My Volkswagen wheezed in weary protest as it encountered yet another rise in the road. Houston's terrain is as flat as a sheet of paper, not counting a man-made incline or two on the freeway system, and the ancient little car was never going to forgive me for introducing it to the hills of West Texas. The transmission groaned as I down-shifted and began the climb, my ears popping from the slight change in altitude.
    On the passenger seat, my backpack stirred and Hazel presented a quivering nose.
    "Not dinner time yet," I informed her, and the nose withdrew, twitching in disgust.
    The setting sun shimmered against the asphalt, glancing off the beer cans and tin foil strewn along the roadside. This section of highway evidently hadn't been "adopted" by any civic-minded group. I was beginning to wonder if anyone besides me even knew it existed. It had been at least an hour since I had passed another car.
     I had made an interesting discovery during my 500 mile journey. It seemed that desolate stretches of road had a charismatic effect on my right foot. The lonelier the landscape, the harder that foot pressed the accelerator, as if to hurry me back to human companionship. The two speeding tickets in my glove compartment convinced me that cops out here in the boonies had discovered the phenomenon long ago, and made use of it to pad the coffers of tiny towns with names like "Rising Star" and "Pancake."
    A sign flashed by:

    Lubbock is farm land, as flat as Houston, and it amazed me that Perdue was surrounded by craggy hills, seeming to rise out of nowhere with startling suddenness.
    I nudged the backpack and a tiny black nose emerged inquiringly. "Tell me something, Hazel. Have I lost my mind? Why am I doing this?"
    She yawned.
    "Never mind, go back to sleep."
    Floor it, suggested a reasonable little voice inside my head. Just keep on going, right through Perdue, all the way to Lubbock. You can sell this old rattletrap for a few hundred, hop on a plane . . .
    "Sell my car?" I shouted. The voice had overstepped its bounds. I had worked odd jobs all the way through high school to earn the money for my precious VW, and I would keep it long enough to be buried in it, if I had my way. It had been my graduation gift to myself, and buying a used car had left enough money to pay for my first semester at U of H. So what if it was fourteen years old? I patted the dashboard fondly. It had, in fact, been my only graduation present. Mom hadn't even bothered to show up at the ceremony.
    Something long and dark slithered into the road ahead and I reacted before I realized what it was. Jerking the steering wheel sharply to the right, I stomped the brake. The car careened sideways into the ditch that constituted the road's shoulder and lurched to a halt. A cloud of red dust billowed up through the rust holes in the floorboard. I coughed. Hazel sneezed.
     Still shaking, I turned in the seat to peer behind me. The snake was squirming into a tangle of brush on the opposite side of the road.
    "Lovely countryside," I muttered, and turned the key.
    The engine stuttered and caught, sounding as cranky as I felt, but that was as far as the matter went. The steering wheel moved awkwardly and apparently no longer held any influence over the tires.
    I squinted through the bug-smeared windshield. Straight ahead, a larger sign informed me that I had reached: PERDUE CITY LIMITS Pop. 2,948.
    "Well, at least we made it to our destination," I told Hazel, who sneezed again. Gathering my backpack and windbreaker, I stepped out into the red dust.
    I had spoken too soon. By the time I reached the first indication of civilization, I was wishing for a fur coat (and to hell with Greenpeace). If not for the intervention of my neighbor, George, I probably wouldn't have even tossed the windbreaker onto the front seat, so anxious had I been to set out on this idiotic quest before sanity could take hold. But George, bless his heart, had reminded me that the entire state of Texas doesn't share Houston's near-tropical climate. The temperature had hovered in the mid eighties on the morning I said good-bye to the house I'd grown up in. Here, I would guess it to be in the lower fifties at the most, and a strong north wind pushed me along, whistling down my collar. The jacket's thin, nylon pockets offered little protection; my fingers were already numb by the time I reached the dubious shelter of Forman's Gas Station. Which, by all indications, had been closed since circa 1939. The two gas pumps would have brought a fortune in an antiques auction, and I had to wonder how the building itself had managed to remain standing. The wood was weathered and cracked, silver with age, and the entire structure tilted precariously. A well-aimed spitball would have toppled it.
