Tumbleweed Weddings (16 page)

“Be sure your sin will find you out.”

The Bible verse flew through her mind. Now, because of her poor judgment, Lane was in trouble.

“Guess I’ll pay Hutchins a little visit.” Sheriff Krause turned to Mrs. Wimple. “Doesn’t he live at the Stables, Adelaide?”

“Yes, but he’s not there.” The red lips worked around in a circle. “He left town last night. Don’t know what time it was, but it was late.”

“He left town?” Callie became concerned. “Did he say where he was going?”

“No, but he took all his stuff—what little he had.” She pulled on a sponge curler that was falling out. “It’s a furnished apartment, you know.”

“So he left town.” The sheriff wrote on his pad.

George nodded. “Rather incriminating evidence, I’d say.”

A murmur buzzed through the crowd.

“Lane didn’t do it.” Callie pressed her lips in a firm line.

Ralph leaned toward her. “You must admit, Callie, no one knows where this man came from or who he really is.”

George nodded. “I bet he shot Lucille last night and skipped town.”

Bruce held up his hand. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. He seems to be an even-tempered sort of fellow. What motive would he have to kill her?”

“Well …” George shrugged. “They certainly were quarreling about something.”

“I think we’re finished here.” The sheriff waved his hand toward the crowd like he was brushing away a pesky fly. “Go home, folks. The library will be closed today and tomorrow so we can investigate the scene of the crime. And if any of you see Hutchins, call me immediately.”

Callie folded her arms.
She
would not be the one to betray Lane.

Driving her Honda out of the library’s parking lot, Callie headed toward Antelope Road. If the library was going to be closed for two days, she might as well go home. Sheriff Krause had cordoned off the front of the building with yellow police tape. He had searched the grounds and covered every room inside, but his investigation led nowhere. Not one clue pointed to the assailant.

She gave a helpless sigh. Who would have shot Miss Penwell? Maybe one of the council members shot her because she wouldn’t retire.
That’s no reason
. Unless it was a cold-blooded killer.

If only she had read more murder mysteries instead of so many history and romance books. Maybe she would be more intuitive in the psychology of the human mind and she could figure out whodunit.

Unfortunately, Lane was still under suspicion, especially by Sheriff Krause, and the townspeople seemed ready to blame him. Callie wouldn’t be surprised if
The Scout
had banner headlines tomorrow morning saying, L
IBRARIAN
S
HOT BY
T
RANSIENT
C
ITIZEN
.

She knew Lane did not kill—or attempt to kill—Miss Penwell. But the librarian must have discovered Lane reading the town documents, and that was Callie’s fault.

Lord, please forgive me
, she prayed. She hoped Lane would forgive her.

She couldn’t blame him for leaving town.

But where did he go?

A sudden thought made her gasp, and she hit the brakes. Making a U-turn in the middle of Antelope Road, she raced back toward Fort Lob. When she arrived at the library, she pulled around to the back parking lot and let herself in the back door.

She paused inside.
Lord, am I doing something wrong again?
But the sheriff hadn’t banned her from the building. After all, the crime had occurred outside, not inside, the library.

Callie ascended the stairs to the second floor and entered the reference rooms. A row of metropolitan phone books from cities and towns in Wyoming, Nebraska, South Dakota, and Colorado lined the shelf. She found the Cheyenne phone book and looked up
Hutchins
.

“There he is.”
Hutchins, Lane
. She grabbed a scrap of paper from the little box beside the computer and scribbled down his address and phone number.

Callie stuck the paper in her jeans pocket. Then she went into the conference room where Lane had been last night. Nothing was on the table. She looked on top of the cabinet where she had told him to put the box last night when he finished. The two books were displayed as they had been last night, but the box was gone—Miss Penwell must have confiscated it. Behind the books lay a folded piece of paper.

She picked it up. Her name was written on the outside. With trembling fingers, she opened the note and glanced down to Lane’s signature at the bottom.

Callie knew exactly whom he meant. She kept reading.

“Sorry things didn’t work out for us?” Callie drew in a shaky breath that was almost a sob.
No!
Things couldn’t be over between them. They had barely gotten started. What about the peace she felt when they were eating together last night? She had never felt that way about Murray Twichell, who declared his love for her in the sixth grade and still wanted to date her.

Callie gritted her teeth. Lane was not going to quietly disappear, never to be seen again. She was going to find him.

L
ane paced the tan Persian rug in the living room of his house in Cheyenne. “I am such a coward!”

With a moan, he plopped down on the brown sofa and dropped his head in his hands. For a few moments, he just sat there, regretting the turn of events. “How could I have done such a thing?”

He could never show his face in Fort Lob again.

After a few moments, he sat back. He had closed the drapes on the tall floor-to-ceiling windows, and the room’s darkness complemented his mood. The tiled fireplace, with three framed pictures resting on the mantel, was cloaked in shadows.

With a sigh, he walked to the fireplace and picked up the photograph of Herbert Dreyfuss—the same picture, taken eight years ago, that graced Lane’s syndicated column in thousands of newspapers every Friday, the same one that was on the back cover of every book Lane wrote.

