Luke put one foot on the bottom step, the sodden towels dripping next to him. “Good morning,” he called into the cabin, laying on his Texas drawl. “Anyone home?”
There was no answer. Ellen noted that the main door to the tiny cabin was open. It was a beautiful morning, and with the thick woods all around it, the cabin would be cool inside and wouldn’t get much natural light. If she were staying there, she’d use any excuse to keep the door open.
“I see you have a hat like mine,” Luke said, his voice conversational, friendly. “Fellow Texan?”
Again no answer.
Ellen noticed a simple brochure stuck in the screen door, as if it were a flyer for a local pizza place. But it wasn’t. She clutched Luke’s forearm. “That’s the brochure for Maggie’s talk.”
She started to go up onto the landing, but he put an arm out in front of her, holding her back. “Leave it,” he said. “We have enough to get the locals up here.”
“Where is Parker now? Luke, if he tries to intercept Maggie—”
“He’ll run into a world of problems.”
“You put someone on her?”
“I did,” he said without apology.
Ellen took in a sharp breath. “Good.”
“If Parker tries to intercept Maggie in Austin, it won’t go well for him there, either,” Luke said.
Her uncle would nail Hugh Parker if he tried anything. Ellen stared at the brochure. “He’s trying to lure us inside.”
“Looks that way.”
“Why?” She paused, thinking. “He could have this place rigged to explode.”
Luke glanced at her. “You do have a way of thinking, Ellen.”
“We should go back to Maggie’s cabin and wait for the locals. It’s what you would want if you had a couple of New Yorkers on your turf.”
“Damn straight.”
Ellen heard a cry that sounded as if it came from behind the cabin. Then a moan.
“Is someone there?” A man’s voice, plaintive, desperate. “Help…help me…please.”
Luke turned to her. “Stay close.”
***
Luke drew his gun as he and Ellen followed a narrow path along the side of the cabin. She had assumed he was armed and had notified local authorities of his presence in their jurisdiction, but she hadn’t asked.
The backyard to the small cabin was no more than three yards deep, mostly dirt covered in pine needles, with tufts of weedy grass and dense evergreens growing close.
A man was slumped in a plastic Adirondack chair next to a pile of cordwood and a splitter.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Luke said. “My name’s Luke Jackson. I’m a Texas Ranger. What’s going on here?”
The man winced, his shaking hands out in front of him. “Glad you’re here.” He cleared his throat, moaning. “Mind if I stand up?”
“Just keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Right. Got it.”
He stood, unsteady on his feet. He had about three days’ growth of dark beard and wore a black baseball cap, a canvas jacket, jeans and sneakers.
The man Maggie had spotted yesterday.
Luke patted him down, and then stood back. Ellen noted he hadn’t yet holstered his weapon.
“What’s your name, sir?” Luke asked the man.
“Fred—Fred Jones. I own this place. I plan to build a new cabin. Probably tear this one down.” He seemed to struggle to stand straight. “I’m hurt.”
“What happened?”
“Sucker punched in the gut. I came here to cut wood I didn’t have time to get to in the fall. I saw a squatter had taken over the place. Son of a bitch jumped me, hit me and took off.”
“Which direction?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see. I didn’t do anything to provoke him, I swear. Once I realized someone was here, I figured I’d call the police. There’s not much cell coverage here.”
“When did you get here?” Luke asked.
“About thirty minutes ago.”
“Where’s your vehicle?”
“I parked up on the main road and walked in. You see what this road’s like.”
“Let’s go out front,” Luke said. “We can wait together for the local police. You can tell your story to them.”
The man nodded. “Happy to.”
“Where do you live, Mr. Jones?”
“Saratoga.”
“It’s a long way from Texas,” Ellen said, speaking for the first time.
He leveled his gaze on her. “Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“Ma’am. I like that. You don’t hear that up here as much as you do at home. I lived in Boston for a time with my grandmother. I think I heard her called ma’am twice.”
“Is that right? I guess I was raised different.”
She felt blood rush to her face. It was anger, she knew. Dead-on certainty. “I guess you’re not from here, are you, Hugh Parker?”
He gave her a blank look. “Who?”
“Enough,” Luke said. “If Ellen says you’re Hugh Parker, you’re Hugh Parker. Let’s go.”
Luke had obviously reached the same conclusion.
“I’m calling my attorney.” Parker’s voice turned whiny. “I don’t trust you two. You’re in cahoots with the man who attacked me, aren’t you? How do I know you’re a real Texas Ranger?”