Page 13 of Take Me Home

The car ahead of them slowed. Hazel tapped the brakes, and her tires skidded before they caught. She squeezed the steering wheel, cutting a glare at Ash.

“We’ll go slow. I’ll drive if you want.”

“I know you really want to get home—”

“Yeah, and for whatever reason, you don’t.”

“I’m not causing the weather!” She flung a hand at the windshield. He was squaring his shoulders, ready to fight, but her heart had skipped a beat with that skid, and her arm hair stood on end, and she didn’t let him interrupt. “You think it’s fine because it’s not snowing yet, but that’s only because there’s awarm wedge of air beneath the upper atmosphere temporarily thawing the snow into rain. The ground temperature is already freezing. This is only going to get worse.”

“And that’s your weather, folks,” Ash said, his voice dropping into a low, rich register. “Take care out there.”

Hazel’s lips parted, and her eyes widened in surprise. “What are you— Stop it.”

He leaned forward, forcing his way into her periphery. “I’m Dan Elliot, and you’re watching Channel 2,” he said, smooth and lilting like her father’s on-air voice, “the Permian Basin’s most trusted news source.”

She slugged his shoulder, and he slunk back against his door, laughing, rubbing his arm. “Don’t ever do that again,” she said.

“Oh, come on. You sounded just like him with all that ‘warm wedge’ and ‘upper atmosphere’ stuff.”

“Understanding basic weather terminology does not make me my father.” Her chest clenched with irritation, but the sound of her own petulant tone short-circuited her bad humor. She huffed a reluctant laugh and muttered, without any heat, “Shut up, Asher.”

“Ash,” he corrected, probably a mindless habit by this point. Then, quieter, “And I know this isn’t your fault. I’m sorry.”

She did feel weirdly responsible, though, like her resistance had somehow conjured the bad conditions. In other circumstances, she might have rejoiced at the unforeseen delay. But after hearing how excited Ash was to see his nieces, the proof in the elaborate model in her back seat, part of her wished she could snap her fingers and clear their path for him, even if it brought her home sooner herself. His quiet apology despite his frustration spoke to a goodness in Ash that she doubted she possessed.

It was an hour before they spotted the first signs of a smalltown—an old Texaco station, McDonald’s arches. Their side of the highway was deadlocked with brake lights as far as Hazel could see except when, periodically, someone peeled off from the line, bounced over the grassy median, and came back their way. Eventually, the traffic started moving again as a steady stream of people bailed, taking an exit ramp into the town. The sky darkened. The rain became a wintry mix, lightly tapping on the roof and windshield.

Ash was scrolling on his phone. “There’s ice on an overpass at the next town. They’re only letting one car cross at a time. That’s why we’re stuck here. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—” He rubbed his jaw. “We should stop.”

“Are you sure?”

“I agreed to give you the café if this trip makes me intolerable to you, and if we end up stranded in a cow pasture tonight, you’ll never get over it, so.” It was clearly an attempt at humor, but he sounded dejected.

By the time they inched into the tiny town, Ash had found two places to stay, a Motel 6 and some bed-and-breakfast called the Roadrunner Inn. Hazel pulled into the packed parking lot of the Motel 6 just as theNOlit up on theVACANCYsign.

The Roadrunner Inn it was. The old, pale blue two-story Victorian house sat at the end of a pothole-riddled road. Its much smaller parking lot was also full, and Hazel was already calculating their next move as she parked on the street. Drive on to the next town, where surely everyone who hadn’t stopped here would be looking for lodging? Or head back the thirty or so miles to the previous one? She indulged, briefly, the voice that said,This is a sign. You shouldn’t have come at all.

In the lobby, an enormous fire crackled. With a teeth-rattling shiver, Hazel looked longingly at the couches angled in front of it and the cart with cookies and coffee, her hands shoved into athin fleece jacket that would have made her father shake his head. Nat King Cole played softly over speakers. The wood floor creaked with every last step to the counter, where three college-aged guys blew into their hands and shifted impatiently.

“Do you have a cot or something?” one of them asked.

Hazel eyed Ash in a wordless panic. If there weren’t any rooms left, she was prepared to wage a sit-in on one of those couches.

Ash reached for her arm, and she lurched away on instinct. He caught her gaze for a long moment as if reading a wild animal before reaching again, slowly, and squeezing her upper arm.

The contact was surprisingly…steadying. Her gaze dropped to his hand, but she quickly refocused on the taxidermied mallard duck in mid-flight on the wall. Uncertain what else to do with her body when Ash was touching her, she hugged her middle, then regretted it when the motion made him let go and push both his hands into his hoodie pocket.

The three guys were given an old-school metal key. At least for them, there was still room at the inn. Hazel and Ash shuffled forward.

The man holding their fate in his hands was tall and spindly with a disarrayed, feathery tuft of hair atop his head. In less dire circumstances, Hazel would have found his likeness to a roadrunner amusing, but nothing about this could be funny until she knew she had a warm place to sleep for tonight. He spoke abruptly in a decidedly unbirdlike baritone. “Got one room left. It has a queen bed. And no, we don’t have any cots.”

Before they could respond, the door opened behind them, and a middle-aged couple tromped in, shivering from the cold, tension all over their grim faces.

One room left? Too bad for them, but over Hazel’s dead body would those two get it. She slapped her credit card on the counter. “We’ll take it.”

Chapter

Four

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