Billy Bob Walker Got Married

by Lisa G. Brown

  "You tell me," T-Tommy muttered, glaring at Billy Bob as he leaned one shoulder against the wall and yawned.

  "Is it—Sam? Did he come after me?" Shiloh asked hesitantly.

  "No, leastways, not yet," T-Tommy answered, diverted for the moment from his suspicions. "I just got in myself. But I gotta call him, Shiloh. If he ain't already mad and worried, he will be when he comes through town and sees what's left of your car over at the body shop."

  "Do it, then," Shiloh told him quietly, although her heart had already started a rabbity jumping motion at the thought of what Sam was going to say. "Call him."

  "And besides, you gotta get a way home," T-Tommy added, rationalizing a little more. But still he hung around the door of the cell which he'd swung wide, jingling the keys that hung from his belt, before he asked anxiously, "Reckon you'll be all right when he gets here, Shiloh?"

  "Good Lord, T-Tommy, he won't beat me," Shiloh answered, laughing a little.

  "You hope," Billy murmured, then fell into silence when T-Tommy shot a glance at him.

  "Come on, then, let's go," the sheriff said to Shiloh, standing back and motioning her out the door ahead of him. "No sense in you hangin' around back here any longer."

  Shiloh hesitated. She wanted to say something to Billy Bob; there had to be some explanation from her as to why she'd spent four years treating him like a stranger, and then last night just lost it and told him everything.

  She felt the heat that crawled up into her face as she remembered that emotional breakdown this morning after the dream she'd had. What in the world had possessed her to tell him about Michael?

  Her eyes were beseeching as she looked over at him. He was no fool; he knew exactly what she wanted.

  "Don't worry," he said brusquely, as he straightened off the wall and began buttoning his shirt. "Your little secrets are safe with me. And if we ever run into each other again, we'll be strangers."

  "Did he do something?" T-Tommy demanded of the girl. "I wouldn't have thought it of him, in spite of everything. But if he—"

  "No. I had a bad dream," Shiloh cut in. "I—I used to know him. He worked on the yard. That's why he was holding my hand. So don't say anything to him—there's nothing else to say, anyway."

  She meant the pointed words for Billy Bob, and she was sure he knew it.

  "Then come on, Shiloh. Let's go call Sam and get it over with," T-Tommy said reluctantly.

  Her father was at the jail within thirty minutes. To a stranger, he might have looked normal. But there was a white line around his lips, and the pearl tie tack that he used every morning was not in place.

  Shiloh faced him squarely when he walked in the sheriffs office, trying to act her age. Now was a fine time to start, she thought wryly.

  "Now, Sam," T-Tommy began placatingly, but the other man was in no mood for small talk.

  "Is she charged with anything? Can she go?"

  "Yeah, she can go. The trooper wrote up this ticket, and there's a fine." He held out the slip of paper toward Sam, but Shiloh stepped up, trying to balance on her broken heel, and pulled it out of his hand first.

  "It's my fine. I'll pay it," she said quickly.

  "You damn well will," Sam said angrily. "And you can buy the next car you drive, too. I don't suppose you've seen what damage you did to the other one yet."

  She didn't answer, just going to the door, where she stood waiting for him.

  "I thought it might do her some good if she stayed here last night," T-Tommy announced, a little belligerently.

  "You mean you thought I'd kill her if you brought her home," Sam corrected him tersely. "Well, don't worry. She'll live. Laura told me she was safe—that was all—so I've had time to cool down. I think," he snapped as he turned to follow his daughter.

  Neither of them said a word as they sank into the cream leather seats of Sam's Cadillac, but he turned purposely, not toward home, but toward Randy Tate's body shop.

  Shiloh knew why; she didn't move a muscle until he pulled up alongside the garage—and there sat what was left of her red Porsche. She couldn't stop the wince of regret and dismay before she climbed out of Sam's car and limped over to it.