    "Okay, Hazel, what now?" But Hazel, curled in the bottom of my backpack and snug in a nest of Kleenex, didn't offer a reply. I resumed walking.
    By the time I reached the true outskirts of Perdue, my ears ached, my eyes burned, and my breath came out in solid little chunks that shattered as they dropped to the asphalt. I pushed my way into the first building I saw, which turned out to be Hope Feed and Hardware. A wave of deliciously warm air caressed me like a lover, and I made a beeline for its source: a cast iron, wood-burning stove that squatted comfortably in one corner of the room. When the scuffed, wooden floorboards creaked beneath my sneakers, a bald head popped up from behind the counter.
    "Sorry, Miss, I'm gettin' ready to close."
     I tried to answer, but all I could manage was the sound of chattering teeth.
    "Why, you poor kid!" The man was at my side in a flash, hustling me closer to the stove. "You just sit yourself down in that old rocker, atta girl, and I'll pour you a nice, hot cup of coffee. Cream and sugar? No? Here, now, put your feet closer to the stove, unless you think them fool plastic shoes will melt. Haven't you youngsters ever heard of boots? Good pair of leather boots'll last a lifetime. And what kind of coat is that for winter? Dadburn plastic clothes . . ."
    Throughout this non-stop monologue, he had settled me into the wooden rocker, eased the backpack off my shoulders, tucked a quilt around my knees, shoved another log into the already blazing fire, and poured coffee from a battered, tin pot that simmered atop the stove. I took a swig of something that tasted like the liquid derived from boiling old tires. It was heavenly.
    He pulled up a stool and sat. "Now, then, suppose you tell me what you're doing wandering around in a blue norther, and dressed for a spring picnic?"
    "Car broke down." I was relieved to find that some feeling had returned to my lips. "I walked here from out near the city limits sign."
    "Jeez Marie, that's two, three miles! Why didn't you stop at old Jack's gas station? You had to pass right by it to get here."
    "I did. No one was there."
     He shook his head. "Jack's been feeling poorly lately. He's gonna have to hire someone if he wants to keep the place going. That or sell it." He chuckled. "Can't shut it down, for sure. Only gas station in town."
     "Great," I mumbled. "So who's going to fix my car?"
    "Oh, Jack don't fix cars, he only pumps gas. When he's open, that is. You need Roger."
    "Roger?"
    "Yeah. He's got an old pickup rigged for towing, and he's real handy with tools."
    I sighed. "Roger it is, then. Could you call him for me?"
    "Nope, Roger ain't got a phone. Oh, now don't pull a face, we'll get your car fixed up. On your way to Lubbock, are you?"
    "Uh, no. Actually, I was on my way here." I didn't explain further, not sure how much I wanted to tell a total stranger, even one who had probably saved me from frostbite.
     My host brightened. "You came for the festival, I'll bet! You're early, though. The hunt don't start till tomorrow." He winked. "Officially, that is, though between you and me, I know a few early birds getting a little head start on the proceedings. Cheatin', some would say."
    I had lost the thread of this conversation fairly early on. "I don't know anything about a festival. I came to . . . visit my aunt."
    "You got kin in Perdue? I'll be. How come I've never seen you around before? I know most everybody here, lived here all my life. Tell you one thing, I never saw hair that color." He covered his mouth with one hand. "Guess I shouldn't have said that. Nothing wrong with hair color in a bottle, and none of my business anyway. Just trying to place your looks, was all. What did you say your name was?"
    "Taylor Madison," I figured an introduction might stop the questions. I had heard the hair color comment too many times throughout my life to be offended by it. My hair is a pale blonde, almost white. I've even been asked, once or twice, if I was an albino.
