Though he suspected the kid knew how to lie—like her mother—Cord believed her. She wouldn’t be the first minor to go before a judge, make her case for independence and walk out as an adult, at least in the eyes of the law.

Evidently, J.P. was still hung up on her vanished pet. “Who does that?” he murmured. “Who gives away somebody else’s dog?”

“Dooley’s okay,” the girl said. “It wasn’t easy, but I found him. He went to a shelter, and he was adopted right away. He has a nice family now.”

Cord pushed back his chair, stood and turned his back on the small group. If he lost his composure, he didn’t want anyone to see.

He heard J.P. and Eli get up, move toward him. J.P.’s hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“You all right, cowboy?” Eli asked gruffly.

Cord nodded. Turned to face his friends and spoke quietly. “I guess I forgot, after all these years of good living, what a shithole this world can be, especially for kids.”

“I’m not a kid,” the girl called out from her place at the poker table.

Her words broke the tension, and Cord cleared his throat, shook his head again.

“So much for private conversation,” Eli said, with a wry grin.

“Do you guys want to know why I’m here or not?” She sounded impatient now, and little wonder. She was cold, tired and wet.

Cord, Eli and J.P. returned to their chairs. Stared pointedly in her direction and waited for what they all figured was coming.

“One of you,” the child announced, “is my father.” A pause. “Make that sperm donor. A father would’ve been there when I needed him, or at least checked up on me once in a while.”

CHAPTER TWO

SHALLIE FLETCHER PULLED into the weedy gravel parking lot of the Painted Pony Motel on Thursday evening and sat for about five minutes, motor running, windshield wipers splashing back and forth in frenzied futility as heavy rain sheeted the glass. Peering through the watery blur, she braced herself against another kind of deluge—memories of growing up here, cleaning rooms after school and on weekends, wanting nothing so much as to get away.

But the past, like the storm, would not be ignored.

One June night, a week after her eighteenth birthday, humiliated and ashamed beyond bearing, Shallie had packed the few belongings worth taking with her, waited until she was sure her aunt and uncle were sleeping off that night’s shared fifth of cheap vodka, and sneaked out. In those first moments of freedom, she’d had no particular destination in mind. Any sizable city would have done, as long as it was far away and full of strangers.