Teague sank into a side chair that faced the desk. “I might be able to answer some of those.”
The sheriff gave him a hard-eyed stare. “Don’t tell me you’re involved in this somehow.”
“I was there yesterday,” Teague said. “I went to see him about Troy.”
“Why?”
Teague shrugged. “I thought maybe I could talk him into dropping the charges.”
“And how did you intend to do that?”
“I intended to use my elocutionary skills, but it didn’t work out that way.” Teague took a deep breath. “I didn’t go there to hit him, I swear. I was just going to talk to him, but I—I lost control.”
The sheriff eyed him sharply. “So you did hit him?”
“No, I threw him against the wall. Well, against the window, actually.” He looked down at the toe of his shoes. “Couldn’t seem to stop myself.”
Woodell sighed. “You’d better tell me about it.”
Teague relayed the whole encounter, from the time he entered the room to the gunshot. “I didn’t stick around after that.”
The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “You telling the truth, son?”
Teague raised a hand in the air. “I swear. He was fine when I left. Pretty upset, pretty angry, but fine. He must have realized I was going to turn him in. I guess he couldn’t take the shame, so he turned the gun on himself.”
Woodell narrowed his eyes and the room suddenly seemed hot and airless.
“I figured you’d probably find the head wound from when I—you know.” He pantomimed shoving Skelton into the window. “I didn’t want you to have to chase after some mystery.”
“Head wound, hell. We could barely find the head.”
“That bad?”
“That bad.”
Teague jiggled his knee nervously, trying not to think about what that meant. Courtney had found her father, and it sounded like the scene was pretty bad. He’d better get that music box to her. It was the least he could do.
Although it might not be possible. He was probably under arrest.
Teague ran his fingers through his hair. He wished he had his hat. He needed it in his hands, something to fool with. You never realized how strong a nervous habit was until you couldn’t do it. He stroked his fingers through his hair again.
“You got something more to say?” the sheriff finally asked.
Teague took a deep breath. “When I saw what I’d done—when I shoved him and he hit the window—I saw my reflection in the glass. Thought for a minute it was my dad standing out there, and when I realized it was me it scared the hell out of me. I looked so much like him, I…”
The sheriff waved a dismissive hand. “You’re not your dad, Teague. Get that out of your head.”
“I sure acted like him. Just picked the guy up and—you know.” He pantomimed tossing Skelton into the window.
“What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking he was going to try and put Troy in jail, and then I couldn’t stand looking at him anymore. I just shoved him away, but I was a little rougher than I meant to be.”
“Hell, Teague, there wasn’t anybody in town wouldn’t have done the same thing or worse.” He scooted forward and rested his forearms on the desk while he stared at Teague with his droopy basset hound eyes. “Cissy told me you put the fear of God into her ex the other day out there at the trailer,” the sheriff said.
Teague nodded, but he wondered what that had to do with anything.
“She said you took care of it just right. Scared him, didn’t go Treadwell or anything.”
“Go Treadwell?”
The sheriff managed a grim smile. “It’s the local expression for going postal. Used to be pretty accurate when your dad was alive.”
“Still pretty accurate, apparently. I sure went Treadwell on Skelton.”
“Not really. Your dad never needed a reason, and you had a good one. Plus, according to Cissy, you showed a lot of restraint with Cal.”
“I tried.”
“Couldn’t have been easy.” Woodell looked down and shifted a pencil from one side of his desk to the other, as if the arrangement of his office supplies was the most important thing in the world. “Surprised you didn’t have a flashback or something.”
“I more or less did,” Teague said.
“Son, when you saw your father in the window, he was outside looking in. Probably wishing he was half the man you are.”
Teague’s chest swelled and an ache filled his throat. “Thank you, sir. You had a lot to do with that.”
The sheriff sat back and gave him a faint smile. “Get out of here. I’ll talk to you later if I have any questions.”
“I can go?”
“I don’t see why not. I appreciate you coming to me with this.” The sheriff waved him away. “I might have some questions for you later, so don’t leave town.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Teague let himself out and stood a moment in the hallway, raking his fingers through his hair, then quickly wiping his eyes before he headed out to the lobby and the eagle-eyed Cissy. It was pathetic, but the sheriff’s words had touched him deeply. The man had been more of a father to him than his own dad—not that that was saying much. He’d pretty much only been around when Teague had screwed up, but at least he’d tried to help.
And now he saw Teague as a good man, nothing like his father. It felt like those words were the last step in his long fight for redemption. He felt like a swimmer surfacing after a long dive, or an animal being released from a cramped and dirty cage.
He was finally free to live the life he’d always wanted.
Chapter 41
Teague gathered the pieces of Courtney’s music box from the front seat of the truck and carried them into the barn. He’d outfitted one small room toward the front as a workshop, with a rough wooden counter across one side and cabinets on the wall above it. Drawers, taken from various pieces of old and unwanted furniture, were tucked below and held an assortment of screwdrivers, hammers, and wrenches. Shovels, rakes, and pitchforks leaned in another corner, and a rusted but still serviceable wheelbarrow was parked near the door.
