"I need never to have to see him again. Just keep him away."
Then she twisted, running back toward the dressing area, trying to get away from all three of them. Blind. Sam was blind.
"Dammit, Sam, she can't keep saying things like that to Michael. Can you see this is tearing him up? That girl of yours—"
She never heard the last of the judge's angry remonstrance. The door slammed shut on it, and she was in too big a rush to pull on her clothes.
But before she did, she yanked open her purse, searching through the side pocket. When she found the paper she was hunting for, she spread it open on the dressing table, her fingers shaking.
The paper that proclaimed her marriage to be legal and binding.
To Billy, not Michael.
The rain that fell Monday and Tuesday hampered work and made the air humid and thick. Billy had meant to dig trees and get them ready for shipment to a small chain of stores across the Arkansas line, but he gave up at lunch. The rain was beating holes in the ground and in him; mud clung in huge clumps to his boots; he couldn't see for the sheet of water that ran off the brim of his soaked cap.
He stopped by the barn on his way in to the house, his feet squeaking in his wet shoes.
"Hey, boy," he told the big stallion that blew at him as he entered. The horse was the color of a red flame under amber, big and broad but with a well-shaped head that said that somewhere in his past was Arabian blood.
Billy ran a hand down the long, sleek neck. "You staying dry? I bet you're hating being cooped up, but I couldn't leave you out in that downpour."
The horse paid no attention to his words, nudging his arm instead so that he could get to Billy's pockets.
"Nope. Sorry. No apples, no sugar, no anything," he told him regretfully. "Maybe I'll go to town this afternoon and bring you back something, okay?"
The horse snorted reproachfully, then nudged his nose up under Billy's hand.
"Settle for a pat, will you?" Billy asked wryly, stroking the horse's nose. "You'd better. Since it's all that's available."
By the time he got to lunch, Grandpa had finished and was sitting in his favorite chair, an old, huge rocker, on the back porch, watching the rain fall in heavy gray sheets.
"You're late," he told Billy Bob as the latter shed his shirt and hat, shaking the water vigorously off his face and hair. "But we left you a little something to eat, I reckon. Ellen!" He raised his voice over the pounding rain. "Billy looks like a drowned rat. He needs a towel or two."
And in a minute, Ellen Walker stepped out onto the gray-painted wooden boards of the porch, a towel in each hand.
"Good gracious, boy," she said mildly, looking up at her wet son, "what'd you do? Take a bath out there? Look at those boots. Reckon you better take them off, too."
"It's only a little dirt and horse manure," he returned.
"Is that all?" she asked dubiously, looking him up and down. "You look so dirty I believe I'll just bring your food out here. There's enough germs on you that if you walk in the house, they could just slide off on everything."
Billy grinned at her. "They wouldn't dare get on your clean floor, Mama."
"Well, if you promise to make 'em behave, and then take 'em right back where you got 'em, I'll feed you," she retorted humorously.
His mother had a warm, wry, understated way of talking, a sort of comfortable, earthy, teasing personality. Billy had never seen her get really, really angry nor be cruel to a single living creature.
Too easygoing for her own good, most of Seven Knobs thought. That was probably how she came to get mixed up with Robert Sewell the summer she was seventeen. After all these years, after the initial gossiping and catti-ness were long dead, the little community placed the blame squarely on Sewell. Still, Ellen had paid, spending the better part of the last thirty years staying firmly away from every man except her father and her son.
She'd shut the door—literally—in the faces of would-be suitors who'd shown up at odd moments to court the still-pretty, delicate, blond-haired woman. Now no beaux ever came calling on Ellen Walker, and that was the way she wanted it. It was her atonement for her mistake all those years ago.
Billy often wondered if his even-tempered mother had known how to be sad and how to cry before the judge came along. He thought probably not.
He'd never asked her about the details, too afraid she'd tell him, and he'd learned to be grateful that she loved him instead of hating him.
It was better when he didn't think about Sewell at all.
"It's raining too hard to work," he offered at last, after he'd taken a bite of his fried chicken leg. "I need to pick up some things in town. Anything you need, Mama?"
"I can't think of anything. Except, Mary Haile called and said one of her cats had something wrong with it. I think she was hintin' for you to stop by and look at it. You might do that on your way. Where all are you going?"
"Feed store, hardware store—" Billy took another bite and thought a minute, "and maybe the bank."
He had his account in Tobias County, but it wouldn't hurt to open a small one in Sweetwater.
And, of course, he might check on one of his creditors, too, if she was working today.
Things had been slow. Tuesdays were never too busy; usually only four of them worked on the main level: two tellers, a girl at the window, and an officer—-Shiloh.
