trouble. It was there, just as Hyland said. “For M.A. with love.”
And that was it. No author photo. No acknowledgements. Just that little bio that could have been about anyone.
None of this told me Dad wrote the book.
I turned to the back and read the copy there:
Brick Logan rides alone. He travels the western trail accompanied only by his horse and his Colt revolver. He rides to forget his past and the tragic loss of the woman he loved.
But now he enters another western trail town, one more in a long line of stops he makes. And this time Brick finds himself drawn into the life of Chastity Haines, a beautiful widow and the mother of a young son. Brick helps save the town from the merciless influence of a ruthless cattle baron. But when the fight is done, will Brick choose the life of a family man and give up his fiddlefooting, trail-haunted days. Or will he forever remain alone … and a stranger.
“Jesus,” I said. “Dad.”
“Did you find what you wanted?”
I nearly jumped. It was Patti. She stood over me, her smile hopeful.
“I think so,” I said. I gently put the copy of Rides a Stranger back into the box, and then I thought better of it. “I’ll take all of these.” I indicated the boxes that had belonged to my dad. I took my wallet out and grabbed all the cash I had. It amounted to about seventy-seven dollars. “Here. Just take this.”
“We’d probably sell these for a dollar apiece. Fifty cents for the paperbacks.”
“Just take it all,” I said. “For your time and trouble.”
“Can we help you put them in your car?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. But I picked up the box of Rides a Stranger to carry on my own. Before I left with it, I reached into the top of the box and took one copy out. “Here,” I said. “It’s a book my dad wrote.”
“Really?” she said. “Wow. I’m glad you found it.”
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Don’t put it out with the other books. Just take it. If you have the chance, look it up on the internet.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Consider it a donation as well. From my family.”
Patti looked puzzled. “Okay,” she said. “If my grandpa were still alive, I’d give it to him. It looks like the kind of book he’d like.”
I nodded. “You’re probably right.”
I pulled up to the door of the Goodwill store, and the same bearded guy who had directed me to Patti lifted the five boxes of books that once belonged to my dad—and now belonged to me—into the trunk of my car. I had placed the other box, the valuable one, on the passenger seat, so I could keep a close eye on it.
The Goodwill employee took being outside as an opportunity to light a cigarette. He leaned back against the side of the building while I finished situating the boxes in the trunk. I had one stop to make. I was going to go back to the police station and give a copy of the book to Mary Ann Compton. I didn’t know if they’d let her have it, but I would trust Hyland to let me know. If they wouldn’t take it or guarantee its safety, I intended to find her lawyer and pass the book along there. But I wanted Mary Ann to have one.
“You live around here?” he asked.
“I used to,” I said. “My parents do … well, my mom does.”
My mom’s house. Mom lives around here. I had to get used to saying that.
“Neighborhood’s changed a lot,” he said.
“Sure.” I closed the trunk.
“Houses are rundown now. People don’t take care of things.”
“Well, thanks for your help,” I said.
“My family used to shop here all the time when I was growing up.”
I looked at him. “You mean at Goodwill?”
“No,” he said. “I thought you grew up around here. Don’t you remember the old IGA grocery store that used to be here?”
I looked at the building. It started to come back to me. There was a grocery store there when I was a kid, one we went to from time-to-time. To be accurate, I should say that my dad and I shopped there. Mom didn’t like it. She felt it
And that was it. No author photo. No acknowledgements. Just that little bio that could have been about anyone.
None of this told me Dad wrote the book.
I turned to the back and read the copy there:
Brick Logan rides alone. He travels the western trail accompanied only by his horse and his Colt revolver. He rides to forget his past and the tragic loss of the woman he loved.
But now he enters another western trail town, one more in a long line of stops he makes. And this time Brick finds himself drawn into the life of Chastity Haines, a beautiful widow and the mother of a young son. Brick helps save the town from the merciless influence of a ruthless cattle baron. But when the fight is done, will Brick choose the life of a family man and give up his fiddlefooting, trail-haunted days. Or will he forever remain alone … and a stranger.
“Jesus,” I said. “Dad.”
“Did you find what you wanted?”
I nearly jumped. It was Patti. She stood over me, her smile hopeful.
“I think so,” I said. I gently put the copy of Rides a Stranger back into the box, and then I thought better of it. “I’ll take all of these.” I indicated the boxes that had belonged to my dad. I took my wallet out and grabbed all the cash I had. It amounted to about seventy-seven dollars. “Here. Just take this.”
“We’d probably sell these for a dollar apiece. Fifty cents for the paperbacks.”
“Just take it all,” I said. “For your time and trouble.”
“Can we help you put them in your car?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. But I picked up the box of Rides a Stranger to carry on my own. Before I left with it, I reached into the top of the box and took one copy out. “Here,” I said. “It’s a book my dad wrote.”
“Really?” she said. “Wow. I’m glad you found it.”
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Don’t put it out with the other books. Just take it. If you have the chance, look it up on the internet.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Consider it a donation as well. From my family.”
Patti looked puzzled. “Okay,” she said. “If my grandpa were still alive, I’d give it to him. It looks like the kind of book he’d like.”
I nodded. “You’re probably right.”
I pulled up to the door of the Goodwill store, and the same bearded guy who had directed me to Patti lifted the five boxes of books that once belonged to my dad—and now belonged to me—into the trunk of my car. I had placed the other box, the valuable one, on the passenger seat, so I could keep a close eye on it.
The Goodwill employee took being outside as an opportunity to light a cigarette. He leaned back against the side of the building while I finished situating the boxes in the trunk. I had one stop to make. I was going to go back to the police station and give a copy of the book to Mary Ann Compton. I didn’t know if they’d let her have it, but I would trust Hyland to let me know. If they wouldn’t take it or guarantee its safety, I intended to find her lawyer and pass the book along there. But I wanted Mary Ann to have one.
“You live around here?” he asked.
“I used to,” I said. “My parents do … well, my mom does.”
My mom’s house. Mom lives around here. I had to get used to saying that.
“Neighborhood’s changed a lot,” he said.
“Sure.” I closed the trunk.
“Houses are rundown now. People don’t take care of things.”
“Well, thanks for your help,” I said.
“My family used to shop here all the time when I was growing up.”
I looked at him. “You mean at Goodwill?”
“No,” he said. “I thought you grew up around here. Don’t you remember the old IGA grocery store that used to be here?”
I looked at the building. It started to come back to me. There was a grocery store there when I was a kid, one we went to from time-to-time. To be accurate, I should say that my dad and I shopped there. Mom didn’t like it. She felt it
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