I must’ve had a strange look on my face, because Rosalie studied me with an odd expression. “January is our worst month for tumbleweeds. The folks on the buses that stop here think they’re cute. If they had to deal with them every day, they wouldn’t be taking the things home with them to use for decorations.”
“Are you serious? They really take them home?”
“Yes, they do,” Rosalie answered with a nod. “I tell them to be careful and watch out for thorns. And to be sure that a scorpion or two haven’t hitched a free ride in the middle of one to get from one place to another.”
I tried not to shiver—I really did—but there was no controlling it when I remembered the curly-tailed thing on the tumbleweed I’d had to remove from the wiper blade.
“But nobody listens to me,” Rosalie went on. “Where were you playing poker with Larry, anyway?”
“Tucson—and for the first time in my life, I walked away broke, except for owning this place.” Another shudder chased down my spine and made me wonder if all the previous owners of the café had bad luck or if it was just Larry. “Are you trying to scare me, or are there really lots of scorpions in this part of the state? And why is the dining room suddenly quiet? What’s going on?”
Rosalie refilled her coffee mug. “We will be slow until closer to lunchtime, when the next bus comes through here. Matilda—that’s the former owner, the one before Larry—said that in the beginning of days here at the Tumbleweed, it was really a bus stop. One where folks couldget a ticket to go west toward El Paso or east to Dallas, but that ended years ago. And yes, I am serious about the scorpions, and the lizards that manage to sneak into both the café and the house. Not to mention the snakes that come out to pester us in the spring.”
Mice, roaches, and spiders were the only things I hated worse than bugs and snakes. Lizards could possibly land on the list if I didn’t make enough money in the next six months to get out of this godforsaken place. I didn’t care if it did have a church fifteen miles up the road.
“Do buses come through every day?”
“Twice a day,” Rosalie answered. “Once in the morning for the breakfast rush and then around noon. The rest of the time, we only see a few folks from the RV park, or maybe a traveler who stops on their way across this part of the state.”
The bell above the door jingled, and Scarlett’s voice drifted back to the kitchen. “Good mornin’, Miz Ada Lou. How are things at the RV park?”
“Cold and it’s spittin’ snow, but the weatherman says that the sun will come out tomorrow, so I’m not worried.” The voice belonged to an elderly woman. “I’ll have my usual brunch.”
“Coffee coming right up,” Scarlett said. “And we’ll have those pancakes and sausage out soon.”
I stood up and peeked out the window into the dining area. Miz Ada Lou was a wisp-thin little lady with a bright-red streak in her chin-length gray hair.
“That’s our regular customer,” Rosalie said as she went to the grill and poured out batter for three pancakes. “She’s here every morning after the bus crew leaves, and has pancakes, sausage, and coffee.”
“Is the café ever closed?” Seven days a week did not sound good—but then, that would bring in more money, which meant I could possibly leave the place sooner.
“No, but we are only open for breakfast and lunch. We’re usually done with everything by three o’clock,” Rosalie told me. “Have you ever worked in a diner?”
“When I was sixteen, I waited tables for a few months.” Not a happy memory.
Frank had remarried that year.He’ddecided we were both giving up our gambling. He was serious. I was not. He landed a job as a bank teller. Paula, his new wife, put me on the payroll at her café. I worked after school and on Saturdays. That didn’t leave much time for making friends—but then, the heart doesn’t miss what it never knew. Which was another of Frank’s sayings. I never told her or Frank that I earned less as a waitress and cleanup girl than I did playing poker every day during lunch hour at school.
Rosalie flipped the pancakes over. “Ever done any cooking?”
“No, ma’am.”
“What do you intend to do as the new owner?”
I polished off the last bite of pancakes and carried my plate, silverware, and mug to the sink. This place was only about a quarter the size of my stepmother’s café, and didn’t have the dish pit or the commercial-size dishwasher that she had. “Whatever you tell me to do.”
“Then you can take this food out to Miz Ada Lou and help Scarlett clean off all the tables from the bus run. She would have had it done, but I called her back here to meet you. And if you were serious about not selling this place, you can take down that sign from the window.”
Chapter Two
Miz Ada Lou, I want you to meet Carla Wilson, the new owner of the Tumbleweed,” Scarlett said as they approached the table. Then Scarlett hurried off to the back to pick up an order.
Ada Lou drew down her well-plucked eyebrows and stared at my face for a few seconds, then scanned me all the way to my toes. “You don’t look like you have enough money to buy a setting hen, much less enough to shovel out for this place. How old are you, anyway? I’d say mid-twenties, but your skin might have held up better than mine and you’re in your forties.”
“I’m thirty years old, and I won the place in a poker game up in Tucson yesterday.”
Ada Lou pushed the red streak back behind her ear and grinned. “That’s good enough for Larry. That sorry sucker was only interested in what was left in the safe every Monday afternoon. That’s the only day he showed up here. If he used the deed to this place in a poker game, that means he’s probably gone through everything that Matilda worked so hard to build up.”
“Who is Matilda?” I asked as I cleaned off a nearby table. The food had given me enough energy to keep my eyes open, but I would have loved to curl up in a corner and sleep until sometime the next day.