     He shook my proffered hand. "Rude of me not to have said so before, honey. I'm Hank Barton. I own this place." He gestured proudly around the store, which was stacked with sacks of feed, seed, and manure and crowded with items ranging from gardening gloves to a small John Deere tractor parked near the door. A couple of miniature rabbits watched me from their cage, and I was glad Hazel couldn't see them. I had never put her to the test but, after all, it was in her genes to chase rabbits.
     "Barton? I thought it was Hope's Hardware."
    Hank laughed and pulled a handkerchief from the chest pocket of his overalls to mop his bald pate. He moved away from the stove a bit, and I would have done the same if I could have gotten untangled from the tightly tucked quilt.
    "Hope, not Hope's," he explained. "That was my granddaddy's little joke. He started this store back when Derrick County was barely a scattering of dirt farmers and sheep ranchers. Said he didn't know if a hardware store out in the sticks would ever turn a profit, but he could always hope."
    "Well, it's obviously been a success, Mr. Barton."
     "Call me Hank. Here I've been jabbering away, and you've got places to go. Wish I could drive you myself, but my oldest boy borrowed the car tonight. I know! Stay put while I make a call. Have some more coffee."
    "Thank you." Now that I was warm, no amount of torture could have induced me to drink more of the awful brew. "Do you mind if I smoke?" I had quit for almost two years, but the first thing I had done after reading the letter was go out and buy a pack.
    "Why should I mind?" He handed me an old-fashioned glass coaster to use as an ashtray, then left me alone. I took advantage of his absence to scoot the rocker away from the stove and sneak a peek at Hazel, who was still sound asleep in her makeshift burrow. I could hear Hank talking on the phone, but couldn't make out what he was saying.
    "Sheriff's on his way," he said cheerfully upon his return. "Won't take him long, he's right across the street."
    I gaped at him. "The sheriff?"
    He shrugged. "Sure. Perdue don't have a taxi service, you know. Sheriff's the next best thing. I reckon if he can drive old Mrs. Archer to the grocery store once a week, he can sure tote a pretty little gal to her aunt's house." He peered at me. "Who'd you say your aunt was, again?"
    Why was I hesitating? "Tessa Potter," I told him. "Do you know her?"
    "Why, of course I do! Everybody knows Tessa and Wood." He examined me more closely, then slapped his knee. "Gosh sakes, that must meant Sarah had a kid. Well, I'll be. No one's heard a peep out of her since she high-tailed it to Houston – when? Must be nigh on to thirty years ago. How's she doin'?"
    "She's dead," I said flatly.
     "I'm right sorry to hear that." He looked over my shoulder and waved at someone. "There you are, Miles! Gettin' sneaky in your old age, I didn't even hear the door open. This young lady needs . . . Miles? Hey, you all right?"
    I turned, locking eyes with a tall, middle-aged man wearing a brown uniform. His angular face had been tanned to a permanent bronze by the West Texas sun, but at the moment, he was somehow managing to look pale.
     "Lordy, Miles, sit down before you fall down." Hank went into his bustling routine again, finding a clean mug and pulling the stool closer to the fire.
     The sheriff made his way to the stool and sat. After a moment he blinked and shook his head.
     "I'm okay, Hank, stop fussing. No, I don't want any of that melted tar you call coffee." He turned back to me and stuck out a hand the size of a catcher's mitt. "Miles Crawford, Miss –?"
    "Madison. Taylor Madison." I watched the hand swallow mine briefly, before dropping back into his lap.
     "Sorry about the dramatic entrance. I'm getting over the flu, and on top of that, I haven't eaten since breakfast." He summoned a weak smile.
    "Then you ought to be at home. I'm sure I can find someone else to drive me."
     "No need. I have to pass right by Tessa's house on the way to mine."
    "How about that, Miles?" Hank broke in. "Sarah Ross's little girl, can you believe it? She says her mama's passed away, though. Now that's a shame. Was it her heart or something? She couldn't have been but forty-five or six."
