Page 36 of Small Town Hunter

“I figured that much.”

“The Reverend said God gave him a vision about marrying me. So I had to.”

Crash shifts his long legs, probably gone stiff from all that driving. “I didn’t think Okies were too keen on the racial mixing. Especially the ones with more money and religion than sense.”

“I was the valedictorian at my highschool, for your information,” I say testily. “I came first in the Tippalonga quilting bee, Miss Tippalonga 2019, and I won a blue ribbon for my Turk’s Turban Squashes at the state fair.”

“Impressive.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” I say, hating his sarcasm. Of course, I know the Reverend’s interest in me had nothing to do with my quilts or my squashes, but the implication that I wasn’t worthy of it annoys me for some stupid reason. “The Whiteleafs are a respectable family.”

“Respectable. Marrying you to that creature -– that’s respectable?”

“Just because I’m black — ”

“Now hold on a minute,” Crash interrupts sharply. “I wasn’t sayingIgot a problem. I just heard in Oklahoma…Hell, nevermind.”

“Tippalonga is nothing like Virginia,” I say stiffly. “It’s a great place to live. We even have our own country club!”

“Of course. I’msosorry.”

“Oklahoma is more advanced than you think.”

“True,” Crash muses. “Forty-ninth in education. I thought it would be last.”

“You are sorude.”

“I’m just teasing, darlin’. You can tease me back. Call me a redneck if it makes you feel better.”

“It’s my turn now. I have aquestion.”

“Shoot.”

I think about his gun, his GPS readers and all his talk about “the job” he’s doing out here that apparently means we have to be circling Cimarron for hours on end.

“What exactly are you doing in Oklahoma? And is it legal?”

“Nope,” he says after a pause, his good humor disappearing. He does not elaborate.

“So you’rebreakingthe law?” I probe.

“That’s what ‘doing something illegal’ means.”

“Well, I don’t want to break the law!” I inhale. “I’m not going down with you. I didn’t agree to that. You can’t break the law if you’re with me.”

“You’re more than welcome to hop off,” he says. “See, there’s a greyhound bus station off this exit, in fact. You can ride it all the way to Los Angeles from here. But you see that building with all the barbed wire -– the one that looks real scary and depressing?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a federal penitentiary. A prison. You won’t be the only one headed west.”

I feel cold. “They let prisoners ride the bus?”

“Former prisoners,” Crash corrects. “It’s a long ride to California from here, Trina. Overnights, random searches, one porta-john they don’t even fucking clean…” He shakes his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “You know what? Forget everything I just said. It’s a great time on the Greyhound bus. Nothing but Jesus and tambourines. How about it?”

“Hilarious.” I hunker low. He flicks off the indicator and the exit flies past us.

I think of Mamie. She must be going crazy, wondering where I am.

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