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“How many times do I have to tell you that five-five isn’t short, it’s average.”
“Sure, sure, and to a penguin you’re a giant. Well, you’d be five-six if you didn’t have that mop weighing you down.”
As he added the mug of draft beer to the rest, Frankie blew her thick, shaggy bangs out of her eyes, and gave him a benign look. “Now don’t let your insecurities get the best of you. I heard all about your disorder on one of those talk shows last week.”
“I have a disorder?”
With tongue in cheek, she swept up her tray. “In a manner of speaking. You’re one of those people who find the easiest way to ignore your own shortcomings is to point out someone else’s.”
“Who gets to ignore ‘em? Me? Ha!” The retired chief petty officer’s finger shook as he pointed at her. “I have news for you, Miss Mouth. Estelle keeps a list of my shortcomings on the refrigerator! Disorder, nothing. You’re looking at a persecuted man.”
With a playful “Aw,” Frankie left to deliver the drinks. She performed an abbreviated rendition of the Lambada to maneuver between the tables, secretly admitting to herself that she really didn’t mind Benny’s nagging. In fact she’d now been in Slocum Springs longer than she’d stayed anywhere since inheriting the Silver Duck from her grandfather five years ago. If Benny had been anything less than a sweetheart, she would have been long gone by now.
Nevertheless, his comments did linger in her mind, and it was what she was thinking about as she left the club an hour later. While driving home she concluded that regardless of how patiently she’d tried, she hadn’t yet succeeded in making people appreciate, or at least respect, her philosophy of life.
“Tough cookies,” she announced, tired of the subject.
She was twenty-seven years old, for pity’s sake. If her ideas didn’t come close to what the rest of the world practiced—
“Aaah!”
She hit the brakes, and hoped Petunia had enough left in her to respond. In the last second, she closed her eyes, convinced she was about to flatten the naked man standing in the middle of the road with her ancient truck.
Either the purple pickup’s brakes were in better shape than she’d believed, or she owed her guardian angel another debt of gratitude. In any case, Petunia squealed to a halt—inches away from the streaker.
Frankie stared at him. He blinked back at her.
“Well, now…what do we have here?”
This couldn’t be an April Fools’ prank, because it was months late. It couldn’t be a Halloween prank because it was months too early. The guy wasn’t wearing some sort of a costume, either; he was honestly naked—save for the handful of cottonwood and oak leaves he held unsteadily in front of his privates.
“Glory be.” This wasn’t some joke one of her mischievous customers had decided to pull on her. A person would deserve an Academy Award to fake that look of shock and fear.
Oh, yes, he was real, and that kept her from bursting into relieved, giddy laughter. Still, he did look funny in a bizarre, incredible sort of way. And how ironic that on the very evening Benny had lectured her again about her love life, she should get this dubious… offering.
As he hesitantly rounded to her side of the car, she rolled down her window. “Um…Adam, I presume?”
“You know me?”
Oh, brother. Maybe you jumped to one too many conclusions, Jonesy.
“That was a joke,” she told him. When he made no response, she decided he might simply be slow. “The leaves and all?” She gestured to his minute ensemble.
His blue eyes remained blank. “Can you help me?”
“I really don’t think-”
It was as he began looking around that she had a clear view of the other side of his face and spotted the blood streaking down his right temple. With a gasp, Frankie downshifted and secured her emergency brake. Careful not to knock him off-balance, she nudged him out of the way with her door, and eased out of the truck. Now that she was closer, she could see that he was shaking like a paint mixing machine, which left him none too steady on his feet.
“Holy hiccups, what happened?” she cried, grasping his upper arms to steady him.
“I—I’m not sure. I woke up, and… I don’t know.”
“Where do you come from?”
He looked around again and pointed over Petunia’s hood. Since there wasn’t a streetlight in sight, all that she could see out there was the ravine dropping off from the shoulder, and the black-on-black shadow indicating the woods beyond.
“Uh-huh.” The smell of being set up returned stronger than before. “Who are you?”
He tried to answer. She could tell by the way his facial muscles tightened and he broke out in a sweat. But in the end he simply gave her a confused look.
“Adam?”
She should have suffered whiplash from the way her skepticism switched to concern. Without thinking, she reached up to touch his bruised face. “You poor man. You don’t have a clue, do you?”
“No. Do you?”
She shook her head. “But don’t worry,” she added quickly. “We’ll find out in no time at all. First let’s get you settled in my truck, and after that I’ll go check out the ditch. Surely something’s there that will tell us what we want to know.”
If he agreed, he kept that to himself, and merely stood there looking as if whatever would come from her mouth had to be the gospel. Frankie decided it was one thing for Lambchop to take on that expression when she had to leave for work; it was another to have a grown man doing it.
With more questions than answers as to what she was dealing with, she helped him around to the passenger side of the truck. It wasn’t easy. He had to be at least six feet, maybe a bit more, and he had a sturdy build. No doubt his mother—or wife, she amended, embarrassed at how neatly she’d almost avoided that thought—had made sure he didn’t skip too many meals. At the same time, he was well toned. Taut. She tried not to let her gaze wander to places the leaves only began to cover, but who could help noticing?
