In a small airport where celebrity passengers were the norm, the sight of Juliette Bancroft didn’t so much as raise a brow. At the same gate where Demi Moore, Clint Eastwood, and the Kennedys boarded and disembarked from their chartered planes, America’s angel waited for her son. Her blond hair subdued into a French braid, Julie rose from a chair, and a smile tilted the corners of her perfect pink lips. Julie had always been gorgeous, with her flawless skin and perfect cheekbones. She was a walking Barbie doll, only better, because she was real-well, except for her breasts; she’d had those done her first season.
Dylan had to give her credit. She’d toned down her Hollywood image and wore a simple pair of Levi’s and a summer sweater, but she still managed to look as if she’d just stepped out of a women’s magazine. “Hi, baby,” she said and held out her arms. She went down on one knee and Adam stepped within her embrace. She kissed every inch of his face and didn’t seem to notice his lack of response. “Oh, I’ve missed you soooo much. Have you missed me?”
“Yes,” Adam whispered.
Julie stood and her smile turned a bit uncertain as she looked at Dylan. “Hello, how are you?”
“Good. How was your flight?”
“Uneventful.” She let her gaze travel from his hair to the toes of his boots, then back up. “I swear you get better-looking every time I see you.”
He wasn’t flattered. Julie was one of those people who handed out compliments like a Pez dispenser. “I’m another year older every time you see me, Julie.”
She shrugged. “You look the same as the day I ran my Toyota into your unmarked car. Remember that?”
How could he possibly forget? “Of course.”
Julie flashed him her trademark smile, the one that captured America’s hearts, the one that used to make his own pulse race. “Do you have time to grab a bite to eat before you head back home?” she asked. “I thought the three of us could talk a bit before Adam and I have to go.”
Instantly suspicious, Dylan wondered what she really wanted. It wasn’t like her to want to sit around and shoot the shit with him. “Adam and I just ate. Maybe some other time.”
“We need to talk soon,” she said and reached for Adam’s hand. “Your grandpa is awfully excited to see you. We’re going to have lots of fun this year.”
Adam took a step back and leaned into Dylan’s thigh. He didn’t grab hold, but Dylan could tell that he wanted to.
“I thought you weren’t going to make a fuss this time,” he said, as if he weren’t dying inside. As if he didn’t already feel the loss with every squeeze of his heart.
“I’m not.” But Adam turned his face into Dylan’s side. “But, Dad…”
Dylan went down on one knee and took Adam’s face in his hands. Adam’s eyes were filled with water and his pale cheeks were splotched. The effort not to cry about had him hyperventilating, and Dylan was very proud of his son. “I can tell you’re really trying to be a big boy this year,” Dylan said. “And that’s all I asked, so that’s all that counts. If you want to cry, go ahead.” Adam wrapped his arms around Dylan’s neck and Dylan rubbed his back. “Son, there are just some times in a man’s life when he has to let it out. If it feels like one of those times to you, then that’s what you gotta do.” Dylan hated this; it tore at his aching heart and left him feeling battered and bloody. It clogged his throat and made the backs of his eyes sting. Adam’s silent tears soaked the collar of Dylan’s oxford cloth shirt. “I wrote down all the area codes and the phone numbers where I’ll likely be, so you can get hold of me anytime. I put the list in your suitcase. Whenever you want, you just give me a call, okay?”
Adam nodded.
“But your mom’s probably going to keep you too busy to miss me much.” He glanced up at Julie and she had that wide-eyed “What do I do now?” look he recognized. As always, leaving it up to him to know what to say and do. As much as Dylan wanted the responsibility of his son, there were times when he resented the full weight of it. When he resented her. Like now, when he had to pretend he wasn’t all torn up inside. When Julie might have stepped in and helped out a little. When she could have at least tried but she didn’t, and Dylan tried not to let his irritation show. “You’re going to have lots of fun with your mom and grandpa, and when you come back, we’ll go catch that Dolly Varden that got away from you last time, okay?”
Again Adam nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m proud of you, son.” Dylan removed Adam’s arms from around his neck and leaned back to look into his son’s face. “You about under control now?”
