One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(5)

These days, most parents would advise their kids differently, and yet, for many rural areas, hitchhiking remains a way of life. Mass transit only passes through major towns. Taxis, Uber, car rentals—those are amenities for city folks.

The town of Ramsey is thirteen miles from this final bus stop. A bit far to walk in the bright August sun, let alone the relentlessly dry heat. So copping a ride it is.

I approach the woman pumping gas. She glances up, nods once in greeting. She looks around my age, with sun-darkened skin and lean, muscled arms. Horsewoman for sure, I can tell by the way she’s standing. I instantly like her, but this is one of my few superpowers. In my own loner-like way, I’m actually a people person.

Whether other people like me, however, is always an interesting question.

Now I keep it simple. “I’m Frankie Elkin. I’m looking to get to Ramsey. If you’re headed in that direction, I’m hoping I might catch a ride.”

The woman eyes me, my rolling suitcase, my battered brown leather satchel. I wonder what she sees, or maybe doesn’t see. I’m not old. I’m not young. I’m not pretty. I’m not horrifying. I’m not from here, but then I’m not from anywhere.

Pump clicks off. She replaces the nozzle, goes to work on the gas cap.

“I have gas money,” I offer, then try to remember how much cash I have jammed in my front pocket. I’m down to my last hundred and twelve bucks. It’s okay, I’ve survived on less.

“Who are you?” the woman asks.

“Frankie—”

“No. Who are you?”

“Technically, I’m a professional bartender.”

“Why Ramsey?”

“Because I also look for missing persons, and I’m interested in the Timothy O’Day case.”

“You’re a reporter?”

“Nope. Just a person who looks for other people.” I shrug. “There’s more demand for someone like me than you might suspect.”

“That your gear?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your pack? Hiking boots? Camping gear?”

I glance down at my roll-aboard suitcase, bruised from so many towns, miles, bus rides. The horsewoman raises a good point. No way I can take luggage on a hike into the mountains. So there might be a few flaws with my impulsive decision. That’s never stopped me before.

“I’ll figure it out.”

The woman leans against her truck, folding her arms across her chest. She eyes me up and down. She hasn’t said no, which in my world is as good as a yes, but requires more patience.

“How do I know you’re not some crazy serial killer?” she asks at last.

“Because what are the odds of there being two crazy serial killers in the same vehicle?”

It’s an old joke, but the punch line earns me a smile. Beneath the brim of the woman’s Stetson, the corners of her blue eyes crinkle. She wears the dust, flecks of straw, and faint odor of horse manure well.

What if I got a job as a ranch hand? I’m tempted till I take a closer look at the rippling muscles on her arms, compared to my own scrawny sticks. I’m a very resourceful person. I’ve talked myself out of a fair amount of trouble. But no, I’m not winning any arm-wrestling contests anytime soon.

“All right,” she says abruptly. “Name’s Lisa Rowell. I’ll take you to Ramsey. Climb on board.”

I don’t hesitate but scramble around the ancient truck and load up, luggage at my feet, leather satchel at my side.

“Nice to meet you, Lisa.”

Just like that, I’m on the road again.



* * *



—

    “Do you live around here?” I ask her once we’ve headed out. The windows on both sides of the cab are rolled down, the wind streaming through my hair. I’m back to the happy side of my rash decision.

“Most of my life. Own a ranch near Ramsey.”

“Horses?”

“Horses, cattle, a few other strays.”

“Human or beast?”

I earn another flashing smile. “Bit of both, I suppose.”

“Were you involved in the search for Tim O’Day?”

She nods shortly. “When he and his friend first went missing. Most of the locals helped out. I provided some of the horses for the search party.”

“Do the locals have any theories?”

“Nature demands respect.”

“Sounds like Timothy was respectful. Experienced. Well equipped.”

She shrugs.

“Is it the booze?” I ask. “That he and his buddies hiked into a remote wilderness area, then pickled their brains with beer and whiskey?”

“What do you think the rest of us did during high school?”

Fair enough. “What do you think about wildlife? Grizzly bear? Mountain lion?”

“Possible.”

“But not probable?”

“I don’t head into the mountains without my rifle. There’s a reason for that. But in all my years . . . I’ve never actually seen a grizzly. Black bears, yes, but they’re not a problem. Besides, animals aren’t the neatest eaters.”

“In other words, if a grizzly or mountain lion had attacked Tim, there’d be more evidence. I thought the guys said they found blood, broken tree limbs, when they were looking for Scott.”