Once she opened the door, she reached inside for the blanket kept behind the seat. “Here you go. This might itch a bit. It’s Maury’s and he tends to shed, but it’s all I have.”
The stranger looked over her shoulder as if waiting for someone to protest his having the covering. “I can share.”
What was she dealing with, here? Once again Frankie eyed him with suspicion. When she still saw no reason to think this was a cunning act, she wrapped the blanket around him and helped him into her vehicle.
She ripped out a few tissues from the mangled box crunched between the windshield and dashboard, to dab at the worst of the blood already beginning to dry on the side of his face. Once she got most of it, she pressed the tissues into his hand, grabbed her flashlight out of the glove compartment, and ran to look for his clothes and whatever else she might find that would indicate his identity.
She found an empty beer can, an ice-cream stick, and a number of cigarette butts, which made her grateful they’d been crushed out when discarded. She didn’t, however, find anything that would help her solve her mystery.
After prolonging her search a bit more, she returned to the idling truck and paused beside the open passenger door to consider the shivering stranger. The way he stared back at her made it clear that no matter what she asked him, she wasn’t going to be reassured by the answer.
But what a nice face—despite the ugly abrasion on his forehead, a less severe one on his cheek, and the dirt and weeds in his brown hair. He had a face that spoke of strength and frankness, centered by an Anglo-straight nose, balanced by a wide, generous mouth, and punctuated with a slightly stubborn chin.
It was his mouth that drew her attention most. With the slightest smile, he would undoubtedly steal hearts. With the grimmest frown, he would undoubtedly scare the hush puppies out of anyone. If she’d been the betting type, she would have bet tonight’s tips that this was the man everyone in school would have voted Most Likely to Succeed. Here was the guy no girl ever forgot, even if she never got lucky enough to date him. No doubt some woman somewhere was beginning to pace the floors and chew her fingernails to nubs with worry over him.
Frankie felt another pinch in the area of her heart, and in self-defense shifted her attention to the large-boned hands that clutched at the blanket. He wore no ring, which meant nothing; these days guys were professionals at hiding such minor technicalities as wives and children. But surely this man wasn’t one of those? Why else would she have such a powerful impulse to say, “Finders keepers"? He was definitely keeper material.
“I’d better get you to the hospital,” she told him, concerned that she’d let her fantasy go too—
“No!”
His sharp response stopped her from shutting the door. “Look, you’re hurt. You need medical attention.”
“You. You help me.”
As charming as this you-Jane-me-Tarzan dialogue was, it was starting to wear thin. “Listen, gorgeous, it doesn’t take a medical degree to see that this is more than a kiss-andmake-it-better situation.”
“You.”
He had no idea what he was asking of her. Shaking her head, she took the tissues from him—he hadn’t done a thing with them, anyway—and once again dabbed gently around his worst wound. “I don’t know why you’re making this difficult for me.”
“Just need to rest.” He winced, and shifted slightly away from her.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. At a hospital you could. And they would contact the police, who would—”
“Please.”
Frankie stopped dabbing and leaned close to look deeper into his eyes for a clue as to what was going on. In the dim overhead light the color wasn’t exactly dark like a deepwater blue, but more of a slate or stormy shade. Of course, some of that gray could be a result of the concussion or whatever it was that he was suffering from. In any case, it bothered her to be tempted to find out how they would look in the light of day, or when he was healthy. Smiling.
Stop it, Jonesy. You don’t need the trouble or the heartache.
Nevertheless, she heard herself murmur, “I guess I could take you down the road to my place. But I should warn you, it’s not fancy.”
“I only want to lie down. Get warm.”
He was cold? She’d thought he’d been shaking from the fright she’d given him, and from whatever he’d gone through that had put him in this state. After all, it was July, and it had to be at least seventy degrees or better. That more than anything else decided her.
She tossed the soiled tissues onto the floorboard, and carefully shut the passenger door. When she once again slid behind the steering wheel, she shot him a wry look.
“Maybe I’d better warn you about a few more things. I don’t live alone.”
He seemed confused for a moment, but soon inclined his head. “I won’t stay. Just… rest.”
Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she could have sworn he looked disappointed. “You misunderstand. I mean that you won’t quite have the privacy you might want, because I have pets and they, um, get around.”
“I like dogs and cats. I think.”
She chuckled softly and shifted into gear. “Well, that’s a start.”
They drove a few miles, and during that time Frankie waited, hoping he would initiate more conversation, but he didn’t. He simply sat beside her. The shaking eased a bit; nevertheless, it didn’t stop entirely.
“I’d turn on the heater for you, but it doesn’t work. Neither does the air conditioner. Petunia has a few miles on her.” She patted the truck’s worn dashboard with affection.
Her companion merely peered into the dark night, as if trying to recognize something of his surroundings.
In an attempt to help him relax—and maybe herself, too—she offered, “My name is Frankie.”
That got his attention. “Why do you have a boy’s name?”
