Page 15 of Small Town Hunter

“Miss, you alright? Say something to me.”

“Oh God,” she whispers. “Oh God…sweet Jesus! Did that really just happen?”

I help her up. “It’s alright. Relax. You’re just fine.”

I sure do hope so. Hell, this is the last thing I need.

“Anything hurt, honey?” I ask her.Is that a wedding dress for real?

I touch the pearls and beads marching up the white fabric. Holy moly. I nearly ran over somebody’s bride.Great job, you son of a bitch.

I look around for the rest of the wedding party, but the scene is the same as before, only the churning passage of the train across the horizon.

There’s nobody and nothing.

No bridesmaids, no groom, and no priest. No horse and carriage, no footmen, no mice, no pumpkin. Just Jada and the girls staring at us across the road.

“Please don’t call the police!” says the bride.

I stare down at her. She barely comes up to my chest. She’s Black. She’s wearing makeup and jewelry like she just came from church. No shoes, just white stockings which are very dirty and ripped damn near to pieces.

“Don’tcall the police?” I repeat.

“No! Don’t!” She says. “Please.”

She smells good, like she’s just washed with some fancy soap. Her hair and skin smell like roses. She’s still covering her face with both hands and shaking. And I take note that her jewelry is the real damned deal. Gold. Diamonds. Pearls.

Interesting.

“Uh — you got somebody around — family —? Ambulance?”

“No!” she gasps. She says. “No. Please don’t call anybody at all.”

Very interesting.

“Well, how about we just sit here real nice and easy?” I suggest.

“That’s a great idea,” she says in relief. She collapses so fast I nearly get a heart attack. But she’s only taken a seat on the curb, drawing deep, steady breaths like a normal person would.

“You’re just in shock,” I tell her. “I don’t think you got the worst of it. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine. Somehow,” she laughs shakily.

I had the notion she might be a junkie, since there seems to be a fair population of those walking about here wearing stranger things than wedding dresses. But she’s not crazy or strung out. She looks like my Ma used to look when she jumped out of her skin.

Well, she doesn’t look like my Ma at all.

Her skin is like cinnamon tea. Her hair’s an explosion down her back and shoulders. The curls are tight and I could stretch one out like I used to do them old spring toys…no… more like the curling tendrils of a grapevine, soft…delicate…wanting to wrap around my finger.

Her eyes are large, almond-shaped, deep brown. Her nose is a button, and her lips are big and soft-looking.

She’s pretty as a picture. I don’t know when I ever saw a woman who looked like that.

“I’m very sorry Miss,” I tell her. “It was an accident.”

“It’s alright. I wasn’t watching myself,” she mumbles, that Oklahoma accent coming like hot honey over warm biscuits. She laughs a little hysterically. “I almost got hit by a train!”

“No, you almost got hit by an idiot from Virginia.”

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