said, laughing all funny-peculiar. âThat was just a little snack. And actually, Jeffrey, I was going to take April into townââ
âBring âer along! The more the merrier.â He turned to me. âWhatcha say, kid? Iâll buy you a hamburger at the Koffee Kup.â
Now, I was of two minds about this. While I was downright overjoyed that I might be safe from Grandmaâs driving this week, I really, really did not want to sit in a café with those two senior citizen lovebirds. What if they started smooching right at the table in front of God and everybody?
I gulped. âMama needs me to help her get ready for company,â I said. I looked at Grandma. âIf youâre going to go with Mr. Rance, you wonât need me.â
âWell.â She seemed to think it over real hard. âWell, all right, then. But you and me will go next Tuesday. How âbout that?â
Next Tuesday was a whole seven days away. Maybe sheâd misplace her driverâs license by then.
âOkay.â I scooted off the couch. âSee ya later.â
I ran outside and raced toward our house before either of them had a chance to change their minds and call me back.
Mr. Rance had moved from Texas to Rough Creek Road early this spring, and according to my daddyâwho makes it a point to welcome all the newcomers and see if thereâs anything he can do to help them settle inâthe old man used to have a big ole ranch and lots of thoroughbred horses. He said Mose Fielding sold Mr. Rance that twenty-acre parcel of dirt that his hogs had ruined. You know how hogs root around, upturning rocks while they snuffle and snort, looking for something to eat. It takes forever for the grass to grow back where hogs have rooted. Well, you donât have to be a rocket scientist to know thoroughbred horses couldnât live in such a place.
When he first moved here, Mr. Rance had bought a little trailer to live in, but I didnât think he stayed there very often. Maybe he was bored or something, because I saw him in that red truck, driving up and down Rough Creek Road about ten times a day. Plus, every blessed time we went to Cedar Ridge, there was that same red pickup parked at the Koffee Kup.
Hereâs the thing: that morning I was about halfway across the hayfield when a thought hit my brain and made me stop dead in my tracks, so I could give it serious and detailed consideration. Why would someone with a lot of horses leave a big horse-raising state like Texas and come to the rocky hills of Arkansas and live on a hog-rooted twenty acres where nothing would grow? Why would anyone do something that dumb?
And hereâs another thing: with his own wife dead just a few months, why was he suddenly hot for Grandma? Maybe he wanted a brand-new wife, the thought of which made me swimmy-headed.
Boy, oh boy, thoughts flooded through my head so fast it was hard to keep up with them. A particular remembrance, though, seemed louder and bigger than the rest, and it was this: heâd been kinda sneaky in Grandmaâs living room, looking at her stuff like he wanted to swipe it. And what about her purse? Would he have picked it up if he hadnât seen me? It sure looked like it from where I sat.
âI bet heâs a crook,â I said aloud. âHeâs probably wanted down in Texas and came to the Ozarks to hide from the law.â Iâve seen cop shows on the TV, and an awful theory rose up in my brain. âMaybe heâs a horse thief. Or worse, maybe he even killed his wife.â
Now, thereâs a notion. I have to admit, though, there was no reasoning behind it. Of course, being just a plain, ordinary crook . . . well, that was possible. Thatâs why the Ozarks have so many criminals and weirdos, you know. They come here from everywhere else and think they can hide in the hills and hollers. Well, maybe they can, âcause there sure seem to be a lot of them.
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