The Thunder Rolls

by Bethany Campbell

  “Gordon, this is purely an embarrassment,” Dottie said. “Rory, honey, come into the kitchen. Get yourself an ice-cold RC cola, darlin’. And Grandma made ginger cookies. I’m going to sit you down and give you the biggest one.”

  Dottie stretched her freckled hand to Rory. He took it, but not before shooting his father a final resentful look.

  “Wipe that look off your face,” Gordon warned the child. “Or I’ll wipe it off for you.”

  Dottie paled, drew herself up in indignation and bustled Rory into the kitchen.

  “Leave him alone,” Nora ordered Gordon. “Don’t talk to him like that.” She settled herself squarely between him and the door to the kitchen.

  “I won’t take him for the day,” Gordon said angrily. “You keep him. You’re his mother. It’s your job. You want to palm him off on me, so you can spend your day makin’ money—makin’ money off my mother. While I’m bustin’my chops all week, drivin’ that big rig. I got a right to my own life.”

  Nora hated scenes, but Gordon was forcing her into one. “Gordon,” she said, clenching her fists, “you wanted to take Rory fishing. You insisted.”

  “Don’t sass me. I got a change of plans, is what.”

  “Yes.” Nora nodded toward the car parked outside, the blond woman sitting in the passenger seat, examining her nails. “I see your plans.”

  “Nora, sweetheart.” Bubba Gibson’s voice was louder now. “Work out your problems in private, honey. I asked you for a piece of pie—about five minutes ago. Bring it, sweet thing. I’ll treat you right.”

  “You stay out of this,” Gordon ordered Bubba, whose face immediately flushed an angry red.

  “I’ll get your pie,” Nora said. “Gordon, if you’ve got plans, get on with them. I’ve got work to do. Somebody in this family has to work regularly.”

  Even though what she said was true—Gordon never stayed in one place or at any job for long, and he had what Dottie euphemistically called “a little gambling problem”—Nora regretted the gibe as soon as she made it. Gordon’s look grew truly dangerous.

  Nora reached into the display case and cut a slice of pie. Her hand shook slightly, and she prayed that Gordon would just leave, go away.

  Dottie stepped back into the room, alone, her face so pale now that it frightened Nora. She looked almost faint.

  Gordon was too angry to notice Dottie’s presence. “Nora, I’m talkin’ to you,” he almost snarled.

  Nora ignored him. She moved toward the table of men, carrying the plate with Bubba’s slice of pie.

  “I said I’m talking to you,” Gordon repeated. He reached for her, wrenching her arm so hard that she dropped the plate. With a crash it hit the floor, shattering. The pie lay, ruined, in the broken glass.

  Bubba Gibson rose heavily to his feet. “Ain’t nobody gonna treat a lady like that—and waste my pie on top of it. I’m gonna whip you, boy. I’m gonna whip you like you was a pint of cream.”

  Oh, no, Nora thought. Bubba looked fat and unsteady, and she could sense Gordon’s rage starting to refocus on the older man. He took a step toward Bubba, his fist clenched, his biceps flexing.

  Then suddenly Ken Slattery was on his feet, between the two men. He was leaner than either, but far taller, and his eyes were so cold they frosted the hot room. “Nobody’s whipping anybody. Bubba, go home. Brock, get him out of here. He’s one sorry piece of work today. Don’t let him drive.”

  “Who you callin’ a sorry piece of work?” Bubba demanded, turning on Ken. But now Brock Munroe was on his feet, too, and he looped his arm companionably around Bubba’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Nora doesn’t need more trouble. Nobody does. Come on. I’m taking you home.”

  “Don’t want to go home,” Bubba protested. “I want pie. He dropped my pie on the floor. I want pie, dammit. Then I want to pound that little sumbitch through the floor like he was a carpet tack. Then I want to kiss on Nora till she’s a happy woman—knows what a real man’s like.”

  “No, you don’t,” Brock countered, hustling him out the door. “A walk is what you want.”

  That left Ken Slattery staring down Gordon, who suddenly looked small, mean and foolish. Slattery was a rangy man, wide in the shoulders, and although his blond hair was graying at the temples, he was so incontestably powerful that Gordon, muscled as he was, stepped back.

