7
Sherry ground out her smoke under the heel of her saddle oxford and absently hummed along with the Everly Brothers. In the distance she spotted faint predawn light graying the east: daybreak. Her heart sank under the combined weight of relief and frustration. Somehow, she had messed up. She checked her watch: 4:40. Hope rekindled inside her. There was still time. Jan and Dean came on the radio singing “Dead Man’s Curve.”
The one thing Walker had been totally unsure of was the precise time. No one he knew who was there that night was wearing a watch, and all he could tell her was that it was just before dawn when it happened. He couldn’t account for daylight savings time, which wasn’t in effect then. But he was sure it was still dark each time. At least it was when things began.
A mosquito hummed around her ear again, and she brushed at it, nettled by the distraction. Way off in the distance the sound of a train’s whistle moaned over the mesquite. It’s lonely out here, she thought. More lonely than scary. She searched her emotions for a deeper fear but still found none. She now felt too determined to be afraid. While she waited Johnny Cash lamented love’s resemblance to a ring of fire.