"That's not helpful."
"The brisket plate," I say. "But don't tell Jolene I steered you there or she'll think I'm playing favorites and I'll never hear the end of it."
He sets the menu down. "What does she usually push?"
"Whatever she thinks you need." I fold my hands on the table. "Don't fight it. It's faster."
Jolene arrives with water and coffee without being asked and sets both down and looks at Beckett with the open assessment ofa woman who has earned the right to look at people however she wants.
"You must be the new ranch owner," she says.
"Beckett Wilder." He smiles and it changes his whole face. I notice this from across a table in a busy diner in the middle of a Thursday and I am genuinely annoyed at myself about it.
Especially because the man spent yesterday losing a fight with irrigation equipment and oversized boots.
"Jolene Mercer." She pulls out her pad. "You look tired."
He blinks. "Good afternoon to you too."
"It's an observation, not a criticism." She taps her pen on the pad.
"You're going to have the brisket plate and the cornbread and I'm bringing you a piece of pie whether you want it or not because you look like a man who hasn't eaten a proper meal in about six months."
Beckett looks at me.
I look at my water glass.
"Yes ma'am," he says.
Jolene nods with satisfaction and disappears toward the kitchen.
The lunch crowd hums around us. Silverware clatters somewhere behind me and the sharp sweet smell of fresh pie drifts out from the kitchen.
Beckett leans back in the booth and looks out the window at Main Street with the still, unhurried expression of a man who is slowly stopped running from something without realizing it yet.
He watches a couple of old ranchers cross the street. A kid on a bicycle. A dog sleeping in the shade outside the hardware store.
"It's a good town," he says quietly.
I follow his gaze out the window.
"Yeah," I say. "It is."
We sit with that for a moment and it is almost comfortable.
That is somehow the most unsettling thing that has happened all day.
Suddenly a storm comes out of nowhere.
That’s not entirely accurate. Silas texted me at eleven-thirty this morning with a single word that said "weather" which in Silas language means pay attention.
I paid attention. I just didn't expect it to move this fast.
We're loading the last of the supplies into the truck bed when the sky does that particular thing that Texas skies do before a serious storm. It goes a color that isn't quite green and isn't quite gray and is entirely its own specific warning system that anyone who has lived here long enough learns to respect immediately.
The wind picks up all at once.
"We need to move," I say.