  “You said you got plans,” Slattery said in his quiet way. “Get on with them.”

  Slattery nodded toward the door. Gordon’s face turned redder, and Nora could see a vein throbbing in his neck. His mood was volatile, but not so volatile that he would take a chance on getting hurt himself.

  “I got better things to waste my time on than you,” Gordon said.

  “Good,” said Slattery. “Go waste it.”

  Gordon swore, but he turned toward the door.

  “Gordon!” Dottie called after him, her voice so taut it shook.

  Her son stopped briefly, turning his head to look at her, rebellion in his eyes.

  Dottie stood behind the counter, her chin quivering. Her hand clutched the collar of her blue uniform and her eyes swam with unshed tears.

  “Gordon,” she said, “don’t you ever come in here again if that’s how you’re going to act. I’m sick of it. I mean it. I—am—ashamed—of you.”

  Gordon thrust out his lower lip and turned his back on his mother. He swore again. He pushed the door so hard with his big shoulder that it crashed shut behind him.

  “Ooh,” breathed Dottie and fled back into the kitchen. Nora knew better than to follow her. Dottie willingly gave sympathy to anyone who needed it, but she hated receiving it.

  Nora herself felt weak. She sank to her knees and tried to clean up the mess of broken plate and spilled pie.

  “No,” Ken Slattery said. He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to her feet. “You don’t get on your knees. Not because of him.”

  She stared up at him in surprise. He was such a quiet, contained man, and she’d known him forever, ever since she was a child and he was a young man. But she had a sudden frisson of awareness that perhaps until this moment she’d never known him at all.

  He’d never touched her before, and she was startled by the hardness and sureness of his hands. She sucked in her breath and started to clench her own hands together in front of her, hiding them in her apron.

  But Ken Slattery took her right hand and held it, looking down at it. A bruise darkened her wrist where Gordon had seized her, and his thumbnail had scratched her deeply, leaving an ugly crescent like a bloody new moon.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, embarrassed. She drew her hand away and tried to hide it behind her. Her wrist throbbed, but she tried to pretend it didn’t.

  She started to bend down to clear away the jumble of ruined pie and broken glass, but once again he touched her, stopping her. “No,” he repeated with calm finality.

  She didn’t understand, and could only watch in amazement as he knelt before her, gathering the broken pieces of the plate. He took a handful of napkins from the table and wiped up the pie.

  Then he stood, setting the napkins on the counter. Nora watched him, unable to look away. Why, she thought, he knelt at my feet like a knight.

  And, although he dressed like many a cowman in town—blue work shirt, faded low-slung jeans and scuffed boots, the image would not leave her mind. She’d never even noticed before today that he was handsome, in a lean, ascetic way.

  Dottie came out of the kitchen, carrying a broom and dustpan. She seemed in control of herself again, probably more for Rory’s sake than anything else. Rory followed, his expression worried. “Hey, Grandma,” he said, tugging nervously at the edge of her apron. “It’s okay. It’s over.”

  Dottie set down the dustpan, seized his hand and patted it distractedly. “Oh, Nora,” she said, shaking her head, “you’ve already cleaned it up—you shouldn’t have.”

  Nora and Ken Slattery exchanged a look. Nora wanted to say that Ken, not she, had repaired t
he damage, but for some reason she couldn’t find the words.

  “I never in my life saw Gordon that bad in public,” Dottie said. “Never. I—I’m speechless. Did he—did he hurt you?”

  “Not at all,” Nora lied, then stared at the floor, unwilling to meet Dottie’s eyes. She loved Dottie deeply, far too deeply to let the older woman know the truth. And she wanted to shield Rory as well.

  “Hey, Grandma,” Rory said, squeezing Dottie’s hand, his expression grave. “Everything’s fine. I’d rather be here. I didn’t want to go anyhow—not with her along—that yellow-haired lady. She didn’t want to do anything he’d promised. She didn’t even want me to have fireworks. Not even when it’s nearly Fourth of July.”

  He threw an eloquent glance at the door through which his father had left. Nora had no idea who the woman with Gordon had been, but she felt no jealousy. She had few feelings of any kind left for Gordon.

