He wouldn’t allow it. Though the realization shocked him, it was, unfortunately, the truth. When he’d told Angie that Mouse’s death would be the cause of his own, it had been the truth. And though he realized their situation had greatly influenced and intensified his emotions toward her, he couldn’t deny that the thought of losing her terrified him.

And maybe that was more frightening than the Fangs and his father combined.

Chapter 9
And thou art dead,
as young and fair

I pulled into a truck stop on the other side of Cheyenne . It wasn’t dawn yet, but I needed a chance to get out of the van and stretch my legs.

The place was small, with diesel pumps behind it and a dusty lot adjacent, where truckers could park for a night’s sleep. With more than a little trepidation, I pulled the van to the end of the dirt lot and headed to the tiny restaurant.

Because of the late hour, there weren’t many customers at Arlene’s Grit Stop and Five Dollar Showers. I assumed most weary travelers stopping at this particular exit would find themselves across the badly patched asphalt road, at the Happy Ending Health Spa.

The cracked pavement of Arlene’s parking lot held only two motorcycles and a rusty Cavalier. At least the van wouldn’t look out of place.

The restaurant was a narrow room that ran along the front of the building. No tables, just seven or eight plastic booths against each wall. Currently, only one such booth was taken by a grizzled biker with a long, gray beard, and a young man in a leather jacket who looked like he’d just stepped from a Calvin Klein ad.

The latter wore a big smile the moment he spotted me. Considering my limp, greasy hair and bedraggled appearance, his behavior became immediately suspect.

“Come, sit with us,” he invited. The bearded one didn’t look enthused about it, working the toothpick he gnawed on from one corner of his hairy mouth to the other.

I shook my head as I slid into another booth. “I think I’ll let you boys have your privacy.”

A waitress, apparently just as pleased with my presence, sighed deeply as she approached my table. I had the distinct feeling there was a neglected Nora Roberts novel behind the counter she’d been leaning on.

“Just coffee,” I assured her with a friendly smile.

“Uh-huh.” She clicked her pen derisively and put her order pad back in her apron. “This must be my lucky night.”

I glanced over at my fellows in late-night dining and saw that they, too, only had coffee. The waitress, Ruby, by her nametag, scratched her backside as she retrieved a brown, ceramic mug and filled it with coffee. She brought it and the pot to my table, setting the mug before me with little ceremony.

“Another refill, gentlemen?” she asked in long-suffering sarcasm.