He wished his uncle were here to give him advice. But even though Herbert Dreyfuss couldn’t help him anymore, there was Someone who could, if only Lane would humble himself enough to ask.

Replacing the picture, he turned back to the room. Aunt Betty’s old King James Bible lay on the end table where it had lain for years. Lane remembered her sitting on this sofa, reading it every morning.

Taking a seat, he lifted the old book and blew off the dust that had accumulated on its cover. The Bible fell open to a bookmark in Philippians, and Lane glanced at an underlined verse.
“For it is God which worketh in you both to will and to do of his good pleasure.”

This was the same verse Callie had mentioned. He thought back to what she said.
“The Lord has a reason for everything He does, Lane.”

So God had a reason for taking Aunt Betty and Uncle Herb, even though He knew it would make Lane bitter?

Bitter
. Yep. That was Lane Hutchins to the core. Bitter at God.

“Only the Lord can heal your heart, Lane.”

He thought back to his high school days—those happy, carefree days before Aunt Betty got sick. Lane had truly loved Jesus Christ and wanted to serve Him. But when things in his world started falling apart …

“The Lord is waiting for you to come back to Him.”

He knelt by the sofa. “Okay, Lord, I’m coming back. You’ve got my attention, even though Callie says You don’t work that way.” He let out a deep sigh. “I’ve taken charge of my life for the past seven years, and I’ve failed. Please forgive me for my bitterness and for running away from You. Cleanse my heart, Lord. I surrender it to You. I need You, and I’ll need Your guidance for the rest of my life.”

The sun was shining as Callie took to the open road early Saturday morning. She had prayed long and hard about her decision to visit Lane. Of course, he might not even be in Cheyenne, but she had to try something.

She wasn’t going to let him slip out of her life.

But she didn’t want to stay in Cheyenne too long. The town meeting about keeping the library open was scheduled for tonight at seven, and she couldn’t miss it.

Lane would be surprised to hear what had happened to Miss Penwell. The old librarian was still in a coma, which was another thing Callie was praying about. If only Miss Penwell would wake up, she could tell them who shot her. Then all the rumors about Lane would die.

Pushing the car’s accelerator to sixty-five miles an hour, Callie drove south on the two-lane, paved road known as Highway 270. In the last ten minutes, only one car had passed her. Humming along with the air conditioner, she knew God would work everything out between her and Lane.

She felt a bump and glanced in the rearview mirror. Something small, like a piece of wood, lay near the side of the road behind her.
I must have run over that
. She didn’t think too much about it until a minute later when she heard a
thwump, thwump
noise. The back right tire began to pull with each
thwump
.

“Oh no!”

Slowing down, she pulled the car to the edge of the road and stopped. A steady warm breeze lifted her hair as she got out and walked around the back to look at the tire. It was totally flat.

Callie slapped her hand to her forehead. “Great! Just great.” With a sigh, she unlocked the trunk. She hadn’t changed a tire since she was sixteen. Dad had taught her when she was learning to drive, but that was ten years ago. She had never changed a real flat tire and never by herself.

Now I know why people carry cell phones
. Not that a cell phone would do her any good on this barren highway. Signals didn’t reach out here. She would just have to change the tire herself and pray that it stayed on until she reached Cheyenne.

She got out the jack and looked at it then looked at the car. Didn’t this thing come with directions?
Lord, send me help!

Peace flooded her heart. The Lord would be her Helper. After all, He was the Great Mechanic—He knew how to change a flat tire.

She thought about the owner’s manual in the glove compartment and pulled it out. Flipping through the book, she found the section on changing a flat tire. Standing beside the car, she read the instructions as a vehicle pulled up behind her. Whirling around, she breathed out a sigh of relief.

Tom Shoemacher climbed down from his tow truck. “Hey there, Callie! Got a flat, I see.”

“Oh, Tom! Am I glad to see you!” She laughed, inwardly thanking the Lord for sending Fort Lob’s only full-service gas station owner. “I ran over something a few miles back, and it must have punctured the tire.” She pointed to the jack. “I’m not sure if I’m doing this right.”

“Well, no worries.” Tom smiled, wreathing his face in wrinkles. “I’ll have this fixed in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Let me get my own tools from the truck.”

“Thanks so much.”
Thank You, Lord. You’re so good to me
.

Tom came back and set his tools on the ground. He adjusted the jack under the side of the car in front of the back tire and pumped it up.

Callie watched him. “I was afraid I wouldn’t see one car on this lonesome highway. You’re a real answer to prayer.”

“We do have a sparse population. It’s like old Herbert Dreyfuss wrote yesterday about being able to fit a whole third world country in Wyoming.” He laughed as he glanced at her. “Did you read it?”

She nodded.
I said it
.

“And isn’t that the truth!” Taking a wrench, he twisted off the lug nuts before lifting the flat tire from the axle.

Callie sighed, thankful she didn’t have to worry about those lug nuts. It probably would have taken her an hour to get them off.

“I’m on my way to Torrington to pick up my wife.” Tom took the spare tire from the trunk and rolled it to the side of the car. “She’s been visiting her sister this week.”