CHAPTER ONE
“Where the heck am I?” Ryder muttered the words under his breath as he stared at the stretch of deserted road ahead of him.
So much for taking the scenic route. He’d gotten so sick of the dreary monotony of the highway that he’d taken a detour, deciding to try some of the country roads instead. Now, in hindsight, it seemed it hadn’t been such a good plan after all, especially considering that he had no idea where in the world he was right now.
“What kind of a GPS are you?” he grumbled to the device set in the middle of the dashboard but it only stared back at him, mute and blank-faced. Ryder gave it a disgusted glare. “Not much of a help, are you?”
The thing was, before Ryder took to the country roads he’d known he would sort of be on his own for some parts of the journey. There were some roads that the GPS hadn’t been programmed for. But jeez, he’d expected the device to pick up most of them, not leave him stranded in the middle of nowhere. At the thought, he had to bite back another grumble.
For this part of his journey Ryder was on his way to Marfa, a tiny town he’d heard about at his last stop in Fort Stockton. What he heard piqued his interest and since he didn’t mind prolonging his road trip he decided to make a stop there. The directions they’d given him at the rest stop had seemed pretty straightforward…until now that he was over an hour into the journey and with no town in sight and with no hope of getting cell phone service way out in this wilderness. He hadn't seen another living soul since he'd turned onto the road. God help him if he ran out of gas. The hyenas would gladly have him for lunch.
It was another half hour before Ryder saw what looked like a tiny settlement up ahead. “There is a God,” he muttered under his breath even as he let out a relieved sigh.
In minutes he was rolling into a tiny service station cum convenience store. As soon as he pulled in, a stout man in checkered shirt and jeans hurried over. “What’s for you, stranger? Need to fill ‘er up?”
The man gave him a smile so wide Ryder couldn’t help but smile back. “I’d appreciate that,” he said as he climbed out of his truck. “You guys take credit cards, right?”
“I ain’t too sure about that,” the man said with a shrug. “I don’t work here.”
That made Ryder raise his eyebrows in surprise. Was the fellow so friendly he would offer to pump gas for a stranger? Or maybe he was after a tip. Ryder had no problem with that. He always had loose bills in his pocket for pretty much that purpose. He was no stranger to people doing whatever odd thing they could to make a buck or two on the street.
Still grinning, the man jerked his head toward the glass door to the convenience store. “Go on in,” he said as he reached for the pump. “You can ask about the credit card thing inside.”
“Will do.” Ryder nodded and left him to his task. He walked across the asphalted pavement and pulled the door open. He was immediately hit by a gust of warm, stale air. He jerked back, holding the door open a while longer to let some of the outdoor air in. Hadn’t these people heard about something called air conditioning? This was Texas in the middle of July, for Pete’s sake.
He stepped inside but, momentarily blinded by the dimness, he had to blink to reorient his eyes. It took a few seconds before he saw the wizened old man sitting behind the counter, his eyes glued to a newspaper spread out in front of him. Even when the bell tinkled as the door opened and closed the white-haired man did not look up. Ryder cleared his throat. Even so, the old geezer – for want of a better description – continued to ignore him.
He cleared his throat again then seeing that wasn’t working he stepped forward and slapped his hand down on the counter.
The old man jumped. His head jerked up and he glared at Ryder. “Hey, where did you come from? What’s with you, young fella, sneaking up on a man like that? You nigh gave me a heart attack.” He jerked the newspaper away then folded it up, even as he continued to scowl.
“I’m sorry,” Ryder said. “I wanted to ask you a question.”
“Say what? You’ve got to speak up, fella. What’s with a big, strapping one like you whispering at me like that?” Clearly annoyed, the man threw his newspaper down and got up off his stool. “Come on, speak up.”
“I said I need to ask you a question.” Ryder raised his voice another decibel for the benefit of the man.
“So ask it. What’s stopping you?”
“Do you take credit cards?”
“Credit what? You joshin’ me or what? We don’t give no credit at this here establishment. Credit got run out of town nigh on fifty years ago.”
“I didn’t ask you for credit. I asked if you take credit cards.”
“And what did I tell ya? Are you deaf? No credit. Strictly cash at my establishment.” The man was leaning forward now, looking like he was getting ready to throw Ryder out.
“Not very friendly, are you?” Ryder knew his muttered statement had no chance of being heard, not by this one who was obviously as deaf as a doorpost. This man was the exact opposite of the one he’d met outside. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “No problem,” he said. “I’ve got cash. How much do I owe you for gas?” He’d seen when his friendly helper had rested the hose back in its cradle so he knew the tank was full.
“How should I know?” the storekeeper asked as he slid off his stool and lifted a section of the counter top. “I have to go out and see.”
One would have expected the man to see the total on a computer screen inside the store but Ryder didn’t bother to question that. He simply stepped back and let this not-so-pleasant business operator walk past.
Within a minute he was back. “You owe me fifty-five forty-five,” he said as he stepped past Ryder to retake his post behind the counter. “Strictly cash.”
“I hear you.” Ryder took out three twenty-dollar bills and laid them on the counter. “Keep the change.”
Old Mr. Grumpy must have liked the sound of that because his face brightened and for the first time since he laid eyes on the man Ryder saw him smile. “Hey there, fella. Now you’re the kind of man I like to do business with. Not like them noisy whippersnappers who come riding through here on their motorbikes.”
Ryder almost smiled. So that was it. The old fellow must have thought he was one of ‘them’. He’d probably been harassed by some young, crazy teenagers riding through the place – although what teenagers on motorbikes would be doing all the way out here in the boondocks, Ryder couldn’t tell. Still, the fact that the old man put him in the same category was downright amusing. At three decades plus one year he was way, way past the teenager stage.