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  The older man scratched his goatee as he studied me, the solemnity of his expression increasing until, with grave severity, he added in a low voice, “Don’t be stupid. There’s no reason to include your brother Billy in this. He don’t need to know.”

  I didn’t say so, but I agreed with Repo on this one. Billy’s answer would be to go directly to the police, all the while waving his middle finger at the Iron Wraiths. Billy loved Jethro, but he hated the Wraiths more. In fact, I was pretty sure Billy hated the Wraiths more than he loved anything—except maybe our momma. But with her death, Billy’s regard for Momma was a moot point.

  “But,” Dirty Dave stepped around his biker brother and waved his fat finger at my chest, “you got two weeks, Duane. Two weeks to decide, or else we send an anonymous tip to Sheriff James and you can visit Jethro on the weekends…at the Federal Correctional Institution in Memphis.”

  * * *

  I did nothing with the thumb drive at first except hide it. When I got home that night I researched thumb drives and whether they could be used to install spyware or cause mischief on my personal computer. Everything I read made me nervous.

  I thought about calling Jethro or Drew, but decided against it. Jethro was now a law-abiding park ranger for the National Forest and Drew was his boss. They were currently together on a trek in the mountains some two hundred miles away, and only reachable via satellite phone.

  I was also feeling paranoid and didn’t think it prudent to have a telephone conversation about my brother’s previous illegal activities. Discussing matters with Jethro would have to wait until he got back from the mountains.

  In the end, I decided to talk to Beau—and only Beau—about everything when he and Cletus arrived home on Saturday. There was no reason to include my other brothers in the discussion. Worst-case scenario, if it turned out that the only way to keep Jethro out of prison was conscription of the Winston Brothers Auto Shop, then Beau and I would have to do it alone. I didn’t want anyone else getting caught up in this tangle.

  The fewer people who knew about this business with the Iron Wraiths the better. Billy, Cletus, and Roscoe could plead true ignorance if Beau and I were caught.

  Before I went to sleep, I further decided to drive into Knoxville in search of a pawn shop as soon as dawn broke the next morning.

  On my way into town I grabbed a doughnut and caffeine fix from Daisy’s Nut House, an early riser café for locals of Green Valley. The warm, jelly-filled pastry paired with her drip coffee did a bit to settle my uncommon nerves. Though I still felt cautious, so I decided not to search for a pawn shop using my iPhone or computer, deciding it was better to leave no computer trail of my activities…just in case.

  Thankfully, I found a shop that looked promising called Discount Larry’s Gun and Pawn. Because these places always have surveillance cameras, I parked across the street, and pulled on my brother Roscoe’s Yankee’s baseball hat (something I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing) and non-descript blue hoodie.

  I kept my head down as I entered and did a fast sweep of the merchandise, finding what I was searching for almost immediately. I paid in cash and left the shop quickly, having shared no words with the proprietor.

  I jogged back to my car. I then took the long road back to Green Valley, but stopped by Mr. Tanner’s junkyard on my way. It was there, down the tree-lined dirt road to one side of the junkyard, that I opened the old laptop I’d just purchased from the pawn shop, and watched the video.

  What I saw made me want to murder my oldest brother.

  And when Beau got home on Saturday, he could help me figure out how to hide Jethro’s body.

  Chapter 8

  “Men read maps better than women because only men can understand the concept of an inch equaling a hundred miles.”

  Roseanne Barr

  ~Jessica~

  Nobody ever expects a Mustang convertible.

  Especially not Duane Winston leaning against a dark blue Mustang convertible with a white top and racing stripe. The convertible had a white top and racing stripe, not Duane. He was wearing faded, bootcut blue jeans that fit nice and snug over his hips, and a charcoal colored thermal. As I approached—after I recovered from my surprise—I noticed the shirt’s color made his eyes appear almost gray.

  He wasn’t smiling, but I did have all his focus, and Duane’s focus made me self-conscious and unsteady. Therefore, my smile was dreamy and reflexive.

  “What are you doing here?” I gestured to the high school parking lot. It was Thursday afternoon and I’d just received a text message from my brother Jackson; he was on his way to pick me up so I was coming outside to wait.

  Instead of answering my question, Duane leaned forward, placed his hand on my hip, and gave me a soft kiss that stole my breath and made every inch of my skin hot.

  Then he leaned away, his hand falling back to his side, and answered simply, “I’m bringing you your car.”

  My mouth fell open for obvious reasons and I blinked at him. “My…my car?”

  “Yes.” He gave me just the faintest shadow of a grin. “Your car. You can keep it if you want, or you can give it back when you find something better.”

  “What are you talking about?” My attention moved past him to the gorgeous vintage automobile. He’d backed it into a parking space at the front of the school. I didn’t know much about cars, but this car was beautiful.

  “While we negotiate a price for your truck you need a car, for getting around, back and forth to work. Take this one for as long as you like.”

  I struggled to form both words and thought; finally I managed, “Duane, first of all…whose car is this? I mean, who does it belong to? Won’t they miss it?”

  “No. It’s one of mine. I hardly use it.” He reached for my hand and placed the keys in my palm.