Spreading the pieces on the counter, he shoved the parts to the wooden box away and sorted out the pieces of machinery that made the music—the metal cylinders with their strategically placed nubbins, the metal keys the nubbins plucked to make each note. He opened a drawer and rummaged around for some tiny screws and a set of tools that was made to repair glasses.
He found what he was looking for, then picked up the cylinder and examined it. It would help if he could figure out what song it was supposed to play. Probably some tinkly ballet thing. He picked up one of the crumpled pieces of paper and spread it flat. The handwriting looked fairly masculine. Maybe it was a note from Courtney’s dad telling her why he’d given her the box. Maybe it said what tune it played, and why it meant so much to her.
I am so sorry for all the terrible things I have done, the note began. I have wronged my daughter and there is no way to make it right.
Whoa. The guy was being awfully dramatic. Yeah, he was a lousy dad—but terrible things?
And wasn’t this a letter to his daughter? Why was he referring to her in the third person? Maybe there was more going on with Courtney than Teague realized. Maybe Skelton was some kind of abusive pedophile or something. He shuddered and looked down at the letter again.
It was wrong to drive her mother from my home and take up with that slut Marissa. Marissa is a greedy, skanky, money-grubbing whore.
Holy crap. That was a weird thing for a guy to say about his wife. Having met the greedy, skanky, money-grubbing whore in question, Teague was inclined to agree, but he wasn’t married to the woman.
But evidently, the guy was really wrestling with his feelings. The writing was getting larger and rounder, and
it looked like the pen was digging into the paper. There was even a tear where he’d crossed the “t” in “slut.”
He kept reading.
Then I killed her horse. I set fire to the barn because I spent all my money on polo and on crap for Marissa and I didn’t care that my daughter loved that horse like it was her own child and it was the only thing that made her life worth living. I killed Dutch and I should die for…
The letter degenerated into a series of illegible scrawls, which had been crossed out with large Xs that ripped through the paper.
Teague pushed it to the back of the table. No wonder Courtney was so screwed up. That letter was disturbing. And the language the guy used—“crap” and “skanky”—he sounded like a teenaged girl.
Teague picked up the other sheet of paper. This one had been crumpled even more, and he had trouble smoothing it out enough to read it. Finally, he managed to make out the first few lines.
They sounded very familiar.
I am so sorry for all the terrible things I have done. I have wronged my daughter and there is no way to make it right. It was wrong to drive her mother from my home and take up with that slut Marissa. Marissa is a greedy, skanky, money-grubbing whore. Then he killed my horse. He set fire to the barn because he spent all his money on polo…
This letter trailed off into scribbles and Xs even sooner. Teague looked at it again.
He set fire to the barn because he spent all his money on polo…
Not “I.” “He.”
Skelton didn’t write this letter. Courtney did.
It read like a suicide note, but it hadn’t been written by the dead man.
Skelton hadn’t committed suicide. He’d been murdered.
Chapter 42
When Courtney finally recovered enough to leave, Jodi glanced at her watch. Teague was taking forever to get that damn music box.
Well, Jodi didn’t have time to track him down. She barely had time to get ready for her speech. She hadn’t wanted to put on her queen clothes with Courtney there, and she’d been starting to wonder if the girl would ever leave. Courtney had recovered almost as soon as Teague had left, and had spent the day following Jodi as she did her chores, chattering about all kinds of nonsense as if she’d completely forgotten that her father was dead. It was unnerving, but Jodi figured it was probably her way of coping with the trauma.
Sighing, she opened her closet and pulled out a plastic-draped hanger. Shifting the plastic aside, she laid the clothes out on the bed: the fitted shirt, decked out with pink fringe and a fancy beaded yoke. The jeans, a ridiculous shade of Pepto pink and tight, tight, tight. She hoped she could still slide into them. Then there was the sash, shiny satin embroidered with the title she’d chased all through high school and finally caught: Miss Rodeo USA.
Turning back to the closet, she stood on tiptoe and took her queen hat from the top shelf. It was pink felt, with a sparkling rhinestone tiara affixed to the front.
She skinned out of her jeans and T-shirt and turned to the mirror, sucking in her stomach and striking a pose in her skimpy, sexy black lace underwear. She’d thought of Teague when she’d picked it out that morning—Teague and his lust for the special rodeo queen underwear.
Well, she couldn’t talk to the Girl Scouts in that. She picked up the jeans, wondering if they’d even fit. To her surprise, they slid over her hips as easily as ever, fitting like a second skin. She grinned. They’d pose a real challenge for Teague.
But the shirt wouldn’t. She fastened the snaps, remembering how she’d yanked his open the night before. Tucking it in and slipping a concho-decorated belt through the loops on her jeans, she stepped over to the bed and picked up the sash.
She shivered, remembering what Teague had said about tying her up. She’d never wanted to give up control like that—but with Teague it might be, well, fun. She trusted him. For all his worries about turning into his father, he was the gentlest man she knew. But only she knew that side of him. To the rest of the world, he was dark and dangerous, a man to be reckoned with.