  “Thank you, Ken, for stepping in,” Dottie said, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. “I’m just sorry you had to see it.”

  She ran her hand across her face again and closed her eyes. “I think I’ll close down for the rest of the day. It’s too hot, and I’m too upset. It’s the heat, that’s what it is. The heat’s made everybody crazy. Nora, you run on home. I’ll stay here and clean up. I always feel better when I’m cleaning…you know that, honey. Take the car.”

  “No, ma’am,” Ken Slattery said, and Nora blinked in surprise. “I’ll take her home. It’s too hot for you to be a-walkin’. You look a bit peaked, if you’ll excuse me sayin’ so.”

  He turned to Nora, fixing his pale blue gaze on her. “Can I run you and the boy on home, Miz Jones?”

  Instinctively Nora reached for Rory’s hand. Then her heart contracted with pain, and she wished she hadn’t made the gesture. The boy frowned at the bruise and scratch on her hand, his face growing hard. Then he looked up at Ken Slattery with cool, businesslike interest. “Could you beat up my dad if you had to?” he asked.

  Dottie gasped. “Rory!” But, she, too, had seen Nora’s wrist more clearly, and her eyes filled with sadness.

  Ken gave the boy a cool, level look. “Hittin’ doesn’t solve problems. It just makes more.”

  Rory said nothing, but gave a shrug that suggested he thought otherwise. He drew his hand from Nora’s, clenched it into a small fist and smacked it against the palm of his other hand. Dottie turned abruptly and went back to the kitchen.

  Nora wanted to follow her, to comfort her, but didn’t know how. Dottie would only say, “No, no, nothing’s wrong—just let me be.” So Nora could only grab Rory’s hand again, and this time with her other hand, she held him so tightly he began to fidget.

  Ken looked after Dottie, then back at Nora. His unwavering gaze sent her a message that went shivering through her. You’re afraid, aren’t you? But you don’t need to be afraid of me.

  It was as if somehow Ken knew the terrible secrets that Nora kept from the world, secrets about her life with Gordon. But how could he know?

  “He wouldn’t let me have no firecrackers,” Rory said. The matter of fireworks seemed particularly to rankle him. “They make his old girlfriend nervous.”

  “Any firecrackers,” Nora corrected nervously. “He didn’t let you have any firecrackers.”

  “Same old difference,” Rory said.

  “You mind what your mama says about talkin’ right,” Ken said. “She’s smart about such things.” He picked his white straw Stetson from the hat rack and settled it on his head. “Come on. You mind ridin’ in a pickup truck?”

  “A ranch pickup? Are you kidding?” Rory asked. Nora knew he had a small boy’s love of machines, and he was, in truth, far too impressed with cowboys for her taste. She tried to discourage it. She wanted a better life for him than that of a common ranch hand.

  But she smiled politely, and let Ken usher them out the door toward the white pickup truck parked by the curb. His name and the emblem of the Double C were emblazoned in gold on its side.

  “How come you don’t have a gun or a gun rack?” Rory asked, staring at the truck’s empty back window.

  “Don’t much believe in guns,” Ken said, and Rory frowned.

  Nora heard the persistent sound of firecrackers coming from down the street. Rory looked toward the sound with yearning.

  Ken touched his hand to the brim of his hat, a gesture of politeness. “If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am,” he said, “I could buy the boy some fireworks. And if he has a mind to fish, I could take you and him to a place I know. At the ranch. I’ve got some tackle in the back of the truck, along with all those windmill parts. I’d planned to wet a hook myself. I’d be obliged if you’d join me.”

  Nora looked up at him in fresh surprise. “Fishing?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t look at her. He seemed to be staring at something a long way off, and his jaw was set.

  “Fishing?” Rory asked. “At the ranch? And big firecrackers? Not just those little old ladyfingers?”

  “Yessir,” Ken said, still staring into the distance. “If it’d please your mother.”

  “I—think I might like that,” Nora said, this time surprising herself.

  An afternoon with Ken Slattery? She had never imagined such a thing. She quickly told herself the only reason she was doing it was for Rory—because once more Gordon had failed him. But now excitement was back in her son’s voice. He sounded happy, eager, enthusiastic, the way a child was supposed to sound.

