Lost in Tennessee Read Free Page A

denim and finished in leather.
    “You’re back.” Butch stood, wiping his hands on a cotton rag.
    The dog danced around the little redhead, dying to get her attention. Her brows pressed low, and lines cut deep rills around her eyes and mouth, but she handled the dog gently.
    “What happened?”
    Kate slapped her palms against her thighs. Her voice quivered. “How do I know? I followed the directions.” She tossed the paper to him. “I never found the highway.”
    She lost that confident air she wore as close as skin just hours ago. Half her hair had escaped her braid, her cute tee was rumpled, and her petal-pink lips drooped toward the ground. She looked defeated, a feeling he understood.
    Butch took the paper and read his own writing. There it was. Left on Route 431. It should have been a right. He looked at her out of the top of his eyes and shoved the paper into his pocket.
    Kate paced across the open door, her shoulders curved inward. The dog moved as surely as her shadow, oblivious of the tension. She stopped suddenly. The dog ran into her legs. Her hand found his thick neck while her eyes took in everything in the barn and settled on the tractor. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady and laced with something that sounded to Butch like curiosity.
    She cocked her head to the right. “What are you doing?”
    “Tractor decided to stop running. The engine turns over but she won’t go into gear.” He tossed the rag on the seat. “But that’s my problem, let’s take care of yours. I’ll get a map and meet you at your car.”
    When Butch came out of the front door of the farmhouse with a large map crumpled in his hands, Kate paced next to her car, shaking her hands as if to wake them up after they fell asleep. The dog, changing his tactic, sat near the fender, watching Kate with adoring eyes.
    “Are you all right?”
    Kate jumped when he spoke, collected herself, and turned to face him. “Physically, emotionally, or psychologically?”
    Butch stopped short and let out a clear, low whistle. Shredded rubber wrapped around the front passenger wheel where the tire should have been. “Looks like you got a problem.”
    “What? What?” Kate walked around to the place he pointed at with his chin. “No. No, no, no, no. Why can’t one thing, just one thing, go right today?” Kate walked around to the trunk, opened it and began emptying it. “Have you ever had a day when you feel like a fish swimming upstream, and you keep thinking if I can just get around the next bend, I’ll be home free, but the only thing waiting for you is a hungry bear with good hand-eye-mouth coordination?”
    Butch nodded, as that pretty much described his marriage and impending divorce. He joined her behind the car and began taking boxes from the trunk and stacking them on his gravel driveway. “I’ve had months like that. What is all of this?” The boxes made for reams of paper were full, based on their weight. Smaller boxes and bags were tucked in every gap, completely filling the trunk.
    “Work.” She didn’t elaborate as she pulled another box from the trunk and stacked it on the growing pile.
    Butch took a heavy one before she could. “What do you do?”
    “Not enough, if you believe my father.” She stopped suddenly. Kate’s arms went rigid, and her head hung heavy, her hair flopping forward. “This cannot be happening.”
    Butch realized the problem. No spare tire. Kate took a deep breath and let out a long, heavy sigh. Butch felt responsible for that sigh. His mistake got her nowhere, with a flat tire.
    “I know a mechanic. He’ll set you up with a spare, but as late as it is, you aren’t going anywhere tonight. I have a bed you can use.” When she shook her still hanging head, he quickly added, “A spare bed. I have a spare bed.” His cell phone rang. “I need to answer this. Just relax. We’ll take care of this. What did you tell me with the sign? Let me help. It will be better if we do it