All Roads Lead to Texas. Linda Warren
get this one to Homestead. She was tempted to tell Mary Beth that Fred had gone to heaven, but they’d had too many of those discussions lately. Callie wasn’t ready for another one.
THE JOURNEY WAS LONG. From the metropolis of New York to the farmlands of Pennsylvania, through the tobacco farms and timberlands of West Virginia and Virginia, to the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee—sometimes it looked as if they were in a tunnel, with sixty-foot pines on each side of the road—then they reached the Ozarks of Arkansas and soon the rolling plains of Texas. They’d made it! The kids shouted with joy. Callie was happy, too. It had been three days and they hadn’t been caught. And Fred was still alive. That was also reason to cheer.
She drove through the Dallas–Fort Worth area and took I-35 to Austin. She showed the kids the University of Texas where she’d gone to college. Somehow the beautiful hill country with its peaceful rolling hills, brilliant live oaks and craggy ledges made her feel at home. It was early June so the heat of the summer hadn’t dulled the landscape. Even the air was invigorating.
“That’s where I want to go to college,” Brit stated.
“We’re going to Harvard, just like Daddy planned,” Adam was quick to correct her.
“Oh. I forgot.”
John had started planning the children’s futures as soon as they were born. They would attend the same private school in New York John had as a boy. The school was known for its academic excellence. Then they would apply to Harvard, as he had. He’d wanted them to have the best education possible.
On his deathbed, Callie had promised to do everything she could to see that his wishes were fulfilled. No matter what happened, she had to keep her word.
She headed toward San Antonio, turned off the interstate and took the state highway to Homestead. When they saw the city-limit sign, they cheered again. The sign read Population 2,504, but Miranda had told her that about fifteen hundred people now lived in the small town—the reason Miranda and the city council had come up with a plan to repopulate the area.
Callie went through a drill, making sure they knew their roles.
“What’s our last name?”
Adam and Brit remained quiet, waiting for Mary Beth to reply first. “Austin,” she shouted. “My name is Mary Beth Austin and I’m from Chicago, Illinois, ’cause that’s where my nana lived. I know that.”
Callie had chosen Austin because it would be easy for them to remember—Callie had gone to school there. And Chicago because John’s mother had lived there before she’d died two years ago.
“My name is Brittany Austin and I can’t wait to ride a horse,” Brit responded.
“Don’t be stupid,” Adam said. “We don’t have a horse.”
“Callie!” Brit wailed.
“We’ll talk about the horse later. First we have to find our new home.”
Callie knew it would be difficult for them to call her mother so they’d agreed they would just call her by her name. She would explain it the best way she could—being so young when Adam had been born, she’d allowed him to call her by her first name, and the other two children had followed his lead. Telling lies was becoming a habit.
There was a vegetable-and-fruit stand on the outskirts of town and a used car lot. It was time to stop for gas. Buddy’s Gas and Auto Repair Shop was up ahead so she pulled in.
It was an old station, probably had been there for years, but the gas pumps were new. A wrecker parked to the side had Buddy’s written across the door. An old wood fence separated the station from a junkyard. Through the broken and missing boards weeds grew wild and she could see rows of junked cars on the other side. A large building stood behind the station and Callie assumed this was the auto shop. Across from the pumps was a shiny Coke machine and a small office. Attached to the office was a double garage that had a car on a lift. A man was under it, looking up. To the right there was a small white frame house with a chain-link fence around it.
Callie got out and wrinkled her nose at the strong smell of gas, oil and rubber. The man walked toward her. He looked to be somewhere in his late forties or early fifties and he wore jeans, baseball cap and a chambray western shirt splattered with oil stains. He wiped his hands on a grease rag.
“Need help, ma’am?” His smile was friendly.
Callie was used to filling up her own car. She didn’t think that kind of service was offered anymore.
“I just need some gas.”
“Sure ’nuff.” He jammed the rag in his back pocket and proceeded to remove the gas cap then stuck the nozzle into the tank.
“Can I get out, please?” Brit called.
“Yes,” Callie said, thinking they probably needed to stretch their legs. They’d stayed at small motels and eaten take-out food in roadside parks so no one would recognize them. The rest of the time they’d been in the car.
They climbed out and stood by Callie. Brit plopped her hat on her head and tightened the string under her chin.
“You folks passin’ through?” the man asked.
“No. We’re here for the Home Free Program. I was approved for one of the houses.”
“You don’t say. Mighty good.” He nodded. “We need more youngins in Homestead. I’m Buddy, by the way.”
“I’m Callie Austin and these are my children, Adam, Brittany and Mary Beth.” This was the first time she’d said those words out loud and she found it quite easy. “Nice to meet you, Buddy.”
He looked at her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail with a colorful scrunchie and she could almost read his mind—too young to have three kids.
“Plumb nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said, then glanced at the children. “Your youngins, too.”
“Have you got a horse?” Brit asked, looking up at him, and Callie was relieved at the change of subject.
“Nope, little missy, but know lots of folk who do.”
“I’m going to be a cowgirl.”
“Mighty fine hat for a cowgirl.”
The conversation stalled as a sheriff’s car drove up to the station. Buddy withdrew the nozzle and replaced the cap. Callie’s nerves tightened. She wanted to leave as fast as she could, but she had to pay for the gas. Glancing at the amount on the pump, she quickly dug in her purse.
“We better go,” Adam whispered, nudging her.
Callie handed Buddy the money as a tall man got out of the car. He opened the back door of his vehicle and a black Lab bounded out and loped straight to Buddy.
Mary Beth, who was glued to Callie’s side, came alive and moved in the direction of the dog. She loved animals.
“Buddy, I got a call from Mrs. Meyers. Rascal’s chasing her chickens again.”
Unable to resist, Callie glanced toward the strong, masculine voice. In khaki pants, a white shirt and cowboy boots, with a light-colored Stetson hat and a gun on his hip, the man in his mid-thirties moved with an easy swagger. She was sure she’d seen him in her dreams or fantasies at one time or another. He was like the Marlboro man and Brad Pitt rolled into a gorgeous package of Texas masculinity. She brought herself up short. She must be experiencing road lag. Or a mental block. The last thing she needed was to be attracted to the local sheriff. For that’s what he was. It said so right there on his badge attached to the shirt that covered his very broad chest.
Buddy rubbed the dog’s head. “He just likes to play, Wade.”
“Try telling that to Mrs. Meyers. She said her chickens won’t lay for a week now.”
“I’ll go over yonder and apologize.”
“What’s