Adam wiped the back of his hand across his wet cheeks. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He wiped a tear from Adam’s chin. “I think that went well. You’ve behaved like a man this year,” he said as he stood and handed Adam his suitcase. “Did you remember to pack your crayons?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He took a step backward. “I love you, Adam.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
Dylan gave an abbreviated wave, then turned away from the sight of Julie taking Adam’s hand and walking away.
In less than a minute Dylan was back in the parking lot, where he’d left his truck. He opened the door, climbed inside, and shoved the key into the ignition. The morning sun shone on the blue hood and his vision blurred.
It felt like one of those times. One of those times when a man just had to let it out.
Chapter Ten
SQUIRREL IS PROVEN APHRODISIAC
Other than the opening day of hunting season, the Fourth of July celebration was the premiere event in Pearl County. The nation’s birthday was kicked off with a parade down Main Street, which continued around the lake to the grange hall. The field around the grange was mowed down and Corvase Amusements turned the area north of the building into a swell of motion and beckoning lights. The whirs of the Scrambler and the Ferris wheel collided with the plummeting screams from the Zipper, all but drowning out the enticing calls of carnies, coaxing the citizens to try their luck at such games as Slam-Dunk, Flip-a-Frog, and the Quarter Toss.
Rows of craft booths owned the area south of the carnival, where the Mountain Mama Crafters proudly displayed their latest accomplishments. Their artistry ranged from traditional quilts and flower wreaths to toilet-paper cozies and crazy-eyed, long-haired, neon-colored owls glued to hunks of driftwood. No one had the heart to tell Melba that her owls were truly ghastly.
The smells of boiled corn, fried onions, grease, and brewer’s yeast hovered like smog on the hot summer air. It was ninety-eight degrees in the shade, and the dry heat sucked moisture from the skin and toasted unprotected flesh. Next to the food stands was the first-aid tent, where two paramedics bandaged cuts, handed out Pepto, and alleviated heat exhaustion. Deputies Plummer and Williams kept their eyes on the crowd and tended drunkenness. By 6 p.m., Hayden Dean had passed out behind the Hot Dogs for Jesus booth, and at six-oh-five, one of the Hollier kids was caught trying to steal his wallet.
Across the field from the first-aid tent, Paul Aberdeen stood behind a chalk line, determination on his red face, a toilet bowl on his shoulder.
“Come on, baby, you can do it,” Shelly called out to him. “You’re a lean, mean, toilet-tossing machine!”
Hope glanced across her shoulder at her neighbor. Toilet-tossing machine? Shelly held her bandaged hand to her forehead to block out the vicious sun. Her freckles stood out against her pale skin, and her cheeks were flushed. But they were nothing compared to her husband’s. Paul’s face looked like a tomato.
For reasons Hope would never understand, and despite the heat, both Paul and Shelly wore matching Wranglers, cowboy boots, and frilly shirts with pearl snaps. In fact, almost everyone at the fair had duded up as if they were backup singers in a country-and-western band.
Hope on the other hand, had dressed for comfort in her short khaki skirt, black tank top, and leather flip-flops. “Do you think he’s going to pass out?” she asked.
Shelly shook her head. “He better not. He only ha
s to gain two inches in this throw to move a head of everyone else.”
A hush fell over the spectators as Paul spun like a shot-put thrower and heaved the toilet. It flew about ten feet, landed on its base, then fell over onto its side.
“Yes!” Shelly raised her good fist into the air. “The big-screen TV is mine.”
Unfortunately, Shelly’s euphoria lasted only until Burley Morton hoisted the toilet onto his shoulder, moved to the line and hurled it eleven feet four inches. The crowd went wild, Burley moved into first place, and a new toilet-toss record was set.
Paul walked away with a second-place ribbon, a hunting knife, and a sore back.
“Is it over now?” Wally asked. “I want to get my face painted.”
Shelly ignored her son while she rubbed Paul’s back with her good hand. “Do you need a beer, baby?”
“I think I need some Ben-Gay,” Paul answered as he studied his new knife.