She was on the telephone, staring out the window at the rain that was pulverizing the red-and-white striped petunias in their square boxes at the edges of the tiny lawn when she saw him pull in the parking lot.
She knew the truck immediately, before the driver stuck one booted foot or one long leg out.
And as he came up the sidewalk, head bent against the downpour, she felt the tiny tingling of nerves—in the base of her skull, in her throat, around her heart.
What was Billy Bob, who never set foot in Sam's banks, as far as she could tell, doing here?
Across the room, Rita noticed him, too.
"Well, Susan," she said meaningfully to the tall brunette who worked at the next window and who was busy on an adding machine, "look who the rain dragged in."
Susan cocked one eye inquiringly, then let her hand fall from her work. And as she began to smile, her cheeks flushed pinkly.
She looked happy—thrilled, thought Shiloh in annoyance, remembering Susan's shortness to her most of the time. Billy Bob's personality must be more interesting than hers.
"Hi, Billy," Susan called to him as he entered, droplets glistening on his shoulders.
He grinned at her, glancing around, but when he saw Shiloh, he held her gaze a second too long. She did her best to put disdain in hers.
"What brings you into town?" Susan asked coyly.
"Nothin' much. I need some checks cashed, and maybe I'll open an account. Checking. Can you help me?"
Oh, please, what a line, Shiloh thought sourly, and tried to shut them out, focusing fiercely on the paperwork in front of her.
But she was too aware of the lanky body leaned sideways against Susan's counter, of the laughing, low, husky quality of the other girl's voice as she leaned close to Billy's blond head, of Billy's easy drawl.
What are you doing in here, she thought furiously.
"... really enjoyed myself Friday night," Susan was saying. "I've seen you there before. Do you come often?"
"Once in a while," he answered, and Shiloh realized suddenly, he'd gone out with this girl, or done something with her, this past weekend. That's why he was here.
The dirty rotten two-timer.
The furious thought took her breath away with sheer temper.
A week ago he was kissing her, laying down laws for her.
He never intended to follow even one of them himself. She shoved her hair back and stood up forcefully. Then her eyes met his across the office.
Susan was still talking, but Billy wasn't listening. He was watching Shiloh, all blue eyes and intensity. Waiting for her to see him. And he didn't smile when t
heir eyes met. In fact, he looked angry.
He hadn't come to the bank to see Susan, whatever they'd done together. He'd come after her, Shiloh.
"... and maybe we'll run into each other again at the next dance," Susan was saying, as she reluctantly handed him his money and receipts.
Billy turned back to her, straightening off the window. "Yeah, maybe. I'm there most Friday nights."
Shiloh had to move, had to get away from him and the sweet voice of the girl. Air—she needed air. Or water. That would do. Anything.
But as she straightened from the water fountain, he was behind her, blocking her. She twisted to look up at him.
"Hello."
His body cut off the view of the other two tellers, and he wasted no time on trivialities. "Outside," he said, his voice low. "What?"
"I'll be in the truck. Waiting to see you." "But I can't—"
He lifted one arm and pulled a gold chain from inside his shirt. Shiloh stared at what swung on it, then nodded.
"I'll be there, in a few minutes."
Billy bent to the water fountain as she walked away, ignoring the two girls who'd been watching them. But there was nothing to see. At best she'd appeared to be curt to a new bank customer.
He had her ring. There were a thousand ways to return it—trust Billy to do it in broad daylight, in full view of half of Sweetwater, and right under the nose of his latest girlfriend.
She waited a few minutes before she escaped to the rec room, then slipped out the side door. He'd parked between it and a huge snowball bush, and the only window that had a clear view of his truck was the one beside her desk.
She might be safe.
He was pushing open the passenger door as she ran to it, scrambling up onto the rough, worn truck seat. The minute the door slammed, they were too close, locked here together in this quiet capsule of a world, rain beating down on the roof and their breath fogging the window.
He just looked at her a long second.
"My ring . .. you've got it?" she asked at last, her voice too breathy and quick.
He laid one long-fingered, brown hand on the top of the steering wheel. The other arm he slid along the seat behind her, his fingers brushing the top of her pale yellow cotton shirt.
I won't pull away, she thought.
"I haven't seen you in a while," he answered instead. "I don't know if you're all right, if things have changed, if—"
"They're the same. I would have told you if—"
"I'd like to know when. I don't see you, I don't hear from you, and I damn sure can't telephone you at home. The only way I even found out you were working here was from Susan."
"You mean your newest girlfriend, the one that fell all over herself when you walked in?"