    "She was forty-nine." I began extricating myself from the quilt. "It was a hit-and-run accident, not an illness. Mr. Barton, I mean Hank, how can I thank you? You saved my life."
    Hank grinned. "Hardly that. Now, you get you some good boots and a heavy coat, hear?"
     "I'm sure she'll take your advice, Hank." The sheriff nudged my arm. "If you're ready, Miss Madison?"
    "Taylor, please. I'm ready." That was a lie. Blue norther notwithstanding, the worst still lay ahead of me.
     I had expected a patrol car, but was instead helped into a bright red Toyota sedan. The sheriff had left the engine running, and a warm interior greeted me.
     "My county car's in the shop," he explained as if he had read my mind, tossing a tan, felt Stetson into the back seat to make room for me.
    "Roger's?" I asked. "Speaking of that –"
    "Yeah, Hank told me you needed a tow. Tell you what, give me your keys. I'll drop you off at Tessa's, then track Roger down and get him to pull it in tonight."
    "Great. Listen, there's a laptop computer shoved under the front passenger seat. Could you make sure it's locked up somewhere?"
    The sheriff stopped for a red light (the only one I had seen so far, perhaps the only one in town) and glanced at me. "Locked up?"
    "Well, it's pretty valuable."
    "This isn't the big city, Miss Madison. Lots of folks around here still leave their doors unlocked. But I'll make sure your little computer is safe."
    "Thanks," I said, feeling somehow rebuked.
     After only a few blocks, the sheriff pulled into the driveway of a two story house. I couldn't make out any details in the dark, but a front window shed muted light. At least someone was home.
    The sheriff cleared his throat, and I realized I had been gazing at the house for quite some time. I opened the car door, surprised when he got out as well.
     "I'll walk you to the porch," he said, and I nodded gratefully. This was going to be harder than I had expected.
     "I thought they lived on a ranch," I said, as we climbed the front steps. I was already beginning to shiver again, though I was pretty sure it wasn't from the cold wind this time.
     He nodded. "They just moved into this place about six months ago. Wood had a stroke, and Doc wanted to get him into town for awhile, closer to the clinic."
    I felt an unexpected flare of concern for someone I'd never even met. "Is he all right?"
    "Getting along. The physical therapy seems to be helping, he can walk with a cane, now." His expression remained impassive in the dim light, but I knew he had to be wondering why I wasn't aware that my uncle had been gravely ill. "Well?"
     I started. "Well what?"
    "You might try ringing the bell," he suggested.
     The front door opened while my finger was still on the button. A plump woman peered out at me, one hand lifting to shove a dangling hairpin back into her gray bun.
    "Yes?" She noticed the sheriff and gave him a puzzled smile. "Why, hello, Miles."
    I waited for him to respond, but he obviously felt his duty had been done by bringing me here, and he was now ready to throw me to the wolves. In fact, I couldn't figure out why he hadn't already beat feet for his Toyota.
    "I'm looking for my aunt." The goosebumps on my arms were hatching goslings. "Tessa Potter," I added when she didn't reply.
    The woman's dentures threatened to pop out of her mouth. "Tessa has a niece? I had no idea. My stars, you think you know a person. Well, come on in child. Haven't you got enough sense to wear decent clothing in weather like this? Miles Crawford, why on earth didn't you lend the girl your jacket? And here I thought you were the last remaining gentleman in the state. I've never seen the like. Poor thing freezin' to death, and you stand there like a bump on a log. There now, Tessa will be home in a bit. I'm mindin' Wood while she runs to the grocery store. Are you comfy?"
    During this incredible speech, she had dragged me into the living room, settled me into a gigantic wing chair so close to the fireplace that I could feel the fine hairs on my arms singeing, and bustled off to fetch a pot of tea. The sheriff, who had been drawn along in our wake, sat down in a matching chair. I leaned closer to him.
