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“I’ve seen wanted posters. He’s wanted, you’re wanted. Seems folks are hunting for your crew,” said Susan.
“Proves nothing. Today, this is about you.”
“You know folks in the room are watching… waiting… wondering why I would chat with a wanted killer. Especially one with a reward on his head.”
“Focus, please. Do you know the source of these posters? Who’s offering the rewards?” replied Cord.
“Sandra.”
“I’ve shared what I found, with no hidden agenda, evidence, my words, handed to you, for you. I’ve made a promise to seek the source of your pain. To find answers. I can empathize. I can recognize your desire for revenge, for retribution. It’s your play now.”
“Everyone has an agenda. Their truth,” she stated.
“My part is done and now it’s up to you to contact Jessie and perhaps Sandra, meet on neutral ground, and figure things out.”
Standing, stepping back, “I’ll share this conversation with your dad. Time for you to consider your next steps.”
Susan remains seated, not knowing what to believe. What is the truth? Years of hate hardens the heart. Abused thinking the source of her pain correctly placed on her father. A hatred that, that bound her with a sister. Sitting looks into the faces of the room’s occupants, filled with pain, sadness, greed, pleonexia, hell-bent on evil that permeates every member of society.
Why trust Cord? For the moment frozen. If only she had not survived! Molested. Instead, scarred. Hatred had been easy, had become a companion.
“Sit down… When we stand, you take my arm firmly, and together we walk out the front door. I’ll do the talking. We get your mount, walk to the edge of town, after that you’re on your own.”
They both stand. Two men enter the room from the kitchen with shotguns and space themselves out, each with a view of the cafe floor. Cord takes her arm firmly, and Susan heads toward the exit. When one cowpoke intercedes, “He’s not leaving. Step away.”
Cord flinches, “Don’t” Susan whispers. From beneath her apron, a Colt 45 appears, quickly raised and cocked, “My establishment, Joel, stand down now.”
Joel evaluates the situation. Checks to see if anyone is supporting his move. He pauses, a mistake.
“Sandra, will hand me my…” a shot rings out, nicking Joel’s ear.
“My house, everyone stand down. The next round of drinks is on me.”
The walk to the exit seems eternal, to the mount and to the edge of town without incident.
“I’ll be in touch.”
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