Page 38 of Wretched Thorns

He listened. His eyes flicked across the hood to her.

“Yeah. Rest stop past the line.”

He ended the call.

He didn’t look at Tara when he said the next thing. He looked at her grandmother.

“Somebody’s bringing us a clean vehicle. Rest stop past the Mississippi line. We limp this one as far as it’ll go and we move on in the new one.”

***

They limped the truck to the rest stop and pulled in past midday.

The new vehicle was already there. Black F-150, parked nose-out at the back of the lot, tucked between the pines and the picnic shelter. A woman leaned against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, one boot kicked flat against the panel.

She watched the dead truck pull in.

Beside Tara, Dex went very still.

Tara looked at the woman through the windshield. Five-eight, maybe. Looked early thirties, but who knew with wolves. Dark hair pulled back. Jeans and a faded blue tee.

Her stomach did a thing it absolutely did not have permission to do.

Who the fuck is she?

Heat in her face. Pit in her stomach. Why the fuck do you care, Tara?

Then his head turned a degree. Not enough to look at her. His nostrils flared, once, slow.

He just smelled me.

The corner of his mouth moved. Not a smile. Or was it.

Oh, fuck you.

She stared at the dashboard like the dashboard had asked her a question.

Dex got out of the truck.

She watched him cross the lot. Watched him reach the woman. They didn’t embrace. Didn’t shake. He said something. The woman answered. They stood there talking the way people who had known each other a long time talked, all economy and shorthand. The woman raised one hand in a quarter-wave that read as either hello or what-the-fuck-have-you-gotten-yourself-into and let it drop.

Her eyes moved past Dex to the dead truck.

To Tara.

The look went all the way down. Tara had watched her grandmother give that exact look to people for thirty years. The woman didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. She just looked.

Dex held out his hand. The woman handed him a key. A few more words were exchanged. The woman started walking toward the dead truck. Dex started back toward the new one.

Tara got out of the cab.

She moved her go-bag. She helped Grandmère across the gravel. As she passed the woman coming the other way, she gave her the polite-neutral nod a southern woman gave another southern woman whose business with her had not yet been spelled out.

The woman returned the nod.

The woman did not say a word.

The new F-150 smelled like pine air freshener and gun oil. Dex got in. Tara got in. Grandmère climbed into the back and laid her head against the headrest like a woman who had decided she was done for the day.