Read Online Chasing the Tumbleweed by Casey Dawes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Casey Dawes
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doing! We need this car.” Eli’s snarl forced her to look over at him.
The face of a killer.
Her chest tightened.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m tired, that’s all.”
He rubbed her leg and his voice oozed false concern. “I forgot you did all that driving before you picked me up. Where’d you say you started?”
“Salt Lake.”
“When are they expecting you back?”
“Never,” she said before realizing her mistake. “Never” meant no one would be looking for her. “My parents in LA are expecting me tomorrow.” Not that they’d know that she’d taken this cockamamie road through Nevada instead of the interstate like a sensible daughter would have.
”I think you’re going to be late.” Eli chuckled and she shivered.
“Cold? I’ve got just the thing to warm you.” He grabbed his crotch. “But we have to wait until we get home first.”
Home?
The hardscrabble Nevada wilderness surrounded them. Juniper trees fought for existence with vast tracts of sagebrush. No life stirred.
They descended into a valley where other dirt roads intersected with the one they were on. “Go right,” Eli instructed.
Laurie’s spirits bottomed out as they headed deeper into the back country.
Another hour of nothingness passed before Eli told her to make another turn. The road narrowed and scrub brush scratched the sides of the Celica. “Pull in here,” he said, indicating a cleared patch.
Once she’d stopped and turned off the car, he said, “There’s nowhere to run, so don’t try it. If I don’t get you—and I will—a coyote will. Or you’ll die of starvation.” He shrugged. “Your best bet is to stay with me.”
And you’re crazy.
Laurie got out of the car and helped Eli cover it with brush that was stacked nearby. She watched him gather his pack, sling the rifle over his back with an attached strap, and stuff the knife into its scabbard.
“Get some things from your suitcase—change of clothes—that kind of stuff.” She opened her suitcase, grabbed her toiletries, disinfectant wipes, and some clean underwear, and stuffed them into her tote.
“That way,” he said, and pushed her down a narrow trail.
Chapter Two
Tuesday began the same as all his other days had for the past eight years. By seven, Forest Ranger Jeff Dawson was seated at the Toiyabe Café in Austin, Nevada, drinking his morning coffee and wolfing down a stack of pancakes. Only the flavor of the pancakes changed. Today’s special was mango.
It was a flavor he could live without.
“What’s up Dawson?” The state trooper’s belt creaked as he slid onto the stool next to Jeff.
“Mango,” Jeff said. “How the hell did he find mangos in the middle of Nevada?”
“I ordered ‘em, same as everything else,” the counterman interjected. “They were on sale. You don’t think we actually grow anything in this town—do you? Except tumbleweed. I can get you that for your pancakes if you want.”
Jeff stuffed another bite into his mouth. After he finished swallowing, he turned to the state trooper. “What brings you down from Butte Mountain?”
“Abandoned car. We found it about twenty miles south of the interstate on Three-oh-five. Ran the license plates. Stolen. Ran the prints.” The counterman plunked a mug of coffee in front of the trooper, who picked it up, blew, and sipped. “Prints are from a guy who escaped from Lovelock a while back. Bad dude. Sliced up his wife with a Bowie knife.”
“He wasn’t nearby the car?”
The trooper shook his head. “We had the choppers up, but didn’t see anything. But this guy, Eli Crenshaw, he could’ve carjacked someone.”
Jeff ate the last of his pancakes. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Do that. Where you off to today?”
“Got to file some reports, then run up to Grantsville this afternoon. We have reports of vandalism, maybe a fire started in one of the old houses up there.”
“Bad news,
The face of a killer.
Her chest tightened.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m tired, that’s all.”
He rubbed her leg and his voice oozed false concern. “I forgot you did all that driving before you picked me up. Where’d you say you started?”
“Salt Lake.”
“When are they expecting you back?”
“Never,” she said before realizing her mistake. “Never” meant no one would be looking for her. “My parents in LA are expecting me tomorrow.” Not that they’d know that she’d taken this cockamamie road through Nevada instead of the interstate like a sensible daughter would have.
”I think you’re going to be late.” Eli chuckled and she shivered.
“Cold? I’ve got just the thing to warm you.” He grabbed his crotch. “But we have to wait until we get home first.”
Home?
The hardscrabble Nevada wilderness surrounded them. Juniper trees fought for existence with vast tracts of sagebrush. No life stirred.
They descended into a valley where other dirt roads intersected with the one they were on. “Go right,” Eli instructed.
Laurie’s spirits bottomed out as they headed deeper into the back country.
Another hour of nothingness passed before Eli told her to make another turn. The road narrowed and scrub brush scratched the sides of the Celica. “Pull in here,” he said, indicating a cleared patch.
Once she’d stopped and turned off the car, he said, “There’s nowhere to run, so don’t try it. If I don’t get you—and I will—a coyote will. Or you’ll die of starvation.” He shrugged. “Your best bet is to stay with me.”
And you’re crazy.
Laurie got out of the car and helped Eli cover it with brush that was stacked nearby. She watched him gather his pack, sling the rifle over his back with an attached strap, and stuff the knife into its scabbard.
“Get some things from your suitcase—change of clothes—that kind of stuff.” She opened her suitcase, grabbed her toiletries, disinfectant wipes, and some clean underwear, and stuffed them into her tote.
“That way,” he said, and pushed her down a narrow trail.
Chapter Two
Tuesday began the same as all his other days had for the past eight years. By seven, Forest Ranger Jeff Dawson was seated at the Toiyabe Café in Austin, Nevada, drinking his morning coffee and wolfing down a stack of pancakes. Only the flavor of the pancakes changed. Today’s special was mango.
It was a flavor he could live without.
“What’s up Dawson?” The state trooper’s belt creaked as he slid onto the stool next to Jeff.
“Mango,” Jeff said. “How the hell did he find mangos in the middle of Nevada?”
“I ordered ‘em, same as everything else,” the counterman interjected. “They were on sale. You don’t think we actually grow anything in this town—do you? Except tumbleweed. I can get you that for your pancakes if you want.”
Jeff stuffed another bite into his mouth. After he finished swallowing, he turned to the state trooper. “What brings you down from Butte Mountain?”
“Abandoned car. We found it about twenty miles south of the interstate on Three-oh-five. Ran the license plates. Stolen. Ran the prints.” The counterman plunked a mug of coffee in front of the trooper, who picked it up, blew, and sipped. “Prints are from a guy who escaped from Lovelock a while back. Bad dude. Sliced up his wife with a Bowie knife.”
“He wasn’t nearby the car?”
The trooper shook his head. “We had the choppers up, but didn’t see anything. But this guy, Eli Crenshaw, he could’ve carjacked someone.”
Jeff ate the last of his pancakes. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Do that. Where you off to today?”
“Got to file some reports, then run up to Grantsville this afternoon. We have reports of vandalism, maybe a fire started in one of the old houses up there.”
“Bad news,
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