     "Is she, by any chance, related to Hank?" I whispered. Crawford snorted a laugh.
    "That's Mabel Donnely. She's a retired nurse, and Doc recommended her to help out with your uncle."
    "Oh." The fire crackled through another silence. "Thanks for bringing me, Sheriff, but you really don't have to stay."
    Before he could reply, Mabel returned, lugging a loaded tea tray. "You'll stay too, won't you Miles?"
    "Wouldn't turn down your famous tea, Mabel." I swear he shot me a satisfied smirk. Obviously, even the high sheriff wasn't immune from small town curiosity.
    "Tessa's niece," the nurse marveled, plunking herself down on the sofa. "I've known the woman for twenty years, you think she'd mention a niece. Where are you – oh, my God!" To my amazement, she was climbing the couch like a tree, her screams coming in breathless little bursts.
     Baffled, I turned to Crawford. He was watching my backpack, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. I followed his gaze, suddenly certain what I would see.
    Sure enough, a furry little face had poked its way from beneath the flap and Hazel's bright eyes were taking in her new surroundings. Mabel's screams intensified.
    "A rat!" she shrieked. "Don't sit there like a lump, Miles Crawford, do something! Shoot the filthy thing!"
    "Don't you dare!" I shouted, torn between indignation and hilarity. Mabel would have made a great gogo dancer in her younger days, the way her rubber-soled nursing shoes were trouncing that couch.
    Easing Hazel from the pack, I cuddled her protectively. "She's not a rat, she's a ferret. She won't hurt you, Mabel, I promise."
    "What in blue blazes is going on in this house?" came a voice from the foyer. We all froze, Mabel in mid bounce, which must have been difficult.
    My aunt stood in the archway.
     Oh, yes, I knew she was my aunt, despite the fact that I had never laid eyes upon her until that moment. Her resemblance to my mother was astonishing. Same petite frame, same light brown hair, though Tessa's held far less gray than Mom's had. I got to my feet, absently handing Hazel over to Crawford.
    Mabel, somewhat recovered now that the sheriff had the "rat" in custody, clambered down from the sofa, smoothing her dress. "Tessa, dear, look who came to visit. Why didn't you ever tell me you had a niece?"
    Tessa dropped the grocery sack. It hit the tiled floor, something inside tinkling as it broke. She held out both hands, not in welcome, but rather as if she were making a sign to ward off evil.
    Mabel's mouth dropped open and she rushed to gather the scattered groceries. "Guess you're as surprised as I was, aren't you? I'll just put these things away for you, Tess, while you sit down and have tea with your pretty niece."
     "Thank you, Mabel," Tessa said quietly. "Is Wood all right?"
    "Sleeping like a baby," Mabel assured her, and hurried out of the room, cradling the dripping bag.
     Ignoring me for the moment, Tessa picked up the teapot with a hand that trembled noticeably, splashed some tea into the cup Mabel had been using, and downed it like a shot of bourbon.
    "Get out of my house," she ordered in a low, deadly tone. "Right now."
    She didn't stay around to make sure I obeyed, but disappeared up the staircase. Crawford dragged me out the front door before Mabel could emerge from the kitchen to find out what was going on.
    Mercifully, the sheriff didn't ask me any questions. He just drove, jacking the car's heater up to the hellfire setting in an attempt, I'm sure, to stop my trembling. Hazel wormed her way up to my shoulder and I nuzzled her gratefully, her long whiskers tickling my chin. Eventually, I came to realize that we had passed the same, lighted church steeple at least twelve times.
    "Sorry," I said. Whatever that meant..
    Crawford turned down a residential street where he found a place to pull over to the curb. We sat there for a while, listening to the whoosh of the heater and Hazel's occasional chattered comment.
    "Want to tell me what that was all about?" he asked finally.
