The Thunder Rolls

by Bethany Campbell

  Over the years, to bait Ken, Cal had repeated the conversation dozens of times, complete with the hiccup.

  Now Cal had risen and was leaning his elbow against the frame of the bathroom door. He looked at the fancy silver buckle and shook his head. His smile was no longer sardonic. “You reckon this is a sacred occasion?”

  “Close enough,” Ken said. He reached to the dresser top, took up his white straw Stetson and put it on. “I’ve gotta go. I promised to pick them up.”

  “Yeah,” said Cal. “I understand. Hey, Slats?”

  “What?”

  “You’ll need my help. Feel free to ask.”

  Ken’s eyes narrowed. “Your help?”

  “Yeah,” Cal said with a smug smile. “I bet you ain’t worth a cow pie playing Alien Space Demons. That little kid is gonna eat your lunch. You’ll need coachin’. That means me.” Cal stabbed his thumb against his chest.

  Ken shot him a wry look. “You can play Alien Space Demons? Since when?”

  “Since I’ve been minglin’ with Serena’s nieces,” Cal answered. “Don’t laugh. I’ve won the rank of Supreme High Universal Commander of All Galactic Forces. You’ll be lucky to make Space Cadet. A geranium pot from Jupiter will fall on your head and kill you, sure enough.”

  Ken shook his head and started toward the door, concealing a smile. “You’ve done mastered more ways to waste time than I ever thought of.”

  “You’re jealous, is all.” Cal ambled carelessly behind him and followed him outside to the pickup truck. He had one of his favorite horses, Grumpy, tied to the porch rail. He unknotted the reins. “Did you give Nora the poetry book yet?”

  Ken slammed the truck door and shook his head. “I’m savin’ it. For Saturday.”

  On Saturday he would have been seeing Nora for a full week. That was an anniversary of sorts. He didn’t suppose the fact would mean much to her. Someday it might. Maybe.

  He met Cal’s eyes. “I’ll tell her where it came from. That’ll make it special to her. She liked your mama.”

  “What about the lake house?” Cal asked. “You gonna use it?”

  The question was a fair one, but Ken didn’t want to consider it. He looked away, off toward the horizon, his expression moody. He shook his head. “I don’t know yet.”

  He wanted Nora to go with him to the lake house. But asking her to go there with him alone would sound like a sexual invitation, and he didn’t want to hurry her in that department. He could tell that Gordon had left her with only bad memories about sex. In his arms she could seem intoxicatingly warm and eager. But always, just beneath the warmth of her response, he could sense her fear as well.

  That conflict in her tore at him. Would she always fear him more than she wanted him? He didn’t know if he could coax her and gentle her past her fear. Maybe it couldn’t be done. But he aimed to try. God in heaven, he aimed to try.

  That was why he had asked her to bring Rory with her tonight. So she’d feel safe. Besides that, he knew that to win Nora, he’d have to win Rory over, as well. There was an old saying he remembered: To take the mother by the heart, take the child by the hand. What’s more, he genuinely liked Rory. The boy had so much of Nora in him.

  “I see,” Cal said.

  Ken nodded noncommittally. He put two fingers to his hat as a signal of goodbye, started the truck and pulled away. Cal gave one of his wild whoops, making Ken glance back over his shoulder.

  “Remember,” Cal said with a laugh, “you’ll beg me to teach you that damn game—you’ll see. That kid’ll whip your ass.”

  Ken allowed himself a small smile and turned his attention back to the road.

  Cal gave another yell of pure high spirits, then leaped on Grumpy, and raced Ken down the lane to the highway. When they reached the road, he reined in the horse, waved his hat and laughed again. “Watch out, world. Slats is courtin’, and he means bidness!”

  Ken glanced at him in the rearview mirror and allowed himself another slight smile. He was indeed going courting, and he did indeed mean business. The sacred belt buckle proved that, he supposed.

  He also supposed that somehow, clear back in Nuevo Laredo, even in his cups, he had known that one day he was destined to go after Nora Jones, to make her his own. Or to die trying.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “THANK YOU,” Dottie said to Martin Avery. She sat down stiffly in one of the leather-upholstered chairs in Martin’s law office.