“I’ll take Wally,” Hope volunteered, secretly envious of the carnival toys he held in his hands. She’d spent most of the day chasing Wally from one booth to the next. While he had a rubber snake, a plastic tomahawk with fake hair hanging off it, and a crooked pencil, Hope had nothing to show for the appalling amount of money she’d handed over to the carnies. Not even a cheap ashtray. She’d been a failure at all the games she’d played, and after she’d accidentally beamed a young cowboy on the side of the head with a sinker, they’d banned her for life at the Fly Casting Booth. “We’ll meet you two later,” she told Shelly and headed out with Wally.
They waited in line to have a football painted on Wally’s cheek, and after some coaxing, Hope agreed to have a dagger painted on her shoulder. She’d never spent all day hanging out with a seven-year-old boy before, and she was surprised that she didn’t get bored. She supposed it had something to do with her sudden desire to be around people again. She found that the longer she lived in Gospel, the less she liked to spend time alone.
She’d turned in her second article on aliens and was working on her third. Her first alien article had come out that morning, and she’d rushed to the M & S to buy a copy of the newspaper. She’d been given the center spread, knocking Clive’s cow mutilation out of the prime space.
Lately, she’d spent quite a bit of time across the road with Shelly. She helped her neighbor clean house, do laundry, and deadhead the petunias in the window boxes. They talked a lot, about a lot of different things, but Hope still hadn’t been able to tell her new friend about the really bad times in her life. She wanted to, but she couldn’t.
They talked about Hiram Donnelly and the FBI report that had arrived the day before. Some of the text had been blacked out, and she was no closer to understanding than before. After Hope returned home tonight, she planned to go over the information again.
They talked about Dylan, too. No one had heard from him since he’d taken Adam to the airport. That had been four days ago, yet no one seemed worried. Even though Hope knew better than to expect him, she sometimes found herself walking to her front window, looking for the white-and-brown sheriff’s Blazer. Or when she went into town, her gaze would wander, searching for a certain straw cowboy hat or a faded pair of jeans. Of course she never did see him and hated the disappointment that settled on her shoulders and pulled her down.
The last time she’d seen him was that day in Hansen’s Emporium when his gaze had burned her everywhere it touched. She hadn’t imagined that his voice got a little deeper, and a bit huskier, when he talked to her. She hadn’t imagined all that sexual desire directed right at her.
Then again, maybe she had imagined it. If he’d really wanted to spend time with her, he certainly knew where she lived. Yet he hadn’t made an effort to contact her, and now, as she and Wally walked toward the game booths, she wondered if whatever she’d felt between herself and Dylan had been all in her head.
Or perhaps he was one of those guys who played with women’s emotions. Maybe the thrill for him was in the chase, and God knew she hadn’t run very fast. Okay, she hadn’t run at all. In fact, she’d stood perfectly still while he’d pulled up her shirt. She’d even moved his hands to cover her breasts.
She and Wally tried their luck at a few games, and Hope finally won a pink plastic ruler after tossing rings on pop bottles. She put her prize in her fanny pack, and by the time she found Paul and Shelly eating hot dogs and drinking beer, the sun hung low in the sky. The carnival lights kicked in and the food booths lit up. Hope’s stomach growled, and she and Wally grabbed two corn dogs with extra mustard before joining the small group that had gathered amongst the picnic tables set up behind the food stands. Wally abandoned her to eat with the other children and Shelly introduced Hope to her friends. They all seemed very nice, and while she ate her corn dog, the owner of the Buckhorn filled her in on his secrets to tossing a good toilet.
“It takes pure muscle to toss a toilet that far,” Burley said as laughter a short distance away drew her attention over his left shoulder. Like a magnet, her gaze settled on a tall, lean cowboy in a battered straw hat.
Dylan Taber leaned one shoulder against the Pound of Fries trailer, his arms folded across his chest, absorbed in conversation with several women standing in front of him. His sudden appearance at the fair was as unexpected as the warm flush spreading across Hope’s abdomen and up her chest. Her crazy heart pounded in her ears, and she pretended to listen to Burley, but in reality she didn’t hear a word.
