Backseat Saints by Joshilyn Jackson

By Joshilyn Jackson

Rose Mae Lolley's mom disappeared while she was once 8, leaving Rose with a heap of previous novels and a style for risky males. Now, as demure Mrs. Ro Grandee, she's dwelling the very existence her mom deserted. She's all yet forgotten the woman she used to be-teenaged spitfire, Alabama heartbreaker, and a crack shot with a pistol-until an airport gypsy warns Rose it is time to locate her as far back as that courageous, tricky lady . . . otherwise. Armed with simply her wit, her pawpy's historic .45, and her puppy fats Gretel, Rose Mae hightails it out of Texas, working from a guy who won't ever enable her cross, on a undertaking to discover the mummy who did. Starring a minor personality from Jackson's bestselling gods in Alabama, BACKSEAT SAINTS will dazzle readers with its wonderful portrayal of the measures a mom will take to correct the wrongs she's created, and the way a long way a daughter will commute to fulfill the calls for of forgiveness.

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They were both good-looking boys, but her eye went right to Thom. He was six feet tall with a thick, meaty build that said football to her, and she liked the Roman nose. She also liked the way he eyed her as she swayed toward them. To the other couple she was a vague pink waitress shape, bringing menus. Thom looked. Thom’s date had a high ponytail that was beginning to unravel into fronds onto her pretty neck. She had a mound of bangs, flat on the back side, teased into a rigid foam of curls that humped over her forehead.

I shoved my gun under the passenger seat, then I started up the car and headed out to Wildcat Bluff. On the flat land behind me, Amarillo stuck up like an ugly thumb, and I was glad when the rare hills near the bluff began to hide it. I parked in a pull-in lot that bellied up to the woods, a mile and change past the lot Thom favored. Counting the time it would take for him to finish his errands, I was a good half hour ahead of him, but I found myself running down the trail like he was fast after me.

Rose felt the fever of a blush rising in her cheeks, and she knew it was painfully visible on her pale skin. Dropping her eyelids, she focused on her feet so that none of them could see the furious deeps in her eyes. She held her hand very still to keep from pouring scalding coffee over that bang puff. She could practically smell the ashy scent the girl’s hair products would release, could hear her surprised cry as the hot liquid seared her scalp and ran down to blister that smug face. ” Then she’d call an ambulance.

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Backseat Saints by Joshilyn Jackson
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