  The smile pasted on her face felt artificial, but she tried to keep it in place. “I appreciate your staying after hours for me,” she said. “I didn’t want Nora to know I was coming. I want to keep this—confidential.”

  Martin nodded. He was a trim man of average height, handsome in a sharp-featured way, with a full head of graying hair. He was fifty-five, three years older than Dottie, but looked younger. Life had been quieter for him and kinder to him.

  Dottie cocked her head toward the office door, which was slightly open. As hard as she tried to force her smile, it faded.

  Billie Jo Dumont sat at the reception desk in the outer office. She had on earphones and was transcribing from a portable tape recorder, her fingers dancing over the keys of her word processor.

  “I didn’t expect her to be here,” Dottie said pointedly. “Like I said, I want this confidential. Can I close that door?”

  Martin smiled. “The air-conditioning isn’t working in my office—just in there. This dadblamed heat has burned out half the units in town. I’m a coolant vampire, sucking Billie Jo’s cold air into my room. Relax, Dottie. She’s working overtime transcribing. Besides, she’s the soul of discretion.”

  Some soul of discretion, Dottie thought darkly, gallivanting all over town with somebody else’s husband. Martin was bright enough as a lawyer, but Dottie sometimes thought he was naive about women.

  When Billie Jo had taken the job as Martin’s secretary, it had been clear to everyone except Martin that she had set her cap for him. But Martin seemed a confirmed bachelor, and Billie Jo’s wiles had gotten her nowhere. On the rebound, she’d taken up with Bubba, who was not so impervious to her charms.

  “Believe me,” Martin said. “Billie Jo knows more than she ever tells. It goes with the job. She minds her manners.”

  Dottie, dubious, said nothing. She couldn’t help it; the open door and Billie Jo’s nearness made her nervous. But what Martin said was at least partially true. The air in the room was close, the only relief the slight flow of cool seeping in from the outer office.

  Martin took off his glasses and loosened his tie. “So what is it, Dottie? What can I do for you? What don’t you want Nora to know about?”

  Dottie gripped the leather arms of the chair. “A will,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “I want to make a will.”

  “A good idea,” Martin said smoothly. “In fact, you should have years ago. Everybody should have one.”

  “I want to leave everything to Nora and Rory,” Dottie said, forging ahead while her resolve was still firm. “Everything—except some money in savings. I want to give Gordon two thousand dollars. That’s all. I want you to make it so he doesn’t get any more—and that he can’t. He’d take it and gamble it all away. Make me a will he can’t break, Martin. One so ironclad he won’t even try.”

  Martin’s expression grew more serious. He put his glasses back on. A frown line appeared between his brows. “You’ve thought this out? You’re sure?”

  “Positive. And I want Nora to be executor of Rory’s share. If she wants to sell the Longhorn, she can. The house, the business, everything—it’s theirs.”

  Martin studied her for a long, uncomfortable minute. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on his desk blotter. “I see,” he said.

  Dottie wiped her palms nervously on the skirt of her flowered dress. “Martin, Gordon’s getting worse. It’s like he’s possessed. I want to rest knowing he can’t get his hands on what should go to Nora and Rory. If he does—I’ll come back from the grave and haunt you, I swear I will.�
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  Martin shook his head and laid down the pencil. He folded his hands before him. “Let’s not talk about graves yet, Dottie. I think I can do what you want.”

  Dottie opened her big white straw purse and drew out a sealed envelope, addressed to Gordon. “Here,” she said, “I want to leave this in your hands, too. It’s to be given to Gordon if I—die. It tells him in no uncertain terms why I’m doing this. And that I want him to leave Nora and Rory alone. I love him, but I can’t let him make everyone’s life miserable.”

  Martin took the envelope and set it on his desk beside a file folder. “I’ll do what you want, of course. But you should know, Dottie, that no letter can guarantee that Gordon stays away, especially from Rory. I mean, he does have visitation rights—”

  “That’s another thing I want to talk about,” Dottie said, gripping the chair arms again. She squared her jaw and tried to keep her face controlled, emotionless. “What’ll it take to end his visitation rights? And what would it take for somebody else to—to adopt the boy?”

