would pop out and blow away like a tumbleweed. Visions of jail cells and orange jumpsuits flitted through my mind. That color had never looked good on me, and I doubted the inmates had any money to bet with, either.
No money, starving, and I had just killed a hitchhiker. Would a pro bono lawyer argue that thumbing rides was illegal anyway, or would the judge just throw the book at me for involuntary manslaughter? Then the bottle of water with wiggly things in it hit, and I had to pee. I could see a yucca plant close by, but it wasn’t big enough to hide me if I squatted behind it.
I was still imagining a bloody, mangled body when I found a semi-flattened tumbleweed the size of a small Angus bull lying in the middle of the road. I was so mad that I kicked it, and the damn thing magically resurrected and headed south with the next gust of wind. The words that came out of my mouth when it danced across the flat land were not pretty. They bordered on sending me straight to hell to sit on a hot barbed wire fence for all eternity.
“At least it was just a tumbleweed.” I jerked my jeans down and hoped there were no chiggers or poison ivy the cold weather had not killed. If the state of Texas was as great as everyone said, then why didn’t they at least have a port-a-potty along the side of the road every twenty miles? If I was ever elected to be in office, that would be my first bill. Fifty miles with no bathroom was downright cruel.
I am not a skinny girl—more what folks callcurvy—yet when I was squatting there on the side of the road, that norther did its best to throw me into a race with the tumbleweed I almost murdered. When I was done, I trudged back to my vehicle and got inside. Exhaustion had set in several hours ago, but so much adrenaline rushed through my body that I didn’t have to worry about falling asleep behind the wheel anymore.
Two miles down the road, what I first thought was fog or smoke turned out to be dust with a heavy dose of even more tumbleweeds flying through it like the flying monkeys inThe Wizard of Oz. Those things had scared the bejesus out of me when I watched the movie as a child.
Another one, even bigger than the one I’d almost killed, hit my windshield. “Rats, roaches, and spiders—and now flying tumbleweeds that have faces like those monkeys.”
Gravel crunched under my tires when I swerved to miss the next army of them. Trying to get back on the road was no easy feat, and there was no way to dodge the hundreds of tumbleweeds blowing against the side of my SUV. One even hitched a ride on the side mirror and stayed with me for several miles before it finally dislodged and went on its way. By then I didn’t give a damn how many I slaughtered.
“I see now why the place that I now own is called the Tumbleweed Bus Stop and Diner. I wonder how big the town is. I didn’t get a key with the deed, so if I’m lucky it will still be open for business. Maybe in six months, I can save up enough money to ... Damn it!” The granddaddy of all tumbleweeds hit the windshield and got hung up in the wiper blade.
A Class 5 tornado couldn’t have dislodged it, so I had to pull over again and manhandle the thing off the SUV, all the while trying to avoid a scorpion that seemed to have its eye on my hand. The dust was thicker than any fog I had ever seen, and by the time I slid back under the steering wheel, I was coughing like a three-pack-a-day smoker.
When I finally got control of my breath, I remembered what Larry Dimson, the Goat and previous owner of the café, had said when I won the pot that included the deed to the Tumbleweed Bus Stop and Diner. “Now that eyesore is your responsibility. It’s been bad luck for me since the day my Aunt Matilda left it to me.”
“I believe you, but it’s all I’ve got,” I said between clenched teeth.And there’s my answer as to why Lady Luck divorced me after twenty years of blissful friendship.
She didn’t want to stand too close to anything with the stink of bad fortune on it.
If I’d had any other option, I would have tossed that deed out the window for one of the tumbleweeds to haul off to points south. But I did not have a choice in the matter. I had to sell the place before I could get back to the lifestyle I knew.
“Since Lady Luck has deserted me, the café will probably be a defunct building with a front door swinging on one hinge and letting all kinds of varmints into the place.” Talking to myself had always kept me awake, but that morning, with the sun shining in my eyes, it didn’t help much—not with the vision of vermin and insects roaming through the café.
“I’ll have to sleep in the car if that’s the case, and hope that the town is big enough I can find a job. Not that I’m skilled in anything but poker. God, what am I doing? I’m going crazy from sleep deprivation, hunger, and fighting the dust and these damn tumbleweeds,” I swore. “I could sleep anywhere—even in a broom closet. Come on, Carla, it’s only another twenty miles. I know I’m breaking my vow to never do anything but play poker—but like Mama told me before she died, ‘Never say never.’”
The tinny voice of the GPS lady announced that I had arrived, just as a flashing warning light on the dashboard told me I was dangerously low on gas. The clock said it was 7:13 a.m. Normally, those were my lucky numbers, but I thought that Lady Luck was simply playing tricks on me that morning.
Surpriseis the only word that came to my mind when I looked up. Since Larry had said the café was for sale, I had thought it might be an empty building. I was so glad I had been wrong that if I’d had the energy, I would have done a little dance the minute I saw theOpensign blinking in the window. There was also aFor Salesign, but I guessed we wouldn’t need that for now.
I parked beside a Greyhound bus, got out of my SUV, and held my breath to keep from breathing in more dust. I kicked half a dozen tumbleweeds out of the path and froze when I heard a squeaking noise. I was sure a huge rat would run out from the corner of the café, but it was theTumbleweed Bus Stop and Dinersign that hung between two rusted metal poles. I studied the place and wondered if it had been Pepto-Bismol pink at one time, because no one in their right mind would ever paint a place of business the horrible shade of a shriveled-up grapefruit. My mind went back to my bedroom in the house where I’d lived until I was eight years old. The walls were the same color as this café.
Was that an omen? Was I stepping back in time rather than going forward? No answers floated by me on a tumbleweed, so I opened the door and stepped inside a warm dining room. I really thought I might drop in a dead faint when the aroma of food slapped me right in the face.
“Have a seat anywhere. Be with you as soon as I get this table cleaned off,” a woman said.Scarlettwas embroidered above the picture of a tumbleweed on her shirt. Her strawberry-blond hair was twisted up on top of her head, and her crystal blue eyes sparkled. A big dose of jealousy shot through my body at her peaches-and-cream complexion. I’d never liked my eight million freckles, which no amount of makeup could cover.
According to Frank, reading what was in a person’s eyes was my biggest talent. If that was the truth, what I saw said that she wouldn’t last long in a poker game. She was way too open and way too friendly.
“Are you the manager?” I asked.
“No, ma’am,” she answered on her way to carry a tray of food to a table. “That would be Rosie. She’s in the kitchen, but she doesn’t like folks to come back there. Larry is the owner, but he’s not here right now, so if you’re looking for a job, you’ll have to come back on Monday. That’s the day he usually drops by.”
I brushed dust from the shoulders of my denim jacket and walked around the end of the counter and through the swinging doors into the kitchen, where a short, round woman stood at a grill.
“Hey, didn’t you hear me?” Scarlett yelled.
“I did, thanks,” I called over my shoulder and then focused on the lady flipping pancakes.
The woman turned and gave me a look meant to kill me dead on the spot. She wore loose-fitting jeans, a T-shirt withRosalieembroidered on the right shoulder, and a bonnet printed with big sunflowers on her head. She reminded me of Dr. Loretta Wade, the coroner onNCIS: New Orleans. She was shorter than me—and I’m only five feet four inches tall—and had a round face that was still scowling at me. Her body had probably been curvy about twenty pounds ago, but I would place a fifty-dollar bet on her if it came to a fight. She wouldn’t have to lift a finger. Her glare alone would send anyone running for the hills.
“Get out of my kitchen,” she growled.
