“Of course I like Ray Stevens,” Quinn said. “Sometimes I forget how little time we’ve spent together and how little we know each other. We both have a lot of catching up to do . . . Do I like Ray Stevens? . . .”

“I never questioned what we’ve got,” Maggie said, reaching down and placing her hand over his, her short nails painted black and a tiny tattoo on her inner wrist. “Ever.”

“Don’t give this meet too much thought,” Quinn said. “There are a lot of cranks out there. Some folks just wake up in the morning devising ways to mess with people’s minds. I don’t know how this person got those old letters, but that doesn’t mean they’re sane. It might mean they’re dangerous as hell.”

“You can’t go in with me.”

“I know,” Quinn said. “But I won’t be far. You go in the restaurant, take a seat, and I’ll be out here watching. If this person asks you to go outside with them or if they say they have something for you in their vehicle . . .”

“I’m not stupid, Quinn,” Maggie said. “Like you said, I doubt they’ll even show. Whoever this is probably just wants some money. Why the hell else would they reach out to me now, after all these years? Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.”

“Well,” Quinn said. “It’s nice being together. First day in a while we’re not on the wrong ends of a shift. You on night or me on days or the other way around.”

As Quinn turned off Highway 78, he spotted a big sign raised high above the road reading T-BONE STEAK, BAKED POTATO, SALAD & A DRINK. ONLY $11.99.

“It’s your lucky day, Maggie Colson,” Quinn said. “A day off and a T-bone steak.”

“If only I ate meat.”

“You heard from Tashi Coleman again?”

“Not since she showed up at the farm,” Maggie said. “I think I made it pretty damn clear she wasn’t welcome.”

Quinn turned right into the truck stop parking lot, driving around back of the restaurant, near the trucker entrance by the diesel pumps. He parked out of sight and switched off the ignition, arriving a half hour earlier than the letter asked. “I wish you’d kept that gun in your purse.”

“No thank you.”

“Not much to it,” Quinn said. “Just aim and squeeze the trigger.”

“I know how to shoot,” she said. “I prefer healing people, not bloodying them up.”

“I prefer not bloodying them up, either,” Quinn said. “But that’s their call.”

Quinn turned on the radio while they sat there in the parking lot waiting for the time Maggie would step into the truck stop and meet someone who promised probably a lot more than they could deliver. He and Maggie didn’t speak for a while, Hazlewood now singing, “Cold Hard Times.”

“Did you love him?” Quinn asked. “Brandon?”

“Very much,” Maggie said.

*   *   *