“Good or bad?”
“You know better than that. Now”—she turned to Sam—“who is this dear, good-looking thing?”
“Sam Dyson meet Georgia.”
Georgia pursed her lips and eyed her. “Honey, do you like feet?”
Sam looked confused.
“Can you give a pedicure?”
Sam nodded. “I can do most anything if you show me one time.”
“Oh, it ain’t difficult. Just rub their feet with something that smells exotic, tell them a few lies about how they look skinny, agree with them that their husband is a no good goat roper, and the tips will come rolling in.” Sam laughed. Georgia winked, “Honey, with your looks, a low-cut shirt with one too many buttons unbuttoned, I’ll have a line of men out the door who had never once given thought to a pedicure until they saw you. You’re hired.”
Sam turned to me. “Is that okay with—”
I shrugged. “I called ahead. Told her about you.”
Sam looked at Georgia. “Thank you. That’d be great. When can I—?”
Georgia said, “Wait right here.”
She disappeared in the back and Sam whispered in my ear. “How do you know her?”
I shrugged. “Long story.”
“Give me the short version.”
“Her husband was trying to kill her, so I helped her get a start here.”
“And her husband?”
I turned my hat in my hand. “He can’t hurt her anymore.”
Georgia reappeared with an apron and a basket full of small metal instruments. “Victoria here will show you how to get started.” Georgia then ran her fingers through my hair. “Good Lord, honey. What did you do to your hair?” She shoved me toward her chair. “Sit.”
“No, really, I—”
She pressed the tip of her scissors gently against one of the buttons on my chest. “Don’t even think about it. I have already cut one man in my life and don’t think I’ll hesitate to do it again.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Georgia spread that sheet thing over me and started massaging my head.
She skinned me like a peach but she’s got such gentle hands I didn’t say anything. In truth, I love sitting in that chair. I spent half my time like a bobblehead doll, ’cause I was dozing off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I told Sam I’d be back at five to pick her up. I walked across the street, down a block toward the square and into First Federal Bank and Trust. The receptionist said, “Hey, Cowboy. How you been?”
“Good, Mira. Thanks. He in?”
“I’ll check.” She dialed a number, told Jean I was standing downstairs, and then nodded. “Go on up.”
The bank president was a fellow name Mike Merkett. The bank my father defended had been sold a year later to the Baldwins. The Baldwins sold it to the Langstons who sold it to the Merketts. So while the building had not changed, the owners had. Mike Merkett was not a bad fellow, born and raised in Dallas, and had ambition of growing this bank as large as he could and selling it to one of the national chains, then starting over and doing it again, and again. He loved banking. To each his own. Despite my history with the bank and the stain on the tile floor below which they’d never been able to really clean, Mike had no loyalty to me or my business. He knew there had been a shooting in the building at one time but that could be said for a lot of the older banks in Texas. To Mike, I was an account number on a ledger and my account was causing him trouble—despite the fact that I’d never missed a payment. His problem came in an opportunity. One of the national banks had come calling. They liked Mike and the book of business he’d built but they wanted some of the bad loans off the books before they sealed the deal. And Mike was anxious to seal the deal.
Their auditors saw me as a bad loan.
Jean stood, and hugged me. Mike walked around the desk, shook my hand and said, “Tyler, how are you?”
“Good, Mike. Thanks.”
He leaned against his desk. His was a good-sized man. Tall as me. About as broad, but bigger around the middle. I, on the other hand, created my own occupational hazard if I started getting too heavy so I stayed pretty lean. His size was an asset. People associated it with authority, or power, or his command of the business. In part, that was true. To be honest, Mike was a good banker. I just hated what he was doing to me. He crossed his hands. “How’s things?” Mike wasn’t one to beat around the bush. I appreciated that, too. When he said “how’s things,” he was really asking, “You made any progress since the last time we talked and can you pay off your loan before I foreclose on your farm?”
“I’ve got a hundred head of cattle. Forty-eight are about to calve. In six months, with conservative numbers, I can get you twenty thousand. Three payments like that will get me almost to zero.”
He took a deep breath. Stared at the ceiling. That meant he didn’t like my answer. “And if you sold the whole herd right now.”
“Mike, I’ve never missed a payment. Each of my three credit scores is above 800. I’m not going anywhere.”
“The auditors are concerned that between your mortgage and the amount on your home equity line of credit, mixed with the fact that you are now retired, technically living on less pay, that you’re overextended and if you were to default—”
“I won’t default, and between my retirement pay, the cows, and my instruction, I’m making more money now than when I worked with the DPS.”
“I know that and you know that, but the auditors from Massachusetts see a different picture.” He paused. “Can you make any other arrangements?”
