Page 1 of Take Me, Tex

Chapter 1

Tex

There'snothinglikethesound of silence out here.

Not the pretend silence you get in town, with its background hum of power lines and traffic and a neighbor's dog barking at shadows. I'm talking real, deep, unshakablequiet. The kind that settles over you like a weighted blanket and presses all the noise out of your bones. The kind where you can hear your own heartbeat echoing in your ears, where the whisper of wind through pine needles sounds like a conversation between old friends.

Whiskey and I are halfway through filming a segment for next week's survival video. She's curled under a pine tree, thebark rough and red-brown against her golden fur, chewing a stick to splinters while I talk into the camera about basic fire-building techniques for my 800,000 YouTube subscribers.Tex & Whiskey’s Survival Guideis one of the top wilderness channels.

A fact that still blows my mind. Who knew thatsocial mediawould be the key to funding my hermit lifestyle?

I'm just wrapping up when Whiskey’s ears perk up, the soft triangle points swiveling like satellite dishes.

"What is it, girl?" I mutter, watching the way her nose twitches as she scents the air. She doesn't bark or growl. She just lifts her head and stares down the ridge with that uncanny sense she's got, her amber eyes fixed on something my human ears can't catch yet. "What do you hear?”

I listen hard, and after a few moments, I hear it, too. There's a low whine in the distance. Not an animal. Not the wind. Anengine.

Who’d be driving this far up the mountain?

I straighten, my joints protesting after sitting cross-legged for the past hour, and tuck the tripod under my arm. The metal is warm from the sun, and I can smell the faint metallic tang of the camera equipment mixed with my own sweat and the lingering woodsmoke from the campfire. My gear bag settles heavy against my shoulder blade as I sling it over one shoulder.

I don't get many visitors up here. That road past my place? It doesn’t even have an official name, and doesn't lead to much except my cabin and a whole lot of wilderness beyond.

Which means whoever's driving this way is either lost... or in trouble.

By the time I reach the trailhead that crosses my driveway, the sound has grown louder—a grinding, mechanical wheeze that makes me wince. I spot the source through the trees: a chunky old bookmobile rumbling up the incline like it's beggingfor mercy. The engine coughs and sputters, sending up puffs of steam that smell like burning coolant and desperation.

It makes it twenty more feet before a loudCLUNKrattles through the trees like a gunshot, followed by the unmistakable hiss of a dying engine. The acrid smell of overheated metal drifts toward me on the breeze.

The van shudders, lurches, and comes to a stop.

A woman climbs out, and the door slams with a hollow, defeated sound that echoes off the mountainside.

She’s not the librarian who usually drives the mountain route, delivering books to the old-timers and recluses who can’t make it to town.Maybe old Ada finally retired.

This woman doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, and she’s got more curves than a mountain road, each one highlighted by her faded jeans and sunny yellow t-shirt. Her hair is twisted up into a messy bun that's barely holding on, wispy strands escaping to frame her face. She's got ink smudged on her left cheek, blue-black like a fountain pen explosion, and she clutches a clipboard to her chest like it's a shield.

The summer breeze carries her scent to me: something clean and floral, like lavender soap, mixed with the papery smell of old books and a hint of vanilla that makes my mouth water.

Whiskey trots ahead, her tail wagging in that easy, confident way she has with people she approves of. The woman takes a startled step back—her sneakers scraping against the gravel—then catches herself and smiles. The expression transforms her entire face, making her eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Oh thank God," she says, her voice carrying a slight tremor that could be relief or nerves. "Are you real, or am I hallucinating from the stress?"

"Real," I say, stepping into view. The afternoon sun warms my shoulders through my flannel shirt, but I can feel the coolnessthat always comes with mountain evenings starting to creep into the air. "Name's Tex. This is Whiskey."

"Tex?" Her brows lift, and I catch a glimpse of intelligence in her dark eyes, sharp and curious. "Short for Texas?"

"Short for 'the guy who can probably get your sorry van off the mountain before nightfall.'"

She laughs, and it's a sound like water over stones, bright and clear and natural. "I'm Nora. Nora Bell. And I think my radiator just gave up on life."

"Friday night," I say, glancing at the sky. The sun sits low now, painting the treetops in shades of amber and gold that make the whole mountain look like it's been dipped in honey. The air is starting to cool, carrying the promise of a chilly night. "You're not getting a tow truck up here 'til Monday. Maybe later, if the part's not in stock."

Her eyes widen, and I can’t help but notice how beautiful they are. Dark brown with flecks of gold that catch the light. "This can’t be happening."

I tip my head toward the horizon, where the first stars are already thinking about making an appearance. "You got cell service?"

She pulls out her phone, and I watch her face shift from hope to confusion to mild panic as she holds it up, angling it toward the sky like she's trying to catch invisible signals. The device's screen glows pale blue against her palm. "That would be a no."

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