  Ken Slattery had always been a courteous man, if an aloof one, and it would be ungracious to refuse his kindness; his offer was made, after all, for Rory. She would accept for Rory’s sake, but his sake alone.

  BACK IN THE Longhorn Coffee Shop, Dottie had emerged from the kitchen. She locked the door and set the Closed sign in place in the window. Momentarily she paused to stare down the street. Nora and Rory were getting into the truck, and the tall figure of Ken Slattery stood on the curb, holding the door for them.

  A fresh wave of foreboding swept over her. She loved Nora as much as if she were her own daughter. Nora loved her, too. Their relationship had stayed strong in spite of Nora and Gordon’s divorce.

  Dottie knew Gordon was a difficult man, insecure and volatile. He had been too immature to marry, and he had a dangerous temper. He grew steadily less dependable, and his gambling was so out of control that she didn’t dare loan him money these days; it would only allow him to gamble more.

  Today, before taking Rory, he’d drawn her aside and asked for three thousand dollars. Three thousand dollars! She’d steeled herself and told him no. His mood had soured immediately. He must have taken it out on Rory. Oh, why Rory, poor Rory?

  Gordon saddened Dottie deeply. She could not understand why he was the way he was. What had she done wrong?

  She sat at the counter, bent her head and ran her hands through her hair in despair. She still loved Gordon, because he was her son, but she refused to fool herself about him.

  Gordon had never given his wife and child anything except grief. The only thing Dottie could do was try to offer them the love and support that Gordon had not. Above all else, Dottie wanted Nora and Rory to be happy.

  But now, since the set-to with Bubba, a thought kept her mind whirling with painful dizziness. Today the Slattery man had made his move. What would Nora do? How would Rory feel? What would Gordon do when he found out? It was all too much for Dottie, and it was coming at her too fast.

  Oh, for months Dottie had guessed what her daughter-in-law never suspected. Ken Slattery, in his quiet way, had been watching Nora.

  He wanted Nora; Dottie was sure of it, and the knowledge tore her in two.

  Nora should find a good man and remarry. Dottie would rest easier if she did. Sometimes Dottie felt weak and old beyond her years, and secretly she feared that she might be like her mother and die before her time. Who would look after Nora and Rory then?

  But Nora never spoke of marrying again; if any man showed interest in her, sh
e never returned it. Gordon had hurt her too badly.

  And there was another fear, one neither she nor Nora ever dared say aloud. What would Gordon do if Nora took up with someone else? Gordon’s self-esteem was so tender, his emotions so hair-trigger and unpredictable, that he might be jealous of another man, even though he didn’t want her himself.

  Any man who came after Nora would have to be braver than most. And more determined, too. Dottie bowed her head a little lower and prayed that Ken Slattery was.

  Outside, out of the clear, hot sky, the thunder rumbled.

  CHAPTER TWO

  KEN SLATTERY HAD INSISTED, in his soft-spoken way, that Nora go home so she could change out of her uniform. She’d put on jeans, a plain blouse, a pair of old cowboy boots she’d owned since high school.

  She didn’t dress up in the least; she didn’t redo her hair; she barely freshened her makeup. She didn’t want to act as if this afternoon was anything more than it was. A man was being kind to her and her son for the boy’s sake.

  Ken had insisted, too, on stopping at Crystal Creek’s biggest grocery store, the one with the new delicatessen, where he had a cooler filled with sandwiches and drinks.

  Then, at the outskirts of town, he stopped again at one of the fireworks stands and bought Rory a big sack of firecrackers and cherry bombs, bottle rockets and sparklers.

  He’d driven to a lovely little pond in one of the farthest-flung sections of the Double C. He’d fed them; he’d shot off fireworks with Rory until Nora’s ears rang. Then Ken had shown the boy how to bait a hook and fish for the feisty little perch that overpopulated the pond.

  At last Ken took a break from fishing and sat beside Nora on a big limestone slab beneath a mesquite tree. She stared at the still green pond with nostalgia. She’d played beside it herself, years ago.

  “I’d all but forgotten this pond,” she said softly.

  He nodded, not looking at her. “I figured you had. It’s been a long time. Since you lived here, I mean.”