  Martin’s chiseled mouth curved downward, and his frown line deepened. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Dottie, you can’t do anything about visitation rights. That’s between Nora and Gordon. Nora would have to have grounds—”

  “I’m aware of that,” Dottie said impatiently. “There are grounds. Gordon hasn’t paid a cent of child support—ever. He’s only asked to take Rory once in the past four months. He also blessed out Nora in front of the boy and a lot of other people—and grabbed her. He left a bruise. He’s in debt. He gambles. He—talks wild, he talks crazy—he’s not himself, Martin.”

  Martin avoided her eyes and scribbled something on a yellow legal pad. “I’m sorry to say he sounds exactly like himself, Dottie. Only more so. Has he made any specific threats? Especially against Nora or Rory?”

  Dottie’s brow furrowed. Her head was starting to hurt again. “Specific threats? He said something about—about taking Nora back. I can’t remember how he put it. And he talked about having ‘dangerous business’ or something like that. He actually talked about killing—well, killing somebody. I know he didn’t mean it, but I’m worried, Martin. He sounded so out of control I had the phone at the house turned off. I stopped answering it at the coffee shop.”

  Martin looked up and met her gaze. He put one hand to his glasses, a studious pose. “Dottie, this is Gordon we’re dealing with. He might have forgotten everything he’s said to you by now. He could be off on a completely different tangent. This may just be another one of his—episodes.”

  Dottie shook her head. A vein leaped in her temple. “The episodes happen more often, Martin. They’re getting worse. I’m his mother, and I can tell. They scare me. If Nora took him to court, how much would it cost? So that he couldn’t see Rory?”

  Martin shrugged. “I can’t say. It depends on if he tries to fight it.”

  “And a protective order,” Dottie said, putting her hand to her forehead. “That’s what you call it, isn’t it? Couldn’t we get a protective order to keep Gordon away?”

  “An order’s serious business,” Martin said, looking grimmer than before. “Is he actually threatening or attempting to commit some specific wrong involving Nora or Rory?”

  Dottie let her hand drop into her lap and curl into a fist. “I want to stop him before he does.”

  Martin shook his head in sympathy, but his expression didn’t change. “That’s not how the law works, Dottie.”

  She clenched her fist tighter. “It’s how it should work.” What did the courts want? she wondered in despair. Couldn’t they stop harm before it was done?

  Martin’s eyebrow raised ruefully. “The law is not a perfect instrument. I’ll be the first to admit it.”

  Dottie’s mouth twisted. She realized she probably sounded nervous and irrational to Martin. Why did Martin insist on making things difficult? All she wanted to do was protect Nora and Rory—and make sure Nora got her chance at happiness.

  “All right,” she said. “Just try to figure out how much money it would take to revoke Gordon’s visitation rights.”

  “I told you,” Martin said with quiet patience, “it depends. Are you sure that Nora’s going to want—”

  “Yes,” Dottie practically snapped. “I’m sure Nora’s going to want to. Listen to me, Martin. You probably think I’m a hysterical woman, who’s got a bunch of funny notions, all of a sudden. You’re thinking, ‘Oh, she’s worked too hard,’ or ‘Oh, the heat’s got her,’ or ‘Oh, she’s at that age.’ Well, I’m not hysterical. I sense Gordon’s going to make trouble, I feel it, and I’m trying to stop it before it starts. Nora never wanted Gordon to have any visitation rights—you’re the one who said, ‘Don’t worry. Don’t fight him. It won’t be any problem.’ Well, you were wrong. It is a problem. Or it’s about to be.”

  Martin sighed and leaned back in his chair. He began to toy with the pencil again. “Touché,” he said unhappily. “You’re right—I was wrong. And I don’t think you’re hysterical. If the whole county was as sane as you are, I’d be out of business and so would the sheriff. So would the social workers.”

  Dottie sank back against her seat. “I’m sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to carry on. But he worries me. He’s sometimes—very jealous about Nora. Before, there was never any reason to be, I suppose. But now—”

  Her sentence died, unfinished. Martin completed it for her. “But now Ken Slattery’s in the picture. Don’t look so surprised, Dottie. Everybody knows it. This is a small town. But you talked about adoption. Surely this thing between Nora and Ken hasn’t gone that far, that fast?”

