Not on Her Own. Cynthia Reese
friends of his—filling his head with such nonsense and letting him watch crazy movies. He’ll be going on about this for days.” Ella threw up her hands, pulled open the screen door that barely hung on its hinges, and went inside. “I give up.”
Prentice poked out his bottom lip even more. “I ain’t stupid. I know things. Y’all don’t tell me things, but I can figure it out.”
Brandon’s impatience melted away. Prentice was his age, thirty, and Brandon had seen others tease him all through school. The least he could do was not belittle Prentice’s fears.
“Here, I’ve got something in the car that will fix you right up, Prentice.” Brandon jogged to the cruiser, yanked open the glove compartment and dug out a toy plastic star from a packet of dozens of identical plastic stars he kept for kids. Then he crossed the weedy front yard back to the O’Keefes’ porch.
“Okay, Prentice, you know what this is, right?”
Prentice’s eyes rounded. “Ooh, boy, Brandon! That’s a badge! Like yours!” He reached out to touch it, then snatched his hand back.
“No, no, it’s yours. But wait. We’ve got to make this official. Hold up your right hand.” Brandon led Prentice through a halting oath of office, using a lot of invention when his memory failed him. “Okay, then. If any aliens come around in their flying saucers, you tell ’em you’re a sure enough Brazelton County deputy, and they’d better leave you alone.”
“Ha! I will, Brandon! Yes, sir! Hey, Ella! Brandon made me a deputy! And he says there is, too, aliens, and they won’t mess with me—”
Brandon shook his head as Prentice disappeared into the house.
He didn’t linger, though. He was late for work already, and his planned trip by Uncle Jake’s would have to be put off—he’d never dreamed Ella’s request would take up so much time.
A WOMAN STOOD in the middle of the highway.
Brandon groaned. This day was already shaping up to be a beaut. What was it? A full moon or something? He pulled the sheriff’s cruiser to a stop, rolled down the window and poked his head out.
“Ma’am?”
The woman didn’t seem to notice. Not him. Not the fact that the bumper of his Crown Vic was less than three feet from her. Certainly not that she was standing at the base of a hill, on a curve, square in the middle of the double-yellow line.
“Ma’am!”
This time she turned, her dark ringlets sliding back over shoulders bare except for the thin straps of her sundress. She was a little thing, no bigger than five-two, and that was with help from the high-heeled sandals she wore.
Brandon tore his gaze from her tanned legs—surprisingly long for a gal as short as she was—and her toned arms and looked back up at the woman’s face.
And then at her hand.
She held up one index finger, the classic sign for wait.
Then she turned her attention back to the hill in front of her.
Brandon scratched his head and considered the problem. The lady was pretty, sure, but what kind of woman dressed up in her Sunday best and stood in the middle of a highway? What was she up to?
And she was telling a sheriff’s deputy to wait?
He pulled the cruiser over to the edge of the road and prepared to cue the radio on his shoulder. Better to let the dispatcher know he was dealing with a possible fruit-loop, as if he hadn’t already had his fruit-loop quotient filled to the brim with Prentice’s aliens.
But before he could speak into the shoulder pack, it crackled. He released the button and waited.
“Brandon, you in the car yet?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a—”
“Listen, how close are you to county road one twenty-one?”
“I’m on it, matter of fact.”
“Out close to your uncle’s?”
“Near there. Wade, listen, I’ve got a woman—”
“We’re going to need you to provide an escort.”
“A what?”
Just then he heard a rumble on the highway—the rumble of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler.
“Wade, pedestrian in the road, gotta go!”
Brandon shoved open his door. Sure enough, he could hear the gears shifting as the truck gathered speed.
“Ma’am! There’s a truck coming! You need to get off the road!”
She waved one hand in his direction, brushing him away. With her other hand, she lifted a small digital camera to her eye.
Blowing out a breath, Brandon crossed the hot tarry asphalt to her. “Ma’am, I’ve asked you nicely—” He went behind her, to lift her up at the waist and remove her bodily from the path of the oncoming vehicle.
“Put me down! What on earth—” The tanned legs wind-milled on him, and one high-heeled shoe caught him square on the shin.
“Ow! Lady, are you crazy?”
“Put me down! I’m going to miss it!” She jerked from his grasp in a lightning-quick move that nearly threw him on the roadway—some sort of tai chi or martial arts move. He recovered his balance and took a step backward.
The truck crested the hill, bearing down on them. Brandon looked up to see the cab of the truck dwarfed by a…
“A house?”
He blinked. Yes. It was a house. Somebody was moving a house down the middle of the narrow county road. Could this day get any more surreal?
The woman took her time snapping photos of the truck, snailing along at maybe thirty miles an hour, if that, with its road-wide load.
Photos apparently done, she strolled to the road’s shoulder to stand by Brandon’s cruiser. He followed her. As he tried to frame an apology, his radio crackled again.
“Uh, Brandon?”
“I think I figured it out, Wade. The escort’s for a house?”
“Yeah. Just make sure they don’t tear any power lines down, okay?”
Brandon spotted a man sitting astride the roof of the house, a long plastic pole in his hands. He blinked again, but the man was still there.
It was weird to see a house on the back of a truck, cruising down a narrow highway. Sure, he’d seen plenty of double-wides delivered, but never an actual house.
And this was indeed a house. He examined it as it trundled past and the man on the roof used the pole to lift up a power line.
The house looked big because of the scale of the road, but Brandon could see that it was no more than a cottage. It had been yellow at one time; now it was in dire need of a new coat or three of paint. Looked like an arts and crafts type cottage, maybe built in the late thirties or forties. Not a window in the thing was intact, and the porch roof was held up by boards fastened to the side of the house.
He glanced from the house to the woman who now, he’d figured out too late, must belong with it.
“Uh…sorry about that. I thought—”
She turned to him, beaming. “That’s my house! My very first house!”
“Well. Congratulations. But next time I’d advise not standing in the middle of the road to get a picture of it.”
Brandon rubbed his cheek and considered. No way was he going to be able to get in front of the truck now, so his escort services would wind up being follow-me services.
“Where’s it headed?” he asked her.
“My