Mike was getting pressured and had made up his mind. He was going to close my loan off his books so there was no chance it would interfere with this sale, or the next, and he could get another ten cents a share. I don’t begrudge him that, but I’d prefer it not be at my expense. I stared out the window of his office that overlooked the tellers and lobby below. The flag of Texas had been inlaid in the marble of the floor. Dad died lying sideways on the star. I remember kneeling next to him, empty brass shell casings scattered about the floor. I stood. “How long do I have?”
“Tyler, we’ve been talking about this for almost three years. We’ve been more than understanding. It’s not new.”
“And in those three years, have I ever missed an interest payment?”
“No, but you’ve paid down very little principal, too.”
“Andie’s treatment has not been cheap.”
“I can empathize. Honest. But… my hands are tied.”
“Can you show me anything that I signed, ever, that said I would decrease principal in the last three years?”
“That’s not the point.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Then what is?”
He folded his hands. “Six months ago, we met. I told you that you had six months. They won’t let me push it back any further.”
“So, when do they intend to kick me out of my own farm on which I’ve never missed a payment?”
“You have three weeks before they post the auction notice. They’ll sell it seven days after that in a live auction. You’re welcome to attend if you can find financing elsewhere.”
“So, I can buy my own farm?”
“Tyler… I’m sorry.” The star below looked dirty. Sullen, I stood and walked out.
My attorney’s office stood a block away. Small towns are like that. I grabbed the paperwork off my dash and walked to his office. I wasn’t in a very good mood. George Eddy was divorced, an alcoholic, and an unfaithful man, but he was one heck of an attorney. Besides, given our history—which meant I caught and arrested a man who was trying to kill him before he did it—George liked me and worked for free. Which, obviously, I needed. He’d been after me for nearly a year to sign the papers and he’d file them with the court. Simple as that.
His assistant smiled and hollered, “Come on in,” when I knocked.
I walked in, laid the folder on his desk and he smiled. He opened it, examined the three copies, and said, “One for yo
u, one for her, and one for the court. Great. I’ll file today and you’ll be done.” He smiled again. “And free, in short order.”
“When will you notify her?”
“Soon as the court stamps it and notifies me.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d let me do that.”
He laughed. “I’d advise against that.”
“I know.”
He nodded and checked his watch. “I’ll get Delilah on this right away. File it this afternoon. Should be just a few days.”
“Thanks, George.”
He shook my hand and I walked out. I stood in the sun, set my hat on my head, and rolled a cigarette, taking my time. Seems like getting divorced ought to be more difficult. Seems like I ought to sense some vague notion of finality. The storefront two doors down caught my eye. It was where the four Mexican gang members had set me on fire and shot me. I shook my head. I stared back up the street toward the Georgia Peach where Andie had gone to get her hair done, heard the car rumble past, and had come running out. Screaming. Tires squealed. When she got to me, she couldn’t touch me. Shock set in.
All this had started there.
I laid the cigarette on the window ledge of George’s office and thought through the process. The court will receive the paperwork, stamp it, file it, and declare me divorced. And while that takes care of the legal technicality, it did nothing to erase the signature across my heart.
I set my sunglasses on my face and walked three blocks toward the garage apartment I kept in town.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was after dinner. Brodie got ready for bed and I was tucking him in. “Dad?”
“Yeah, son.”
He stared up at me. “Momma’s not really coming home when she gets out, is she?”
I was tired of lying. “No. She’s not.”
His eyes welled up. He swallowed. “Where will she live?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, son.”
“Will I see her?”
“Yes.”
“Is she going to live in town?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it.”
“How will I see her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you love Momma?”
“I don’t know, son.”
“Did you used to?”
“Very much.”
He paused, his eyes scanning the ceiling. “What happened?” The truth was that she became an addict, wrecked me financially, started sleeping with another man, and then tried to kill herself. I figured I’d skip that part of the truth.
“Son, I—”
“Couldn’t you just bring her back here and—”
I ran my fingers through his hair. “No, son.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. I don’t really either. I know you hurt. I hurt, too. I just don’t know how to—” He rolled over, closed his eyes, and pushed out the tears where they spilled onto his pillow. I kissed him on the cheek, turned out the light, and told Dumps I was walking to the river. I had imagined that conversation differently. It had taken me by surprise and I was pretty sure I hadn’t handled it too well.
I sat on the bank, my toes digging into the sand. Behind me, I heard footsteps. She walked quietly up beside me. “Mind if I sit?”
I slid over. “Sure.”
Sam and I sat staring out across the river. She tucked her knees into her chest, chewing on her words. After a few minutes, she spoke. “Thank you for today.”
I nodded.
She bumped me with her shoulder. “I learned a lot about you.”
“Yeah?”
She smiled. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“What’s that?”
“Put me in there with all those gabbing women.”
I skipped a small, smooth stone across the water. “I had an idea it would happen and it doesn’t bother me that it did.”
“Is your wife really in detox?”
“Yes.”