  “One of yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  I couldn’t stop blinking at him. “I can’t take your car.”

  He shrugged. “Sure you can.”

  “It’s a classic! I mean, I’m no expert on cars, but this isn’t a recent model. This must be over thirty years old.”

  “About fifty years, actually. It’s a 1966 Mustang 289.”

  Now I was blinking and shaking my head, and my thoughts were a breathy whisper when they slipped out, “You’re crazy.”

  He finally smiled, though it was swift and gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. I made a mental note that Duane Winston liked it when I called him crazy.

  “Take it for a test drive.” His hands were on me again, steering me to the driver’s side door. He opened it and gently pushed me inside, taking the bag from my shoulder and setting it on the floor behind my seat.

  Meanwhile, I was greedily devouring the inside of the classic car with my eyes, unthinkingly slipping the keys into the ignition, pressing the clutch, and turning it on. It was…majestic. Something about the car almost felt alive, even sitting idle, humming beneath my fingers, anxious for the road.

  Duane claimed the passenger seat and I glanced at him, finding his attention affixed to my face and a warmth there that made my heart race.

  “What?” I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “Are you going to touch it or drive it?”

  “Honestly? I haven’t made up my mind.” I stroked the steering wheel. It was covered in soft white leather. In fact, all the upholstery was white leather; the inside smelled like leather and Duane’s cologne. “I don’t think…I mean, I don’t know if I can.”

  “Don’t you know how to drive a stick?”

  “Yes. But that’s not what I meant.” I let go of the wheel and faced him, clasping my hands together on my lap so I wouldn’t reach for it again. “I mean, I don’t understand what’s going on. I should get a rental car in Knoxville until I find a replacement for the truck, something newer.”

  “No. You shouldn’t.” He wasn’t smiling now. In fact, he looked frustrated. “That’d be a waste of money. This Mustang is a classic, yes. And, sure, it has over six hu
ndred thousand miles on it. But I’ve rebuilt the engine and most of the other parts are new. It has new tires, brakes, suspension. It runs as good as a new car, I wouldn’t let you drive anything unsafe. You’re not going to have any problems with it, and it handles the mountain roads real well.”

  I shook my head and reached for his hand, seeing he’d mistaken my meaning. “That’s not what I meant. I trust that this car handles like it looks—beautifully.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is this car is a classic. It is far too valuable for me to use as a loaner.”

  “Then it’s not a loaner. I’m giving it to you. It’s yours.”

  My mouth fell open again and a small sound of confused protest escaped. “Duane.”

  “Jess.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious.” He looked serious.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you need a car and I have four.” He shrugged.

  “You could sell it. I’m sure it’s worth a bundle.”

  “I can’t sell it because I just gave it to you.”

  I gritted my teeth before hollering, “You can’t give me a car!”

  He lifted his voice to match the volume of mine. “I just did!”

  I stared at him, the stubborn set of his square jaw, the way his left eyebrow was slightly raised in challenge. He was so stubborn and irritating…and cute. And sweet. And thoughtful. And presumptuous.

  “I’m not taking it,” I said finally, shaking my head. “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Quit being so stubborn.”

  “Being rational isn’t being stubborn. You can’t just go around giving people cars. You’re not Oprah.”

  Duane’s lips flattened in a way that made me think he was trying not to laugh because his eyes were shining. “What gave me away? Was it the red hair?”

  Without thinking, and in a way reminiscent of our bickering childhood, I responded flatly, “No. It was the feel of your circumcised penis last week.”

  Duane lost his battle with laughter and threw his head back, eliciting an unbidden smile from me. I exhaled a chuckle and rolled my eyes, feeling remarkably pleased I’d made him laugh. I think I was even blushing, which was strange. Making Duane Winston laugh flushed me with pleasure, or maybe it was the intoxicating sight of how much he seemed to enjoy it, enjoy being with me.

  Still grinning widely—which in and of itself looked foreign and therefore dazzling on his face—he said, “But before last week, you still had doubts as to my identity?”

  “Well, I’ve never seen you and Oprah in the same room together. Plus you both have your favorite things lists.” I was making reference to his statement last Friday, that arguing with me was one of his favorite things.

  “Do you have a favorite things list?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” My neck was abruptly hot.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve been thinking on my trouser department, haven’t you?”

  Flustered, I shook my head. “Getting back to the topic at hand—”

  “Is it? At hand? I wasn’t aware.”

  “Duane Winston!” I tried to sound shocked and foreboding, but my involuntary answering smile was ruining the effect. “I’m attempting to be serious. Stop trying to muddle me.”

  “If I were trying to muddle you, then you’d know it.”

  I tsked, then huffed. “When'd you get so sassy?”

  “When'd you get so serious?”

  “I’m not! I just can’t accept this car.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Nope. Not the same.” He plucked my hand from where it rested on my lap and held it in both of his, sending a warm, delightful sensation of loveliness up my arm and around my brain. “Jessica James, you’re going to have to get used to me wanting to take care of you and fix your troubles.”

  “I’m not a damsel. I don’t need rescuing.”