  Randy himself came out to greet them. "You sure made a mess out'a this one, Miss Pennington," he said cheerfully as he tucked a pencil behind his ear. All three of them gazed at the crumpled left side of the car. Both the front windshield and the window were shattered, and the fender was nearly touching the door. The right door—the one Shiloh had scrambled out of to safety— wouldn't shut.

  Randy touched the open door regretfully. "Frame's all bent up," he said. "I might could fix it, but I doubt it. And it'd cost way yonder too much. You'd be better off just buyin' a new one."

  "The next new car she gets," Sam interpolated grimly, "it'll do well to make sixty miles an hour. No more speed cars for her."

  Randy glanced from one to the other. "Oh," he said at last. "Well, your insurance will total it. But if you should want to sell it to me, I might could use parts of it. I couldn't pay much, of course. It ain't worth much anymore. But I might come up with more than you'd expect."

  "I'll think about it," Shiloh said, feeling a little sick at the sight of the damage.

  "Are you ready to go? Now that you've seen your handiwork?" Sam asked.

  Without a word, she got in the Cadillac again.

  His silence lasted until they got into the house. Then she spoke, to forestall him.

  "I want to take a shower. I have to get ready for work," she announced.

  "Oh, no, you don't," Sam snapped, pushing open the door to the study. "We're going to talk, me and you. You need to see a doctor to make sure you're not hurt. And don't even start about work. You've got no way to get there unless I loan you a car, and right now, that's not something that strikes me as real smart. Sit down, Shiloh."

  She wanted to remind him that she was no child to be ordered around, but she was too tired and the effort seemed too great. She might as well get it over with, so she followed him reluctantly into the room, defying him only by going to the window instead of sitting down as he motioned her to do.

  Neither of them said a word for a long moment, then he spoke harshly, "You could have been killed."

  "But I wasn't."

  "And if you think I like coming to the jail—the Briskin County Jail, of all places—to get my daughter, then you can think again." He made an angry gesture. "What is it with you? You've never given me much trouble, Shiloh, until now. You wait until you're twenty-two and then rebel, like some snot-nosed kid."

  "I didn't rebel," she objected "I only said no. Maybe you're just not used to hearing it."

  "I can't stand by and let you mess up your life, girl. You're throwing away Michael and a chance to be a part of the most respected family in this section of the state."

  "Sam," she said bluntly, turning toward him, "the judge is all for this marriage because of your money. Because of your pull."

  "What's wrong with Papa,' like you used to call me?" he asked irritably. "And as for the judge, I know that. Both of us want something that the other one's got, so we join. That's good business."

  "But I'm not business," she answered passionately.

  "Nobody ever said you were. But if you and Michael hit it off—and you did—there's that much more to the good."

  He was as stubborn as a brick wall, and she felt as if she'd run full-tilt into one. Taking a deep breath, she put out her arm to try to hold off the force of his personality while she explained one more time that she couldn't marry Michael. Bight here in the bright light of this spring morning, she would have to tell her father what he'd done.

  But he caught sight of the same marks that Billy Bob had seen the night before. "Who grabbed you?" he demanded, his face darkening.

  "Nobody."

  "I know the marks of a man's hand when I see them," he answered.

  "Oh, those," she said, glancing down at them. "The policeman had me by the arm last night."

  "And ju
st what was his name?" Sam demanded dangerously.

  Shiloh covered the marks with her own hand. "And if I tell you, you'll do what? Have his job?"

  "Any man that roughs up a woman—"

  "He didn't rough me up. He tried to catch me, that's all. And you know what's so funny? You're all up in the air about a cop who grabbed me, but I'm scared to death that you won't believe me when I tell you about Michael."

  Sam stopped all movement, arrested. The bright morning sun was merciless as it streamed through the windows on him; Shiloh saw the deep lines around his eyes and mouth, the way the silver that had taken over his hair was encroaching now into his eyebrows. He was sixty-two—and he looked it. But she couldn't afford to be merciful now.

  "Michael tried to rape me."

  She just said it, then looked away, out the window on to the sunshiny front lawn.

  Sam never showed a flicker of emotion.

  "Because he lost his temper and tried to anticipate his wedding vows here at the house the night he tried to make you take his ring back?"

