The Great Escape (Wynette, Texas #7)(8)

Either she hadn’t spoken loud enough or he didn’t hear her because he didn’t stop.

As they rode, she let her mind drift and found herself remembering the day Mat Jorik had shown up at that ratty rental house in Harrisburg where she’d been hiding out with her baby sister during those terrible weeks after their mother’s death. He’d loomed at the front door, angry and impatient. She had a dead mother and a year-old baby sister to protect, so even though she’d been fourteen and scared to death, she didn’t let him see it.

“We got nothing to talk about,” she’d said after he’d bullied his way inside.

“Cut the crap … Unless you shoot straight with me, Child and Family Services will be here to pick you up in an hour.”

For six weeks, she’d used all the resources a fourteen-year-old could muster to keep the authorities from finding out she was the only one caring for the baby she’d called Button, the baby who’d grown up to be Tracy. “We don’t need anybody taking care of us!” she’d shouted. “We’re doing great by ourselves. Why don’t you mind your own damn business?”

But he hadn’t minded his business, and before long, he, Lucy, and Button were on the road, where they’d met up with Nealy and gone on a cross-country trip in Mabel, the beat-up Winnebago that still sat on her parents’ property in Virginia because none of them could bear getting rid of her. Mat was the only father she had ever known, and she couldn’t have found a better one. Or a better husband for Nealy, a love match Lucy’d had more than a small hand in bringing about. She’d been so courageous in those days. So fearless. She’d lost that part of herself so gradually she’d barely been aware of the change.

Panda wheeled into a dirt lot in front of a white frame building with a sign over the door that read STOKEY’S COUNTRY STORE. The windows displayed everything from shotguns to mixing bowls to kids’ Crocs. A Coke machine sat near the door, along with a garden gnome and a postcard rack.

“What size shoes d’you wear?” He sounded angry.

“Seven and a half. And I’d like—”

He was already taking the steps two at a time.

She got off the bike and tucked herself behind a delivery truck, helmet firmly in place, while she waited. She wished she could pick out her own shoes, but going into the store looking like this was unthinkable. She prayed he wasn’t picking up more beer. Or condoms.

He emerged with a plastic sack and thrust it at her. “You owe me.”





GAS, GRASS, OR ASS. NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE.


“I said I’d pay you.”

He uttered another of his caveman grunts.

She glanced inside the sack. Jeans, gray cotton T-shirt, cheap navy sneakers, and a ball cap. She carried it all behind the building, took off her helmet, and changed where she couldn’t be seen. The jeans were stiff and ugly, baggy in the hip and leg. The T-shirt had a University of Texas logo. He’d forgotten socks, but at least she could get rid of her heels. Unlike him, she didn’t litter, so she stuffed the choir robe and shoes back into the plastic sack and came out of the trees.

He scratched his chest, his expression vacant. “The television was on in the store. You’re big news right now. They’re saying you’re staying with friends, but I wouldn’t count on not being recognized.”

She clutched the plastic bag with the choir robe inside and pulled the helmet back on.

Half an hour later, he was parking behind a Denny’s. She wanted a real bathroom with hot and cold running water, which outweighed her dread of anyone recognizing her. While he pocketed the ignition key and looked around, she took off the helmet and gathered her stiff, sprayed hair into a facsimile of a ponytail, which she pulled through the hole in the back of her ball cap.

“If that’s your disguise,” he said, “you’re not gonna get far.”

He was right. She yearned for the helmet. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, she took her ruined shoes out of the plastic bag, leaving the wadded choir robe in it. She bunched up the bag and stuffed it under her roomy T-shirt, securing part of it in the waistband of her jeans so it wouldn’t fall out.

This was the same disguise Nealy had used all those years ago when she’d fled the White House. Maybe it would work for Lucy. If she was lucky, no one would connect the former first daughter with a cheaply dressed pregnant girl walking into a Denny’s. She’d look like one more stupid female who’d fallen for the wrong guy.

Panda gazed at her plastic-bag pregnancy. “Here I am, about to be a father, and the sex wasn’t even that good.”

She fought the urge to apologize.

He only seemed to have two expressions, vacant or scowling. Now it was a scowl. “You don’t even look legal.”

She’d always appeared younger than her age, and her current outfit had to make her look even younger. I’m sure I’m not your first teenager. That’s what Meg would have said to him, but Lucy turned away, dumped her ruined stilettos in a trash bin, and headed cautiously into the restaurant.

To her relief, no one paid any attention to her, not because of her bad clothes or pregnancy bump, but because everyone looked at Panda. He was like Ted in that way. They both had a big presence—Ted’s good, Panda’s not.

She made her way to the restroom, cleaned up as best as she could, and rearranged her pregnancy bump. When she came out, she felt almost human.