Atop the rocky hill, she saw the first promise of the town, nestled there in a grove of trees and bramble.
“Ah, a gated community.” She smirked, driving beneath an ornate iron arch bearing the town’s name in vintage lettering.
So this was Hannah, Texas.
It reminded her of a Hollywood movie set for an old western. The graveled road forked around a large grassy area that boasted a trio of massive old live oaks, met up again on the far side, and meandered its way into the sunset… or to at least as far as the tree line. A collection of old, weathered buildings—some eight or so in all, in various degrees of disrepair—loosely clustered around either fork of the road.
Hannah spotted a pickup truck parked near the largest of the buildings and felt a surge of relief. Thank heavens, the lawyer had waited! Maybe there was something to telepathic messaging, after all. She edged her sporty little car up next to the truck, tugged sunglasses into place, and braced for the Texas heat.
A man emerged from the weathered structure as she hurried from her car. A crooked sign above the door identified it as the Stagecoach Stop. An official state historical marker identified it as important.
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