  Her face paled. "He told you," she said breathlessly. "You knew all along, and you didn't do anything."

  "Did you think he wouldn't tell me? He confessed it like a man the morning after it happened—Lord, was that just yesterday?—and he didn't like saying it. He said you ran, and he couldn't find you."

  "I'm telling you—begging you to believe me. Michael didn't just try to anticipate—he attacked me like an animal. He . . ■. he bit me."

  His face flushed a little. "Oh, come on, Shiloh. You're claiming that, then saying you got away?"

  "He did—I did!"

  "Do you really think if he'd been serious, you'd have escaped? As big as he is?" "You don't believe me."

  "I do to a reasonable extent. I think he got mad, but he's sorry. And the fact is, he didn't—didn't—"

  "No." Her voice was dull and colorless.

  "And what do you expect men to think of you, anyway, the way you dress sometimes these days?"

  "It wasn't my fault!"

  "Nothing happened. How could I lay fault on anybody?" he asked patiently.

  And then her temper broke. "I want out. I have to get away. From him, and mostly, from you, Sam Pennington."

  He winced—actually winced. She'd scored a hit there, but it didn't matter anymore.

  "I want you to calm down and quit acting like a hysterical teenager," he said at last.

  "No name that you can call me will change the truth about what he did. I'm leaving both of you."

  "Don't be a fool, Shiloh," Sam said in anger. "He'll come after you. And if he doesn't, I will. Every time."

  The certainty of his words, the memory of the steely determination in Michael's hands, made Shiloh's stomach shake.

  "Neither of you will find me."

  "Try running, Shiloh. I'll cut you off at the bank. Without a car, without money, with me blocking you at every turn—you're not going anywhere."

  She looked around the study blindly, then asked with deliberate cruelty, "Is this the way you tried to keep Caroline?"

  He took a sharp breath, shock and pain spreading over his face. "How could you bring that up, after all this time?"

  "I'm your daughter, I regret to say. And I've got a point to make. You couldn't hold her, no matter how many times you brought her back."

  "I stopped trying, dammit."

  "You loved her. You cried for her. I heard you the day after she left. And the next day, and the next. I hated her for what she did. I was nearly five years old, and I told myself I'd never make you cry."

  A red line of blood was seeping up his cheeks as Sam returned, "So do as I ask. Marry Michael. You gave your word, Shiloh. Now I intend to see you keep it. Like it or not right now, you'll thank me someday, when Michael's a success and you've got the world at your feet. No mill life for you. And I won't let you be like—"

  He broke off his impassioned words, but she knew already.

  "Like who?" she demanded. "My mother? Isn't that it? I'm like Caroline?"

  He flung up his head and his words were harsh. "I hope not, Shiloh. Because if you are, you're nothing but a whore."

  It hit her like a slap in the face, the agony so old she recognized it, so new that it was a fresh bleeding wound. She didn't do anything dramatic, just stood looking at her father's shuttered eyes, at the set face with its distinct cheekbones, at the thin, implacable line of his mouth.

  Then she twisted to walk away, barely able to breathe from the pain.

  "Shiloh."

  Her name on Sam's lips stopped her before she was halfway across the room; she never turned to face him.

  "Make up your mind to it. You're going to marry the judge's son if I have to drag you up the aisle kicking and screaming. You'll make something of your life no matter what—or who—Caroline was, or where I came from. I swear it."

  She didn't go to work: Laura and Sam won that round.

  But she refused to go to the doctor, so she figured she broke even in the battle.

  There was no time to contemplate wins or losses, however; Shiloh shut herself in her silent, shadowy room and licked her wounds, trying to stop herself from bleeding to death.

  There'd been so much misery, so much dislike in her father when he talked of her mother, Shiloh's flesh and blood. How could he love the daughter when he despised Caroline, the other half of her, so much?

  She thought about the net that was closing around her. She'd been right, and Sam's heart was set on the marriage to Michael.

  She was trapped.