  “I know. You’re capable and stubborn, and I like that about you a whole lot. But maybe you could pretend to be a little less capable from time to time?”

  “To what end?”

  “So I get to feel good about rescuing you.”

  I smirked at this logic. His request actually reminded me of my mom and dad. Sometimes my mother would pretend she couldn’t open a jar in the kitchen or that she needed help lifting something heavy. When I’d called her on it, she’d said, “Nothing wrong with making your man feel needed. If your Aunt Louisa had done the same then she wouldn’t be so lonely in that big house of hers.”

  “Let me help,” he implored. “Use this car.”

  “I don’t want to take advantage.”

  All trace of his earlier smile had vanished and he appeared to be completely sincere. “You won’t be. It’ll settle my mind, knowing you’re driving something I built.”

  I sighed, considering him and his request. “So, it would be a loaner?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged noncommittally. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “And what do you expect in return?”

  “Pardon me?” he asked, looking confused tinged with horrified. “I don’t want anything.”

  I narrowed my eyes further and teased, “Tell me, Oprah, what are you after? Penis strokes? More frigid skinny-dipping? What?”

  Catching on, Duane’s eyes lowered to my mouth; his held just a hint of a smile as he responded, “I’ll take a rain check on the stroking and skinny-dipping, but how about a kiss?”

  I’d already wanted to kiss him.

  So I did.

  I grabbed a fistful of his gray thermal and tugged, bringing his lips to mine suddenly, and I kissed him.

  BAM!

  Infuriatingly, he didn’t seem at all surprised. He quickly took control, one hand fisting in my hair, angling my head as he liked, the other digging into my hip as he pulled me closer. He licked my lips and surged forward, giving the impression of requesting entrance without actually waiting for my consent.

  It didn’t matter. My pleasure moan gave me away, a sound of surrender. His hot mouth moved over mine, the sweep of his tongue sending a thrill straight down my spine, making me feel frenzied and cherished all at once.

  But then the whoop whoop of a police car scared the bejeebus out of me, and I jumped away. Duane released me as I spun toward the sound, my heart in my throat.

  “What the hell is going on here?” I found my brother Jackson barking and glaring at us. He’d pulled his cruiser parallel to the Mustang and rolled down his window.

  I sighed, closing my eyes, and letting my head fall back on the head rest. I swallowed before I reprimanded my brother. “Jackson! You scared me half to death.”

  “I repeat, what the hell is going on here?” Jackson didn’t sound repentant, he sounded irate.

  I shook my head without opening my eyes, couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from my chest. “What does it look like?”

  “Jessica…” he warned, his voice rough.

  I opened my eyes and grinned at my older brother, pressing the clutch and shifting the beautiful car into first gear. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thoroughly enjoying his shocked expression.

  My brother’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Don’t you dare. Have you lost your mind?”

  “No, I haven’t lost my mind. I’ve found a car, and look! It has a Duane in it. Now if you’ll excuse me, my Duane and I really must be going.”

  And with that, I pulled out of the space Duane had backed into, and turned the car in the opposite direction of home.

  * * *

  He was right, the car handled beautifully.

  This car was powerful and light. My beast truck was powerful but heavy. It was actually fun to drive. I’d never driven a car like it before, one with personality and eager responsiveness, like the automobile was a willing and eager participant in its motion. Driving felt like more than just traveling from one place to the next. It felt
like an experience. An odd thought entered my head thirty minutes after first pressing on the gas pedal: I was falling in love with this car.

  Duane was quiet while I drove. I didn’t know where I was taking us and his silence felt introspective. Every once in a while I felt his eyes on me, but he kept his hands to himself.

  I made no attempt at conversation, partially because the windows were down and the rush of wind meant I would have to shout to be heard. The other reason was because the silence felt comfortable.

  We crossed the mountain, taking the Parkway to Cades Cove, and I pulled into the picnic area, searching for a parking spot farthest from the rest of the cars, trucks, and campers. At the tip of the loop I spotted an isolated spot where no tourists appeared to be nearby. I pulled in and cut the ignition, but left the keys where they were.

  Without the hum of the engine and the roar of the wind, the near soundlessness that surrounded us felt deafening and heavy, like the end of a ballad. But soon the whisper of flowing water, rustling of leaves, and song of birds met my ears, and alleviated the hefty stillness that had settled between us.

  I glanced at Duane from the corner of my eye and found him watching me. Not staring, just watching, like he was waiting to see what I would do next. His expression was inscrutable and therefore unsettling.

  I cleared my throat, clasping my hands on my lap, and gave him a small smile. It likely looked guilty, because I felt a little guilty for the way I’d used Duane to irritate my brother.

  “Are you still doing that?” he asked, shifting in his seat until his back half rested against the passenger side door, like he needed distance to see me clearly.

  “Still doing what?” I tucked my hair—now likely a crazy mess—behind my ears and met his eyes directly.

  “Still trying to upset the men in your family?”

  I huffed a laugh and answered honestly, “Yes. I guess I am. It’s just too much fun, getting Jackson all riled up.”