And she was the rodeo queen, a model of propriety and poise. She slipped the sash across one shoulder and draped it across her body, then tipped on the hat, tiara and all. Standing in front of the mirror, she struck a modeling pose and pasted on a smile.
Dressing like Queenie wasn’t so bad. It was all the responsibility that went with it that gave her trouble. She’d thought success would set her free, but it had made her feel so beholden to the town that made her that she’d spent her life trying to live up to their expectations.
A half hour later, she stared out at the sea of girlish faces in front of her and lit into her speech as if someone had pushed her “talk” button. She’d given the rodeo queen role-model talk a hundred times, to thousands of little girls. She practically knew it by heart, and she’d read it over before she came, just to make sure. But watching the rapt expressions on those little faces was kind of unnerving.
She told them about poise. Confidence. Getting good grades. Listening to your parents, because they knew what was best for you. Being part of your community, and representing it with pride. Doing, saying, and being the right thing.
“You have to work really hard to become a rodeo queen. You have to study a lot, volunteer all you can, and make sure you always look your best. It’s all part of being an exemplary citizen. Does anybody know what ‘exemplary’ means?”
A hand shot up in the air. It belonged to a little blonde with hair cascading down her back and a self-conscious smile—a tiny rodeo queen-in-the-making.
“Yes?” Jodi gave her a nod.
“You have to set an example.”
“Right. You can’t always do what you want to do, or say what you want to say. You have to think about how other people see you.”
Her eyes lit on a freckled face in the first row—a little redhead whose tip-tilted nose and blue eyes reminded her of herself at that age. The kid squirmed in her chair, glancing out the window for the umpteenth time and earning a sharp look from the den mother.
Jodi paused, picturing little Red with her hair tamed into queen curls and her freckles hidden by makeup, and addressed the next part of her speech directly to her.
“But you still have to be yourself. A rodeo queen is an individual. She takes pride in her appearance, but she also takes pride in who she is.” She looked around at the sea of little faces. “And she has a reason to be proud, because she’s worked hard and made a lot of tough decisions. And once you make that goal, you know you can trust yourself.”
That wasn’t part of the speech, but it was truer than anything she’d planned to say. She stood up a little straighter.
“I know I can rely on myself to do the right thing, even when it’s hard. I know I can accomplish anything I set my mind to. But most of all, I know I make good decisions. I’ve proved it, all my life.”
The little girl in the front row was watching her, wide-eyed. Jodi smiled at her.
“Did you have a question?”
The little girl nodded and leaned forward. “So you don’t have to listen to your mom?”
Jodi laughed. “Oh, yeah you do. You always listen.” She sobered. “You always listen, but when you get older, you listen to yourself too. There are some things even your mother can’t decide for you.”
***
Teague stood in the middle of his workshop with the letter in his hand, wondering what he should do.
He’d take it to the sheriff, he decided. Woodell could take it from there. It wasn’t Teague’s job to deal with it.
He was heading out the door when he heard a car door slam.
“Teague?”
Damn. It was Courtney.
What the hell could he say? He folded the letters in quarters and shoved them in his back pocket. Maybe he could talk her into turning herself in. It wasn’t like the girl would go to jail.
She was clearly unbalanced. She needed help, and the court system would see that she got it.
Either that, or they’d lock her up and throw away the key. That wasn’t the option Teague would choose, but it was better than leaving her loose.
He took a deep breath and stepped out of the barn. If he played this right, he could take care of this situation with the least amount of grief to all concerned—including Courtney. And if Marty Woodell was proud of him for now, imagine how he’d feel when Teague escorted Courtney to his office, handed her over, and closed the case. That would be one step toward paying the man back for all he’d helped Teague with over the years.
“Court,” he said. “What’s up?”
She was leaning against her SUV, her arms folded over her chest, a stormy expression on her face.
“I should ask you that,” she said.
Teague shrugged and gave her his most charming grin. He’d just pretend everything was okay. “Not much.”
“There’s something up between you and Jodi.”
“Well, yeah, there is.” He walked over to her, his hands in his pockets. “Things with me and Jodi have kind of… changed.”
“Really? What’s changed? I know you’ve been sleeping together this whole time.” She tossed her hair. “I know you got together the night you lost my dog.”
“Yeah, where’s Honeybucket?” he asked, jumping at the chance to change the subject.
Courtney scowled. “I took him to the shelter. He wasn’t doing his job.”
“His job?”
As far as Teague could tell, the dog’s job had been to get hauled around like an animated stuffed toy and dragged out whenever Courtney wanted a little extra attention.
“He was supposed to love me,” Courtney said. “But he took off every chance he got.” She pouted. “He’d rather roll in shit than be with me, so I got rid of him. I’m going to get a new dog.” She smiled down at the ground and swayed from side to side like a little girl savoring the anticipation of a birthday pony. “I’m getting a Chihuahua.”
Cowboy Fever Page 29