“Blame it on my mother.” Frankie made a face. “When she was a kid, she dreamed of being an actress. Not only didn’t that happen, she ended up marrying my father and inherited the last name of Jones. What a curse for poor Mom. All during her pregnancy with me, she went through book after book of baby names, until she came up with Francesca.”
“Francesca… pretty.”
Ugh, He would say something like that. “It’s not bad,” she said with hard-won grace, “but not for someone like me. Before I was five, I had everyone calling me Frankie.”
Her passenger went back to studying his surroundings. Almost as an afterthought he murmured, “I don’t know if I like my name.”
Boy, she’d all but stuck her whole leg in it that time. Frankie shot him an apologetic look. “Don’t worry. No doubt all you need is a good night’s rest.” Belatedly, however, she remembered having read somewhere that you weren’t supposed to let a concussion victim drift into too deep a sleep. She decided she would let the experts warn him about that when she finally got him to the hospital.
It took only another few minutes to reach her home. The Silver Duck was parked on the southwest boundary of Mr. Miller’s farm. Mr. Miller was a widower who owned several hundred acres bordering a creek that fed into the Trinity River. That creek also filled the stock pond where Frankie had parked her trailer. Her agreement with the oldtimer was that she watched over his southernmost boundary—he’d often been the victim of poachers and cattle rustlers—and in exchange, he let her tie into the utility box that he’d set up for a former ranch hand, who hadn’t stayed on.
No sooner did she park beside the hail-damaged and timeworn trailer than they found themselves surrounded by a small herd of animals. Amid the barking, meowing and general ruckus, Frankie noted her passenger’s wide-eyed stare at the three-legged cat that stared back at him through the windshield.
She grinned. “Don’t worry. This only looks and sounds like Little Big Horn. I assure you, they’re all fairly friendly. Hello, babies,” she cooed, as she eased open her door. The animals swarmed around her to nuzzle, lick, and playfully nip at her jeans and T-shirt.
When Frankie made it to the passenger side and opened the door to help out her newest houseguest, he hesitated. “I thought you said dogs and cats?”
“No, you did.”
And there was a dog and cat. Maury, named after a TV talk-show host, was a long-haired German shepherd, blinded in one eye from a carelessly aimed BB gun. The cat was Callie, short for Calico, who often acted as mother to the group, despite her handicap, the result of a near-fatal car accident.
There was also Samson, the potbellied pig, who used his girth to push his way into anywhere he wanted to go. George, a rather distinguished muskovy duck. Her beloved Lambchop, the clubfooted donkey, who brought up the rear of every family parade. And perhaps her most irascible member of the family, Rasputin, a goat with eyebrows as bushy as his long beard.
Once the stranger emerged from the truck, Maury and Rasputin initiated an instant tug-of-war with the blanket. Frankie sighed; she should have known they wouldn’t cut the new guy any slack.
“Guys, guys… not now!”
She gave her crew gentle nudges with her knees and elbows, whatever worked as she assisted her guest up the two steps to the deck she’d built herself last fall. For the most part, though, her efforts to keep her brood away from her guest were wasted. By the time she had the trailer door open, she had a feeling her company was wondering if he wouldn’t have been better off risking a night out under the stars beating off mosquitoes and God knew what else. She didn’t know how to warn him that he was in for round two, except to simply push open the door.
“I’m home!” she called into the darkness.
Even before she found the light switch, she was greeted with a scream. “Erk... save me! Save me!”
From across the room she heard a flutter of wings, and then felt claws grip her shoulder with flawless precision. “Ouch—watch it!” Frankie muttered, flicking on the wall switch.
As the room flooded with light, illuminating the crimson-and-azure parrot on her shoulder, the bird gave her a peck on the cheek. “Erk. Hello, Blondie.”
“You know you’re not supposed to let yourself out until I tell you it’s safe.”
“Erk. Gimmee a kiss.”
Although she complied, Frankie didn’t spare the bird a necessary scolding. “What I should do is let Dr. J. have you for dinner, you juvenile delinquent.”
That was too many words for the creature, and yet Honey seemed to get the message. She glided back across the room and into her cage, quickly tugging the door shut behind her. Just in time, too. Right on her tail came Dr. J., the Manx cat who’d recently come close to successfully slam-dunking the parrot into his food bowl.
“I really do work at keeping these two separated,” she told her guest, who stood mesmerized by the show. “But Dr. J.’s learned how to escape from the back bedroom, and I haven’t figured out what to do about that yet.”
“Are there any more?” the stranger asked, glancing around warily.
“Two. But you won’t meet them until they’re ready. They’re very shy.” She took his arm again. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up? We can talk more after. The bathroom’s the first door,” she said, pointing down the hall. “As for clothes… I’m afraid you’ll have to cope with the blanket, or a towel. I do have some sleep shirts, but somehow I don’t think even they’d be large enough.”
The stranger paused, and although he needed the support of the wall to stay on his feet, his gaze was direct—and grateful. “I may be confused, but… I know I’m asking for a great deal from you.”
Mercy, she could spend all night and more gazing into those eyes. “That’s okay.”
