Page 116 of Sinful
The waitress—fifty-something with kind eyes and aname tag that says "Barb"—waves me toward a seat at the counter. "Anywhere you like, honey."
I sit and order coffee, black.
She brings it steaming hot in a chipped mug. "You passing through or staying?"
"Not sure yet. Just looking around."
"Well, we could use some young blood around here. Town's dying slowly. All the kids move to Austin or San Antonio soon as they graduate." She refills the coffee of a man two seats down. "You got people here?"
"Yeah, still figuring it out."
She smiles like she understands. "Well, good luck with that."
I drink my coffee slowly, listening to the locals talk.
Ranchers discussing cattle prices.
Someone complaining about their truck breaking down again.
Normal small-town conversation.
It's so different from Florida. From Austin. From anywhere I've been in three years.
It feels right.
When I’m done with my coffee, I pull out my phone, and search "Sharp Shooter Ranch directions."
It's seven minutes away and my heart starts pounding.
The attack isn't for a couple of days, but he's there right now, preparing for war.
And I don't want to wait anymore.
I don't want to spend another night without him.
Even if all I can do is be nearby. Even if I have to wait outside the gate. At least I'll be close.
I pay for my coffee and leave Barb a few dollar tip, then head out to my bike.
The GPS takes me down increasingly rural roads.
Pavement turns to dirt.
Civilization falls away until it's just me and open land stretching in every direction.
Fences occasionally.
Cattle in the distance.
Sky so big it feels like I could fall into it.
Then I see it.
A massive wooden gate rising out of the landscape like a border between worlds.
Above it, an iron sign hanging from a wooden crossbeam, letters formed from wrought iron: SHARP SHOOTER RANCH.
Security cameras mounted on posts.