“Is it really her third time?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve actually paid for each one?”
I rolled a pebble between my fingers. “Yes.”
Her voice lowered. “What happened?”
“Andie had a tough time with me being a Ranger. Not initially. But, as the years dragged on and she put herself to sleep more nights than not, she got tired. The worry got to her. We grew distant, argued some—or rather, she yelled at me and I listened to her, and then the thing happened in town.”
She touched the burns on my neck. “You mean—?”
“Yeah, that was the straw. She couldn’t take it anymore. Wanted out. So, I got her an apartment in town and we separated. She kept Brodie some during the week, which helped ’cause I wasn’t home much anyway, and I got him on the weekends.” I skipped another rock. “I thought if we just let the dust settle, she’d come back.”
“What then?”
“She fell in with some girls, started making systematic withdrawals from our HELOC and intercepted the bills for about six months.”
“How much did she take?”
“Sixty-nine thousand four hundred seventeen dollars and twenty-seven cents.”
“Ouch.” She smiled and tried not to laugh. “What did she spend it on?”
“What did she not spend it on? She and her girlfriends, all divorced or separated, took to the casinos or weekend shopping trips to Manhattan. Best I can figure, she ‘spent’ it on designer clothes or wasted it at the craps tables.”
She fell quiet a minute. “Where is she now?”
“A few hours east of where I bumped into you on the highway.”
“Think she’ll come back?”
“She can leave anytime, but if she doesn’t want to go to jail, then she’s got to stay where she is for now.”
“Spending money on a line of credit doesn’t land you in jail.”
“Four or five years ago, she was having trouble sleeping and got a local doctor to give her prescription meds.”
“What for?”
“She told him ‘depression.’ ” I nodded. “And that’d be true. She was depressed.”
“A lot of people take prescription meds who don’t land in jail.”
“Once she’d tapped out our HELOC, she started selling. That put her in league with the good doctor.”
She nodded. “Earl Johnson?”
“Yep.”
“Georgia said he was interested in more than just prescribing medication.”
I nodded. “I’d gotten her this apartment in town. It was relatively safe. I could check on her from time to time. Anyway, I checked on her one afternoon and her doctor friend was making a house call. I caught them.” I shrugged. “She was real mad, embarrassed.”
“Where’s the doctor?”
“Working every day in his practice in town.”
“And he’s married, right.”
“If you call that a marriage.”
“Why didn’t you do anything?”
“What? Like tell his wife?”
“Yeah.”
“Would it help?”
She shook her head. “No, but it might make you feel better.”
“I doubt it.”
“How’d she end up in the hospital?”
“Boy, they really gave you the long version, didn’t they?”
“They talk a lot.”
“After that, she spent about a week showing up at the house, medicated out of her mind, saying all kinds of crazy stuff. I shut the door, wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t let her see Brodie, filed a restraining order, which kept her away from me and Brodie and then did the thing I thought I’d never do.”
“Which was?”
“File for divorce. A few days later, I took the papers by her place to drop them off. The door was cracked, I stepped in. She was lying on the bathroom floor, a pale shade of blue, an empty pill bottle next to her. I got her to the hospital. Pumped her stomach. Once we got her
awake and coherent, we Baker Acted her. The handcuffs were precautionary but I felt like she was a danger to herself. Since then, she’s been in and out of programs.”
“When’s she get out?”
“Little less than a month.”
“What then?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you care?”
“Sure. She’s the mother of my son, a woman I’ve been married to for twelve years. We shared… a lot. More than any other person. But, in another weird sort of way, I couldn’t care less.”
She didn’t look at me. “Word is you filed those papers today.”
I shook my head. “Got to love a small town.”
She nodded. “Word spread pretty fast. Your attorney’s secretary came into the shop after she left the courthouse.”
“So much for confidentiality.”
She laughed. “She never said any names but everybody knew who she was talking about.” She shook her head. “Those women really think you’re something.”
“Oh, I’m something all right.”
“How’s Brodie with all this?”
“He’s hurting.”
“He’s a great kid. Real tender with Hope. Really looked after her at school. Sat with her at lunch. Made a point of finding her in the cafeteria.” She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “Rather protective.”
“It comes with the Steele DNA.” I skipped another flat pebble. “He’s the best part of both of us poured into an innocent, hopeful, sweaty, eleven-year-old package.”
She dipped her toes in the water, sending out ripples. We didn’t say anything for several minutes. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Georgia said she’d pay me Friday. With that and a few tips, I can pay you back.”
“No hurry.”
“Sounds like you could use the money.”
“It won’t really make a difference.”
She chose her words. “Is that apartment in town… for rent?”
“No.”
“You saving it for your wife when she—?”
“No. I didn’t mean you couldn’t rent it. You can, just… I don’t own it. It’s owned by a lady in town. She lets me have it for nothing.”
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