She opened her eyes to find sweat covering her body and the alarm ringing right beside her ear. She quickly turned it off and reached over to shake Lyle awake. But he wasn’t there. She sat up so quick that it made her dizzy. Pictures of him lying in a ditch with his motorcycle on top of him flashed through her mind. She threw the covers to the side and ran to the living room, expecting to find him on the sofa, but no. She quickly dug through her purse for her phone—no calls or messages, which only meant if he was hurt, he wasn’t in the hospital. He had to be unconscious.

She hit the speed dial for his number, and it went straight to voice mail. She jerked on a pair of jeans, didn’t even bother with a beaded headband or braiding her long hair, and pulled a T-shirt over her head as she went out the door. She was inside the truck when she realized she hadn’t gotten her purse, so she raced back inside, grabbed it, and ran back to the vehicle. She tried calling Lyle again every three minutes, but it went to voice mail each time.

Driving slowly and stopping every time she saw a black skid mark veering off the road, she just knew that she’d find him dead somewhere between Celeste and Greenville. When she reached the outskirts of town, she drove straight to the ranch where he’d worked as a hired hand for the past eighteen months. The only time she’d been there was for the Christmas party last year, but it wasn’t hard to find. A few times he’d worked very late and then stayed in the bunkhouse with the guys. She hoped that was the case this time, but his motorcycle wasn’t there, either. Still, she parked in front of a long, low building where three guys were sitting on the porch, having their morning coffee. They all waved when she rolled down the window.

“You done passed the ranch house, darlin’,” one of them yelled.

“I’m looking for Lyle Jones,” she said, raising her voice.

“He ain’t comin’ in today, honey. He left at noon yesterday. He’s got a big weekend planned. He’ll be back on Monday if you want to come back,” the guy said.

“What kind of weekend?” she asked.

“A huge one. If you’re his sister, you were supposed to meet him at the courthouse yesterday. Guess you’re too late.”

“I’m not his sister,” Jody said.

One guy chuckled. “Then, honey, you’re too late for anything.”

“What’s that mean?” she asked.

“Ask Lyle,” another one laughed.

“Thank you.” Jody rolled the window up and turned the truck around. Sister, huh?