  She should have hated Michael; instead, she was so angry with her father that the memory of him held little or no sting anymore.

  Sam had been telling the truth about one thing: Running was no way out. Besides, she didn't want to run. Her temper was up now. Sweetwater was her place in the world, where she belonged. She wanted life here, on her terms. Sam couldn't shove her out any more than he could shove her around. She wouldn't let him. She was as tough as he was. She would stand right here and fight.

  But how?

  There had to be some way to block Michael, to stop Sam, to give herself breathing space.

  Something that would leave her safe, but make her independence clear.

  If she hurt Sam, he'd just have to be hurt. She had to show no more concern for his wants than he'd shown for hers.

  What had he said, his voice as hard as a diamond? "You're going to marry the judge's son if I have to drag you down the aisle. . . ."

  Shiloh thought about that for a long time, sitting on the high four-poster bed and staring out the French doors at the red ball of the sun as it sank that afternoon behind Pine Ridge, the dark, high line of trees that lay to the northwest of Sweetwater.

  And by the time it set and the last pink lights had faded into dusk, she knew exactly what to do. Then she went to the telephone to see if Randy Tate was still at the garage.

  Sweetwater had a weekly newspaper that was churned out every Friday; a copy was delivered to the jail at noon. By the time it made the rounds and got to Billy Bob, it was crumpled and out of order. But it was reading, and it was from the real world, so he took it when it was offered along toward suppertime.

  He'd picked it back up a third time, deciding he could stand to read even the obituaries, when the door opened to the outside office and T-Tommy ushered in Shiloh.

  Billy lowered the bare foot he had propped up on the bed and let the newspaper fall, surprise written on his face.

  "Don't tell me she's wrecked another car," he said to T-Tommy.

  The sheriff s face was dark. "She claims she came to see you. Now I don't know what's goin' on here, but I don't like it."

  "I just wanted to thank him for being kind night before last," Shiloh said casually- Today she looked like a rising young executive in her red suit.

  "So thank him," T-Tommy snapped.

  "I want to talk to him alone," Shiloh said pointedly.

  "Sam won't like you coming to the jail to talk
to somebody as wild as Billy Walker, and I—"

  "He'll never know if you don't tell him," she interrupted.

  T-Tommy hesitated, then threw up both hands. "Okay. Okay. What can happen with him behind bars?"

  Neither Shiloh nor Billy Bob answered that provocative question. But when he was gone, Billy rose slowly to his feet.

  Shiloh didn't remember, even two nights ago, that he'd been this tall.

  "You—you need a shave," she offered unnecessarily.

  He ran a hand down the side of his face, almost in surprise. "I didn't know I was havin' such particular company this Friday night. Came back to gloat over less fortunate convicts, did you?"

  "I told T-Tommy—"

  "I heard what you told him. So, now you can tell me the truth. But if this is for another talk about your—your boyfriend—"

  "No, it's not that."

  "Then what?" He braced his palms against the bars, leaning his shoulders in toward her.

  There was a lot of Billy Walker, Shiloh thought, a little panicky now that she was here. Tonight he had on just a white T-shirt with the tight jeans, and despite his tall, lanky build, there were muscles visible in all the right places, especially in his arms and shoulders. He looked dangerous, but then, there had always been a wild, half-tamed air about him. Maybe it was the comparison to Billy that had always made Michael seem civilized and too smooth.

  She looked away, hoping she could do this.

  "I went back to work today," she offered. "I'm driving one of Sam's cars. At least the trooper didn't pull my license. That's the reason I'm here so late. Because of work, I mean. The bank doesn't close until six on Fridays." Stop rambling, Shiloh, she told herself—even if you are nervous.

  Billy Bob eyed her quizzically. "You can visit me anytime, honey," he answered humorously. "I don't have a real full social life these days."

  "Yes, well, this is not exactly a social visit," Shiloh answered, and her cheeks flushed a little.

  "Then what is it?" he asked, interested despite himself.

  In answer, she unzipped the little alligator bag that hung over her shoulder and pulled out a sealed envelope, which she held out to him.