Dann hadn’t a prayer of escaping; in a motel room, with space to maneuver and Dixie asleep, he might get free. People could get hurt—the men in their plaid shirts, the helpful waitress with her dangling button. Dann was big enough to do some serious damage if he took a mind to hurt someone.
She could always call the Houston judge trying Dann’s case and let him know Dann had violated the terms of his bail agreement. But if the judge managed to get him back to Houston, Dann stood a good chance of being convicted—precisely the situation Belle had hired Dixie to avoid. Sure, she’d be able to look at that Christmas photo of the Keyes girls, knowing she’d done her part in avenging Betsy, and Ryan would still think of his Aunt Dixie as a hero, tracking down bad guys, but she’d forever hear Belle’s yammering scold: Innocent until proven guilty, Flannigan .
Dixie could argue that she hadn’t bargained for hauling the bail jumper across four state lines in a raging snowstorm. It was dangerous. Crazy as bungee jumping.
So when the job gets tough, Flannigan, you quit? What kind of hero is that? Dann wasn’t a murderer, after all. He was a useless, thoughtless drunk driver, possibly guilty of vehicular manslaughter, but not murder. She could handle him. And she had no choice but to brazen the storm.
As she eyed the lowering clouds, Dixie started the Mustang. Once she put the weather behind her, she could park ata roadside camp and grab a few winks. She didn’t feel a bit sleepy at the moment, with a roaring fire of caffeine in her belly, but she wasn’t fooled. Out on the highway, swirling snow and droning tires would work on her like a snake charmer’s flute.
Chapter Eight
Thursday, December 24, Interstate 29
The Mustang’s tires felt solid enough on the snow-covered gravel stretching back to the highway, but the icy blacktop was less forgiving. When Dixie stepped on the gas, the big engine surged and the car’s rear end fishtailed all over the road, swerving inches from an oncoming pickup truck.
She fought for control, panic snapping at her. Suddenly the tires grabbed the pavement and the car settled into the lane, steady and straight.
Dixie filled her lungs, waited a beat, then let the air seep out between her teeth, countering the surge of adrenaline that tensed her muscles.
“Let me guess,” Dann said. “Got your driver’s license by mail order.”
It’d happened so fast, everything fine one minute, out of control the next. Usually, she was a good driver, facing tricky situations with a cool head, but she was tired, wired, and sleepy—the worst driving conditions she could imagine. Loosening her grasp on the steering wheel, she flexed her fingers, mentally counting to ten.
Losing control was a special fear of hers, a deep-rooted fear. As a youngster, she’d played football with the tough kidson the block, but roller skating left her hugging the rail. Where was the logic?
Just now, though, she’d done all right. Both truck and Mustang sped unmarred toward their destinations. By midnight or bust, she’d make Omaha, even without chains or snow tires.
Easing up on the gas, she relaxed into a comfortable cruising speed a hair over forty-five. Driving would be a damn sight easier if she could give her eyes a rest from the blinding whiteness. Squinting made her head ache, yet her sunglasses were too dark. Their comforting shade would coddle her right to sleep.
A silent barrage of snowflakes flying straight at the windshield was sleep-inducing enough, every bit as mesmerizing as the glistening ribbons snaking along the highway in front of her. Dixie cast her gaze into the distance and tapped her foot to an imaginary rock band, refusing to be lulled.
“No ketchup for these fries,” Dann groused.
“Look in the other bag.”
Dixie heard a rustle of paper followed by the crinkle of plastic packets. She’d tossed everything to the back except the thermos of coffee.
“Damn good
She could always call the Houston judge trying Dann’s case and let him know Dann had violated the terms of his bail agreement. But if the judge managed to get him back to Houston, Dann stood a good chance of being convicted—precisely the situation Belle had hired Dixie to avoid. Sure, she’d be able to look at that Christmas photo of the Keyes girls, knowing she’d done her part in avenging Betsy, and Ryan would still think of his Aunt Dixie as a hero, tracking down bad guys, but she’d forever hear Belle’s yammering scold: Innocent until proven guilty, Flannigan .
Dixie could argue that she hadn’t bargained for hauling the bail jumper across four state lines in a raging snowstorm. It was dangerous. Crazy as bungee jumping.
So when the job gets tough, Flannigan, you quit? What kind of hero is that? Dann wasn’t a murderer, after all. He was a useless, thoughtless drunk driver, possibly guilty of vehicular manslaughter, but not murder. She could handle him. And she had no choice but to brazen the storm.
As she eyed the lowering clouds, Dixie started the Mustang. Once she put the weather behind her, she could park ata roadside camp and grab a few winks. She didn’t feel a bit sleepy at the moment, with a roaring fire of caffeine in her belly, but she wasn’t fooled. Out on the highway, swirling snow and droning tires would work on her like a snake charmer’s flute.
Chapter Eight
Thursday, December 24, Interstate 29
The Mustang’s tires felt solid enough on the snow-covered gravel stretching back to the highway, but the icy blacktop was less forgiving. When Dixie stepped on the gas, the big engine surged and the car’s rear end fishtailed all over the road, swerving inches from an oncoming pickup truck.
She fought for control, panic snapping at her. Suddenly the tires grabbed the pavement and the car settled into the lane, steady and straight.
Dixie filled her lungs, waited a beat, then let the air seep out between her teeth, countering the surge of adrenaline that tensed her muscles.
“Let me guess,” Dann said. “Got your driver’s license by mail order.”
It’d happened so fast, everything fine one minute, out of control the next. Usually, she was a good driver, facing tricky situations with a cool head, but she was tired, wired, and sleepy—the worst driving conditions she could imagine. Loosening her grasp on the steering wheel, she flexed her fingers, mentally counting to ten.
Losing control was a special fear of hers, a deep-rooted fear. As a youngster, she’d played football with the tough kidson the block, but roller skating left her hugging the rail. Where was the logic?
Just now, though, she’d done all right. Both truck and Mustang sped unmarred toward their destinations. By midnight or bust, she’d make Omaha, even without chains or snow tires.
Easing up on the gas, she relaxed into a comfortable cruising speed a hair over forty-five. Driving would be a damn sight easier if she could give her eyes a rest from the blinding whiteness. Squinting made her head ache, yet her sunglasses were too dark. Their comforting shade would coddle her right to sleep.
A silent barrage of snowflakes flying straight at the windshield was sleep-inducing enough, every bit as mesmerizing as the glistening ribbons snaking along the highway in front of her. Dixie cast her gaze into the distance and tapped her foot to an imaginary rock band, refusing to be lulled.
“No ketchup for these fries,” Dann groused.
“Look in the other bag.”
Dixie heard a rustle of paper followed by the crinkle of plastic packets. She’d tossed everything to the back except the thermos of coffee.
“Damn good
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