That crossed the Gulf of Mexico off his list. He wouldn’t take FM 112 south toward Old Dime Box either.
So … what would it be? The Piney Woods? The Davis Mountains? Big Bend National Park?
No. Tucker didn’t truly have a decision to make. He’d known his ultimate destination ever since he’d exited the Fort Hood gate, even if he’d pretended otherwise and followed his nose on the road for a while.
From here, he was going to head southwest toward the Texas Hill Country. Toward Enchanted Canyon, to be exact. The air blew clean and fresh there, and the water ran sweet and crisp and cleansing. The only vipers he’d likely run across slithered on their bellies or coiled and shook their rattles in warning. The people there, well, they didn’t come any better than his cousin Jackson. Tucker could tolerate that much family, at least. Jackson wouldn’t press him with questions he didn’t want to answer.
He drained his soft drink, placed the empty in the wooden bottle crate sitting on the ground beside the pumps, then swung a long leg over the saddle and started his bike.
He’d probably take a ride to Big Bend and another to the coast and do a trek up to the Piney Woods in the coming weeks and months, but today, for now, he’d take the scenic route toward the little tourist town of Redemption. He’d look up Jackson and share the salient pieces of his story. Jackson would give him the space he needed right now. Plus, he could be counted on to smooth Tucker’s way with the rest of the fam-damly.
While Tucker had been waging war in Washington, Jackson had taken point in dealing with a family windfall, the inheritance of Enchanted Canyon from a distant relative. He’d overseen the remodeling of the nineteenth-century brothel and dance hall that stood at the halfway point between Redemption and the ghost town and former outlaw conclave of Ruin, snuggled at the back of the canyon. The cathouse had been converted to a bed-and-breakfast, and the Fallen Angel Inn had recently opened to great success. Many of the guests it welcomed came to hear music at the Last Chance Hall, which was Jackson’s pet project.
Jackson was the perfect person to run interference for Tucker. No stranger to turmoil after a contentious divorce and child custody fight, he would be a sympathetic ear for whatever parts of Tucker’s story he wanted to share. And maybe, just maybe, Jackson could help Tucker find his way to … somewhere.
So Tucker headed for the Hill Country and took pleasure in the ride through a fertile stretch of rolling plains along the way. The afternoon was overcast, but the temperature hovered in the mid-seventies. A mild breeze carried the lingering scent of morning rain. The cotton harvest was underway, some of the fields stripped bare, others white as snow. Fat Angus, Herefords, and Holsteins populated the pastures. Seeing them made him hungry for a good steak. A short time later, as he rode through a bottomland pecan orchard, he added pecan pie to the menu.
He would need to decide where he wanted to stay overnight before long. He could step up his pace and make it into Redemption tonight, but camping held greater appeal. Today’s weather forecast called for a cold front to blow through around sunset, taking the clouds with it. It had been way too long since he’d camped beneath Texas’s starry sky.
As was his custom, Tucker carried essential gear with him. He simply needed to find a place to build his fire and a shelter. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the map he’d studied before heading out from Fort Hood this morning and reviewed the landmarks he’d noted along his meandering today. Bastrop State Park wasn’t too far away. He could alter his direction a skosh and go there. Finding a vacant campsite this time of year shouldn’t be a problem. Tomorrow, he could take a morning hike through the park, then circle around Austin and arrive in Redemption midafternoon.
Decision made, he took the next southeast turn, and a few minutes later, zoomed past a figure before he registered what he’d seen.
A woman.
A vision with mile-long legs and glossy waves of hair the color of rich mahogany that fell almost to her waist. She had finely drawn features: her face heart-shaped, her nose straight, her lips lush and full. A sleeveless red dress hugged her voluptuous curves, its narrow tab shoulders revealing the strap of a red bra underneath. Her full hips enticingly swayed as she walked on the shoulder of the road in a pair of red high heels.
No car was in sight. No house was in sight. No other human being was in sight.
Former Army Ranger Tucker McBride had just spied a long-legged damsel in distress.
* * *
Gillian Thacker was having a wretched day.
She’d had a fight with Jeremy, the worst they’d ever had. It had started out over a relatively little thing—wedding details—and escalated quickly. Before she knew it, they’d had the row of their relationship.
The trip to Bastrop for an arts festival and two nights at a historic B&B was supposed to have been a romantic getaway for the two of them, a surprise he’d popped on her earlier this week. She’d been thrilled. She’d needed both a break from work and to spend some quality time with her fiancé. The entire month of August had been ridiculously busy at Bliss Bridal Salon, the wedding gown shop in Redemption, Texas, that she owned in partnership with her mother. Due to her workload, in the past three weeks Gillian had had to cancel two dates with Jeremy in addition to her plans to accompany him to Houston last weekend for a banking industry symposium at which he was a speaker.
They’d no sooner arrived in Bastrop this afternoon and begun unpacking when the bickering began. Really, why did Jeremy have an opinion about the reception china Mom wanted to use, anyway?
Gillian threw the small stone as hard as she could off into the cotton field, then continued to brood as she walked down the narrow two-lane road. In three-inch heels. Thinking about the wedding and the argument, so that she wasn’t dwelling on her current predicament.
She was starting to get a little scared. “But I won’t think about that.”
She couldn’t believe this all started over china, the lovely mismatched service for two hundred that her mother had been collecting for years in anticipation of using for her only daughter’s wedding reception. Although, to be precise, the china had only been a part of today’s explosion. What really set Jeremy off was the fact that Gillian had asked for her mother’s opinion rather than his about what flatware to use with the china. Never mind that the man neither knew nor cared anything about table settings, and her mother loved nothing better than setting pretty tables.
It was a control thing with Jeremy.
Gillian and her mom enjoyed a very close relationship. In addition to being parent and child, they were partners in a business and friends. Gillian was beginning to suspect that Jeremy was threatened by it. He needed to assert power, which was silly because he wasn’t in competition with her mother. Gillian loved them both, she needed them both, but in totally different ways. Why couldn’t he see that?
He’d gotten his feathers ruffled rather often of late. She had always tried her best to soothe them, but today, when he’d wanted to veto the flatware selection, she reached her limit.
He’d been mean about it.
The ensuing argument had spiraled from china to flowers to sparklers to signature drinks to photo booth props—and then it got out of control. By the time she’d stormed from the B&B in Bastrop where they had planned to spend the weekend, she and Jeremy had fought over some idiotic things, and some very serious ones.