Mirages glistened on the steaming pavement of South Texas as Mark Reynolds gripped the steering wheel, fighting to keep his eyes from glazing over. The tires made a rhythmic thump thump thump and mile signs waved like familiar friends.
Closer, they told him. You're getting closer.
Mr. Chesters’ cries from the backseat subsided, sleep finally conquering the cat’s frenzy.
Mark stretched his neck to either side, thankful for the silence. It had been a long ride, and they still had a ways to go.
Zooming by lonely pumpkin stands and a few skinny dogs, he turned up the radio and let his foot fall heavier on the pedal. Time and distance passed while good old boys discussed farm subsidies and the price of oil.
A light flashed in his rearview mirror, bright as the sun on someone's chrome, but a quick glance told him otherwise.
The cops.
As he pulled over to the shoulder, the tires shot pebbles like angry hail. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Ungodly November heat coated his skin with a fine sheen. A scratch drew a line across his cheek and his left eye ballooned in shades of black and blue.
The patrolman's boots crunched on the loose asphalt.
Mark rolled down the window and his palm slipped on the handle. "Yes? What's the problem?" He hadn't been pulled over since college, nearly a decade ago.
"See your license and insurance, sir." The policeman pulled out a notebook.
"Absolutely. Sorry about that." Mark dug in the glove compartment. Thank God he'd remembered the paperwork. He'd need it for the border crossing. "Was I speeding?"
Officer Martinez, according to the engraved bar, tipped his tan Stetson in answer. "Where you headed?"
"South."
"Not much south of here except Mexico," Martinez said. "Big storm headed that way. You crossing over?"
"Yes, sir."
"What for?"
"Looking for someone." Mark stared straight ahead.
"Who's that?"
Fear and frustration burned in his throat as he uttered the truth. "My wife."
The officer's mouth twitched. "Stay put, and I'll be back in a minute."
More gravel crunched, and Martinez left Mark to himself.
Inside the car, a fly buzzed against the windshield. It made circles and struck the glass, relentless in its efforts to escape. Just an inch from freedom. Cupping his hand, he ushered the insect to the window, where it looped away, stunned and sluggish.
He wondered how it ever lasted through summer without getting squashed.
Martinez returned and passed the credentials through the window. "Potter Springs? That's the Panhandle, isn't it? You're a far way from home."
Mark nodded, his image a warped jester in Martinez's mirrored lenses.
"What do you do up there in Potter?"
"Minister."
Martinez removed the shades and squinted. Taking in Mark's muscular build, beat-up face and wrinkled clothes. A neon logo painted his T-shirt -- Sun Your Buns! -- over a photo of four women in thong bathing suits. "You don't look like any preacher I've ever seen."
Mark didn't argue. The car idled in the heat.
"Well," Martinez thudded the metal roof. "I'll let you go with a warning this time. Do me a favor and slow it down."
"I plan to." He adjusted his seat belt. "Thanks."
"For what it's worth," Martinez took a step back, holding Mark’s gaze, "I hope you find her."
Merging into traffic, the officer's black-and-white faded into the distance.
I hope you find her.
The blessing stirred his memories. To the time before the losing began. Before the whirlwind and the changes and the wide, open spaces.
Like the sample? Buy a copy!
top
“With simplicity and sensitivity, Coleman brings readers into the wounded hearts of winsomely imperfect characters. This debut novel sparkles with engrossing dialogue and deft touches of humor.” 