    "I have no idea. And I'd rather not speculate right now, if you don't mind." I noticed that his car's ashtray had been used, so felt safe in digging out my cigarettes. He pushed in the lighter for me when I couldn't find my matchbook, and I rolled down the window, letting the cold air wash over my cheeks. "You know, I've spent all my time in this town either freezing or roasting. Don't you people know what 'happy medium' means?"
     "A cheerful psychic?" he suggested, dead-pan, surprising me into a weak laugh.
     "We can't sit here all night, Ms. Madison, you'd better at least tell me what's next on your agenda."
    "What are my alternatives?" I returned, taking a drag of smoke.
    "Well, there's always the bus station, but that might present a problem with your car. Tow charges from here to Houston would be pretty steep."
    "True." I tossed the glowing butt out the window, wondering wearily if he'd charge me with littering. I damn sure wasn't going anywhere without my car, but didn't see any reason to inform him that I wasn't planning to leave at all until Tessa answered at least one question. "Okay, then, would you mind dropping me off at a motel?"
     "I wouldn't mind at all, except for one minor thing. Perdue doesn't have a motel."
    "Perfect. Where do people stay when they visit this godforsaken place?"
    "We have a boarding house."
     "Fine."
    "Afraid not. It's all booked up for the festival."
    The damn festival again. Didn't take a lot to get the local yokels excited, I thought sourly.
    "This is about the only time of year that we get any tourists," he went on. "The boarding house fills up fast, and then a lot of the citizens like to rent out spare rooms to catch the overflow. Works out pretty good for everyone. The homeowners get a little extra cash, and the tourists get home-cooked meals. 'Course, a lot of the tourists nowadays bring motor homes or trailers. We've got a big area set up out near the auditorium for camping."
     "Darn, and I left my motor home parked next to the mansion. What you're telling me is there's no room at the inn. Any of the inns."
     He pulled away from the curb. "I think we can find you something."
    I was puzzled when he parked in front of Hope Hardware, but kept my mouth shut and followed him inside.
    Hank greeted me like an old friend, and started nodding even before Crawford had finished his request. "Sure, I'll set up a rollaway bed in that little store room upstairs." He turned to me. "Will that be comfortable enough?"
    At that moment, I probably would have agreed to sleeping on a bed constructed of rocks and cactus. "Sounds great."
    Crawford managed to suppress the dozen or so questions he must have been dying to ask me and took his leave. I trailed Hank up the stairs.
    The room he opened was at the end of a long hall, and might have measured eight by twelve feet if you removed some of the junk stacked along the walls. It had a single window overlooking the rear of the store, and an extra door that led, Hank informed me, to the bathroom belonging to the small apartment next door.
    "My grandparents lived there when they started the store," he told me, as he bustled around setting up the bed, finding an old brass floor lamp to put beside it, and plugging in a space heater. "My wife and I have a real house now, though, so I rent the apartment out. What the hey, a little extra money never hurts, and I got a good tenant. Nice and quiet, no wild parties." Hank peeked at his watch. "He'll be working until midnight, at least, so feel free to use the bathroom."
    It wasn't until he'd gone that I realized he hadn't asked any questions either, though he must have been wondering why I hadn't stayed with my 'kinfolk'. I could see I'd have to shake the notion that small town folk are genetically unable to subdue their natural nosiness. I fed Hazel from the ziplock bag of dry cat food in my backpack, spread out a few layers of newspaper for her to use as a potty, then ran myself a tub full of hot water. After prudently making use of the hook and eye lock on the door that led into the apartment next door, I eased myself into the claw-footed tub and finally allowed myself to think. Tessa's reaction had shocked me, but it really shouldn't have. The letter I found certainly made it clear that she and my mother had not been on good terms. She probably didn't even know that Mom had died. Who would have informed her? After all, I hadn't known that Tessa existed until the week after the funeral. I felt myself slipping into a doze, and stood to towel off before I drowned.
     Hazel had climbed the sheets and was curled into a ball next to my pillow. I left her there, drifting into sleep with her musky scent in my nose.

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