Keep Her Safe(127)

CHAPTER 56


Noah

Gracie pokes the sausage with her fork, her brow furrowed deeply.

“What’s the matter?”

“Aside from the heart attack I’m gonna have later?”

“Coming from the girl who would live off bacon.”

“There are three different types of meat on my plate and it’s not even noon.”

I gesture at the tiny white ramekins. “And green beans. And potato salad.”

“Honestly, how much meat do you Texans eat in one sitting?”

I grin. “Careful. You’re a Texan, too.”

She rolls her eyes, but I can see the smile in them. She’s poking fun for the sake of poking fun. “And what is this thing they brought my food on?” She gestures at the silver tray.

“What’s wrong with that? It gives you more eating room.”

“So do troughs.” She glances around us, at the rows of worn wood tables laid out with easy-wipe red-and-white-checkered tablecloths. “It’s quiet in here.”

“It’s early for lunch.” And empty, save for one other couple in the far corner. But it’ll fill up fast. Dunn’s BBQ is casual and comfortable, and like most other barbecue places I’ve been to—wooden walls, and plenty of napkin dispensers and condiment trays.

“So is this what people do in Texas? Sidle up to a tray and eat enough animal flesh to give them the meat sweats?”

I burst out laughing. “Shut up and eat.” Stabbing my fork into a hunk of brisket from her plate, I hold it up to her mouth, half expecting her to swat my hand away. With teasing eyes locked on mine, she opens just enough to scrape her teeth along the metal tines as she bites it off.

She chews slowly.

“Well?”

I get an indifferent shrug in response—because she’ll never admit that she was wrong—and then she wastes no time stabbing her own fork into another hunk, readying it. “So, is this like one of those big dreams for a Texan? Owning a barbecue joint? Are you going to tell me that you want to own one someday?”

“It is for Heath Dunn.” It probably beats patrolling the streets of Austin.

“Do you think we’ll see him today?”

“I hope so. At least we’ll know who to look for.” There’s a bulletin board on the wall by the door, first thing customers see as they step in. It’s a place to advertise events at Dunn’s—bands, charity fundraisers, sports teams that Dunn’s sponsors. Heath Dunn—a tall graying man—is prominently photographed in several of the notices.

I watch the busy street and the restaurant for signs of him while Gracie works her way through the range of sausage, brisket, and ribs on her platter, not saying a word in between mouthfuls. Barely taking a breath.

I can’t help it anymore. “You gonna at least try a vegetable?”

“Shut up.”

I grin. “Not so bad after all, huh?”

The corner of her mouth quirks as she reaches for her phone. “I just remembered, I promised my mom I’d call today.”

“Go on, then,” I say, watching her quietly. Despite the hell Dina put Gracie through, I think they’ll be able to mend those fences just fine. I’m glad for that, because there’s no way I’m letting either of them disappear from my life ever again. They’re family, even if Gracie kicks me to the curb one day.

Gracie’s scrolling through her contact list when I spot a tall man strolling down the sidewalk toward the front door, a newspaper tucked under his arm and a broad cowboy hat covering his balding head.

“Hold up a second on that call.”

She follows my line of sight, and we watch as Heath Dunn greets the hostess with a smile and a tip of his hat.

“That’s definitely him.” For all the hipsters and trendy side of Austin, Dunn could blend in at any Texas rodeo, right down to his starched Wrangler jeans, the silver buckle on his belt, and his round-tipped cowboy boots.

Dunn and the hostess make small talk for a few moments before a guy—the manager, I’m guessing—interrupts them, holding up a clipboard.

“I need five minutes. Just give me five minutes, ’kay?” Dunn waves him off and begins marching through the restaurant, toward us, his focus intent on a hallway at the other end.

I wipe my hands on my napkin and stand. “Mr. Dunn?”

He slows, his gray eyes instantly sizing me up, the same way my mom would size up approaching strangers.

“Hi, sir. I’m Noah Marshall, Chief Jackie Marshall’s son.” I hold out a hand.

Recognition washes over his face as he accepts it. “Yes, sir. My condolences—such a shame. How are y’all doin’ today?”

“Pretty good.”

“You and your girlfriend here enjoy whatever you want, on the house. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Actually, I was hoping we could get a few minutes of your time?”

He’s already pulling away, stepping toward the door. “Sorry, son. I’m up to my eyeballs with paperwork and the like. Maybe you can come in another day and—”

“It’s about my father, Abraham Wilkes.” Somehow, even with Dunn towering over her small seated frame, Gracie manages to level him with a gaze that stops him in his tracks.