Defending His Own

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She must have taken the wrong turn off Cotton Lane. There was nothing out here but a bunch of cotton fields and an endless stretch of dirt road, apparently leading nowhere except in and out of the fields.

Deborah Vaughn slowed her dark blue Cadillac to a stop, shifted the gears into Park and picked up the piece of paper on which she'd written the directions. Despite the protection of her sunglasses, Deborah squinted against the sun's blinding glare. Holding up her hand to shield her eyes, she glanced down at the map and instructions she'd brought along to help her find the new development property her real estate firm had just purchased. Damn! She had turned off too soon.

Glancing around, she didn't see anywhere to make a turn, and she certainly had no intention of backing her car all the way to Cotton Lane. She'd just have to go a little farther and find some place to turn around.

Shifting the gears into Drive, she drove on. Within a few minutes she spotted what appeared to be the burned-out remains of an old shack. A wide, weed-infested path, marred with deep ruts, ran straight from the dirt road to where a shiny black Ford pickup had parked in knee-high grass behind the still-standing brick chimney.

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