Dylan lifted his gaze and his eyes locked with Hope’s. He looked at her across the distance, his head cocked to one side as he listened to the women speaking to him. At the sight of him, hot pleasure settled low in Hope’s stomach, and she couldn’t stop the smile that curved her lips. She waited, but Dylan didn’t acknowledge her in any way. She couldn’t tell by his expression if he felt the same pleasure or warm flush, or if he felt anything at all. He simply looked at her, his handsome face unreadable. Then he looked away.
“Stanley told me you’re writing a magazine article about Hiram Donnelly.”
She returned her attention to the man standing in front of her. “Yes, I am,” she said, her thoughts scattered, her emotions chaotic.
“Hiram and I were third cousins,” Burley told her. “When he was little, his daddy ran over him with a tractor. So we all pretty much figured he was damaged from an early age, only it took years for it to surface.”
Oh, geez, not again. A few days ago she’d been cornered at the post office by a group of Minnie’s friends. They’d wanted to assure her that Minnie had been a God-fearing Christian who would never do anything illegal. When Hope had informed them that kinky sex wasn’t necessarily illegal, and that even Christian women enjoyed a bit of kink once in a while, they’d looked at her as if she were speaking the Devil’s tongue.
“Anyway, his family would appreciate it if you’d mention that the rest of us are normal,” said the toilet-tossing champion. He sniffed and crossed his big arms over his barrel chest. “And none of us believe in spanking of any kind.”
“I’ll remember that,” Hope assured him and she excused herself. She moved to a trash can to throw away her corn-dog stick. Around her, people talked and joked, filling the tent with the kind of ease and laughter that came from knowing one another all of their lives.
Someone lobbed an empty cup into the trash, and she strolled through the crowd toward Shelly. She felt very alone, but it certainly wasn’t the first time in her life she’d felt alone while standing in a crowd of people.
A big, warm hand grabbed her from behind, and she looked at the strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm. She turned and glanced up into Dylan’s face. He still didn’t appear very happy to see her.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.
“I didn’t expect to come.” He dropped his hand and cool air replaced the warmth of his palm. “I haven’t been in town on the Fourth for several years.”
“Did you get called into work?” she asked and watched his lips form the w
ord “no.”
Like most everyone else at the fair, he’d gone completely native in a blue-and-white striped shirt that snapped down the front and at the cuffs. Instead of his usual Levi’s, he wore dark blue Wranglers. His belt was made of tooled leather, and the sliver buckle had two T’s in the center and must have weighed five pounds. “Then what brought you to town? Do you have an uncontrollable desire for a corn dog?”
“I have an uncontrollable desire, but not for a corn dog,” he said, then gave her an all-over perusal, starting at her feet. Slowly his gaze traveled up her legs and thighs and rested on the front of her black tank top where the logo bebe was written in white. Then his eyes did meet hers, instantly heating her. No longer indifferent, he looked like he would eat her up right where she stood.
He pointed to her shoulder. “Nice tattoo.”
“Thanks. I thought it made me look like a biker chick.”
One brow lifted and disappeared within the shadow of his hat. “You don’t look anything like a biker chick. First off, you need leather and a bad attitude.” He paused for a moment before he added, “But come to think of it, you just might have the attitude part.”
Hope didn’t have an attitude, she just didn’t put up with a lot of crap.
“If you were a biker chick, you’d have to listen to your old man and sit on the back of his hog.” He bent his head over hers. “And quite frankly, honey, you strike me as a woman who likes to drive.” From ten feet away, someone called his name and he placed his hand on the small of her back. “Come on,” he said in a low, husky voice that sent shivers up her spine. “Let’s go shoot some squirrels.”
“Squirrels?”
He led her away from the food booths, and at that moment Hope would have followed him anywhere. “You want to shoot squirrels?”
“Yep.”
She would have followed him to the moon, the end of the earth, or shooting squirrels, but she had to admit that it was weird, and not a typical date. “I suppose they taste just like chicken,” she reasoned.
True Confessions Page 17