  Dottie’s face went hot with embarrassment and she looked away from Martin, staring at the pattern in his Oriental rug instead. “No—of course not. I was just wondering. Rory needs a real father. Ken’s been watching Nora for months—for months I’ve guessed how he’s felt. He’s good to her. He’s good to Rory. I hope—He seems—Nora acts—He—”

  Once again words failed her.

  Martin set down his pencil and rose from his chair. “Let’s take one thing at a time, Dottie,” he said, smiling kindly. “Let me make out the will. Then Nora needs to come to me about the visitation business.”

  “But I’m the one paying your bill,” Dottie objected. “Every extra dime Nora’s got has gone into schooling. She’s trying to build a future for her and Rory.”

  Martin shook his head. “She has to be the one anyway, Dottie, no matter who pays. I know you. If you could, you’d fight all the battles for the people you love. But Nora has to be the one to go to court. And if she and Ken decide to marry, then they need to come to me about Ken adopting Rory.”

  Dottie colored more deeply, feeling like a foolish, meddling woman. “I just wanted to know the facts,” she murmured. “I just wanted to know the legalities…what’s involved…the costs…”

  “I’ll try to give you a general idea,” Martin said. “But not here. Not now.”

  He offered his hand to her. She looked at it and took it.

  “I know,” she said. “You’re telling me to leave. I’ve bothered you enough, asking questions about things that are none of my business.”

  He helped her to her feet, but kept hold of her hand, placing his free one over hers in a clasp of friendship. “No. That’s not what I’m telling you. I’m telling you let’s talk about this as friends, not as attorney and client. I’ll take you to Zack’s, buy you a drink. I could use a tall cool one. I know that Rory’s your business. Nora, too. They’re your business because you love them.”

  Dottie looked up at him in surprise and gratitude. “Why, Martin. How kind you are. Why do I always forget how kind you are?”

  He laughed and released her hand. “Because I’m a lawyer. The reputation always smirches me. You know the joke—how do you scare off killer sharks? Throw a lawyer in the water. Come on. Let’s get that drink. Visions of gin and tonic dance in my head.”

  “I’ll buy,” Dottie said, touched by his concern and
his courtliness.

  “I’ll buy,” Martin said firmly. “For old times’ sake. And we’ve been through some times, haven’t we, Dottie? Remember that tornado on Halloween, back when we were in high school…? I was a senior, you were a freshman….”

  BILLIE JO DUMONT watched them leave. She took off her earphones, and one of her lovely auburn brows bent itself into a frown.

  Martin Avery was taking Dottie Jones for a drink? Why, Dottie was as old as he was. Why didn’t Martin ever take out someone young and attractive and sexy? Someone, such as, say, herself?

  She’d worked in this office for two whole years. In that time, Martin had never volunteered to take her as far as the coffee shop or to buy her as much as a one-scoop root beer float. Sometimes Billie Jo wondered darkly if Martin wasn’t secretly a sissy boy.

  She narrowed her eyes. And that old cat, Dottie, hadn’t trusted Billie Jo to hear her private conversation with Martin. The nerve!

  As if Billie Jo didn’t eventually find out everything that happened in the office anyway. She had clearly heard Dottie ask about closing the door. Billie Jo’s tape had ended, so she just pretended to be busy. And, for spite, she’d made sure she heard every word.

  So Dottie didn’t trust her? Who did Dottie think typed up those wills? Who did Martin’s paperwork for every single thing he did—including protective orders and adoptions?

  Still, Billie Jo thought, it was interesting, the way even Gordon Jones’s own mama had turned against him. And now it sounded as if Gordon was making threats against Ken Slattery over Nora. She wouldn’t want to be in Ken Slattery’s boots. No, indeedy.

  Billie Jo gave a dainty shudder. Gordon Jones had always given her the horripilations. Why sometimes, when a person looked into his eyes, it was as if nobody was at home in there.

  She’d heard how Gordon had almost pounded on Bubba last Saturday. Well, she thought, clearing her desk, that had been a tiny little incident, and it had almost served Bubba right, he’d been so hateful to Billie Jo and so neglectful of her that whole long weekend.