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was about as painful as a root canal. And conversation certainly hadn’t been at the top of the list for either of them.
    Now he wished he’d pushed her a little more, tried to find out what she was running away from. Because that sure as hell was what she was doing. And didn’t he know about that, too. He’d also discovered that no matter how fast and how far you ran, you couldn’t get away from the thing that was chasing you.
    “Hungry?” he asked.
    They’d stopped on the highway for breakfast but that had been a few hours ago and she hadn’t even eaten that much.
    She shrugged. “Not so much.”
    “Well, you need to fuel the pump, anyway. When we get to Houston we’ll grab a bite.”
    From the corner of his eye he saw her turn her head to look at him. “Is that where we’re going? I didn’t even ask.”
    “Uh-huh. Smoky told me a buddy of his owns a shit-kicker bar in a suburb. Slow the early part of the week but busy starting on Thursday.”
    “Well, that’s good, right? Busy on the weekend?”
    He shrugged. It was all the same to him.
    “Do you always go right from one job to the other?” she wanted to know. “And isn’t it unusual for you to finish up on a Saturday and start on a Sunday?”
    “Sometimes I catch a few days between gigs, sometimes not. But apparently this guy had someone cancel out on him at the last minute and Smoky gave him my name.”
    He slid a glance at her. “You okay with that?”
    What did it matter? He had a job to get to and at the moment she was little more than a hitchhiker who’d practically forced him to bring her along.
    “Yes. Sure. Of course. I mean, I’m just glad you let me come along.”
    He reached over and brushed his fingers against her cheek. “I’m guessing you’re running from trouble. I’m just glad I’m the one you decided to run with but I didn’t want to give you any illusions about what you walked into. Crazy hours. Cheap bars.
    Going where the wind blows me.”
    “It’s fine,” she insisted. “Just…thanks for taking me with you.”
    The silence stretched out.
    “How long is the, um, gig for? That’s what it’s called, right?”
    He gave a small chuckle. “Yeah, that’s what it’s called. It’s for two weeks.” He stole a look at her. “You can still change your mind, you know. I can put you on a bus back to Walton Creek. Maybe the friend who lent you the truck can pick you up.”
    “No!” She practically shouted the word, then more softly repeated it. “No. I want to stay with you. That is, if you…still want me.”
    He reached over and closed his hand over both of hers. “If that’s what you want,
    Erin, then I’m good with it. But since the gig’s so short I won’t be looking for a room in a house. Just a motel close to the bar. Nothing fancy.”
    “Grady, I’m not looking for a mansion or a fancy hotel. Whatever you get is fine.”
    He wanted to ask her how long she planned on hanging around with him but he sensed this was definitely not the time to push her. But sooner or later they’d have to get to it. When this job was over he could be heading anywhere. From Montana to Oregon or maybe another place in Texas. That was no life for a woman. Certainly not one who appeared to have as much class as Erin Braddock.
    It was after one by the time they reached Richland Hills on the outskirts of Austin.
    Grady pulled into a diner so they could eat and after they placed their order he pulled out his cell phone and called Bubby Trammel, the owner of the Yellow Rose Saloon.
    “We’ll stop by the bar after we eat,” he told Erin, pouring ketchup out for his fries.
    “Bubby says he can recommend a motel that most of the guys who play his place use.
    Cheap. Nothing fancy, but he guarantees it’s clean and safe.”
    “Anyplace is fine.” Her voice was low and soft. She glanced up from her tuna sandwich. “Really, Grady. I’m good with whatever.”
    He sighed. “I just wish I knew what devil was driving you, darlin’.