Coming Home to Texas Read Online Free Page B

surprise.”

Chapter Three
    â€œT hat’s one of them foreign sports cars, isn’t it?”
    Nash looked up from under the hood of his 1980 Datsun 280ZX to find Theo Kennedy, the local pastor, standing in his garage doorway. Kennedy was twice Nash’s age—graying at the temples and a bit thick around the middle—but he was a likable guy, and it was clear people in town loved him dearly.
    Nash had been to church once or twice since coming to town, liked the local congregation, but hadn’t realized he’d drawn enough attention to warrant a pastoral visit. Evidently what Don kept telling him about small towns like Martins Gap was true—nothing ever truly went unnoticed.
    â€œIt’s an import, yes. Japanese, to be exact.” Nash wiped his palms on a nearby towel and offered a hand to the pastor.
    â€œDon’t see too many of those around here. Looks fast,” the man said, peering at the array of tubes and parts under the vehicle’s long, sleek hood.
    It was true. Nash had seen nothing but domestic cars in his travels around the small town. He’d also noticed his share of glares that clearly translated to “Why ain’t you drivin’ an American car?” when he’d taken the Z out for drives. Some days the stares didn’t bother him. Other days they made him feel about as foreign and shunned as the import. “She is fast. When she runs right, that is. She threw a fan belt on the highway two days ago and is currently giving me a hard time.”
    â€œWe got a hardware store and a garage in town. Both of them carry car parts.”
    Nash laughed. “Not these. This little lady has very exclusive taste in accessories. I didn’t bring all my spare parts in the move from LA, and now I’m regretting it.” At least the Z was reasonable compared to other foreign cars. Some of the Italian models could cost his yearly salary in parts and labor, but the Z sucked up only a slightly painful portion of his spare cash. “Still,” he continued as he dropped the hood down and heard it latch with a satisfying click , “I don’t mind tinkering with a few things while I wait for parts to ship.”
    â€œLike to get grease under your fingernails, do you?” Pastor Kennedy asked.
    â€œIt’s a good stress release from law enforcement. And a nice change to be making things run instead of stepping in when they don’t.” Nash moved his toolbox from one of the two metal stools beside his workbench and motioned for the pastor to sit down. “Something I can do for you, Pastor Kennedy?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Nash realized that was probably a dangerous thing to ask a pastor. Yes, he ought to get better connected in the community, but he didn’t exactly feel ready to set down roots or open himself up to relationships.
    â€œPlease, just Theo or Pastor Theo if you like, since I am here on church business. There is something I’m hoping you might help with.” The man picked up an air filter from Nash’s workbench and examined it. “Don told me you worked with at-risk youth in LA. I think we have some trouble brewing with ours.”
    Nash’s stomach tightened. He’d always found “at risk” a sanitized and clinical term for hoodlums and gangbangers who seemed closer to savages than humans some days. He often could glimpse the person hiding under the animal, and he knew the value of that sight. But what he’d told Ellie was true; he wasn’t ready to go back to that kind of brutal. He returned a wrench to its place in the toolbox rather than respond.
    â€œDon also tells me you agree with him that whoever’s making trouble over at the Blue Thorn is most likely young folk,” Theo went on.
    Nash sat down opposite the man. “Seems like it, yes. Only it’s too early to say for sure.”
    â€œKids need something good to do, or they find something