"My newest—look, honey, I danced with her twice at the Legion Hall because I heard her ripping you up— something about your new job—and I wanted to know what was going on. You think I like sitting around wondering when Pennington's gonna come after me?" Billy punched the steering wheel with his left fist for angry emphasis.
"You expect me to believe that?" Shiloh's voice was scornful, but all of a sudden, her anger had begun to dissipate.
"Believe what you please," he said. Then he looked up, and his face lightened a little. "Or come and see for yourself."
"I—I can't. Laura says it's better for me not to—to socialize with people who work for Sam. That it'll make trouble."
"Then come and socialize with me." His voice had a teasing, husky drawl in it as he leaned toward her a little.
"Somebody—would see us."
"So what? Is it gonna ruin you to dance with me?" The edge of frustration cut into his words.
"If Sam found out, he'd make a terrible scene."
"He did once before and you survived."
He was too close to her, leaning in toward her, his face intense. She could feel the heat from his body, the dampness that rose from their clothes.
She pulled away, looked away.
"I can't. And I've got to go. The ring—"
He sat back in the seat, beating down temper. Then he picked up the ring that hung against him.
"It's got your name inside it," he told her calmly.
"I know."
"If anybody saw this—if I showed it to them—there'd be more trouble than any dance could stir up." She straightened instantly.
"Give it to me," she demanded, and her hand snatched at it.
But Billy caught her arm, his eyes bright and gleaming. "Uh-huh. If you want it, Shiloh, work for it." "You can't—"
"I'll be at the Legion Hall this Friday night. You want this?" He held it up in his clenched fist, the chain spilling like a delicate thread of lace across his rough, bare knuckles.
Then Billy leaned closer, his face nearly touching hers. "You want the ring, then you come and get it."
9
Okay. She'd had enough.
Sam pushed her around and didn't listen. Michael intimidated her.
Now here was Billy Bob, pulling at her for something. Manipulating her.
And he was good at it, too.
Just this Friday afternoon, he'd come back in the bank again, his shirt opened far enough down the front that Susan had nearly fallen out of the teller's window trying to see clear to his navel. The gold chain had sparkled like danger against his brown skin.
The devil had lazed past Shiloh's desk, one thumb hooked in a belt loop, his cap pushed back on his head, eyeing her.
Daring her.
Urging her.
She didn't know what Billy was up to. Maybe he flirted with her because she was there, and had drawn his attention to her over the past few weeks. But he had been mad half the time they'd been together. If these were his techniques, they left a lot to be desired.
And they stirred a glimmering rebellion down inside her.
She was tired of doing what she was told; she was tired of being told, in fact. She was tired of doing what she should.
If half the women in town could gawk at Billy Bob, then she could dance with him.
By the time she was through with him tonight, she'd have her ring and he'd have a piece of her mind.
It wasn't until she got to the Legion Hall that she began to have second thoughts.
It was ten minutes past ten o'clock when she finally stepped up on the edge of the shadowy porch.
Late. His expectant heart had been nearly sick with worry that she wouldn't show up, again. But here she stood in jeans, white tennis shoes, and a faded rose-red top.
Her hair was different—partially caught back on one side, curling more than it usually did because of the heat.
Beauty stood there, right on the edge of the porch lights, looking for him. Her eyes were searching the crowd that danced just inside the wide open doors.
He pulled in his breath and straightened off the hard brick wall.
"Looking for somebody?"
She jumped a little, startled by his voice as it came out of the shadows. Then she answered, her voice only a little shaky, "Maybe. And you—are you waiting for somebody?"
His cap was gone, she thought fleetingly, and its absence meant that the light hit his strong profile and his blond hair brightly.
"Maybe," he repeated teasingly. "There's just one problem. If my wife hears about this, we're dead."
"Oh, her. I've heard she's a saint of a woman."
"Yeah? And what does that make me?"
"Nothing short of the devil. You bribe and blackmail people to get your way."
His grin faded. "It's only a dance, Shiloh. It won't kill you."
"You could just give me back my—" "No. That way is no fun." "And this way is?"
"Wait and see." He reached out, caught her hand. "Come on, and try to smile. You used to laugh all the time."
Pulling her through the edge of the crowd, he gave her no chance to answer until they came to the nearest corner. Shiloh kept her head turned away; sooner or later, somebody would know her, and she'd rather it be l
ater.
Billy twisted, then held out his other arm for her to step into. She hesitated, half-afraid of the proximity, half-afraid of him.
"I haven't danced like this in a long time. Maybe I won't remember how."
"Since how long?"
"Since I was eighteen and fool enough to try to do everything you did," Shiloh retorted unevenly.
"Good. That's real good. But don't worry. It'll come back to you."
He made that tiny motion with his hand again; still she stalled. "Billy, somebody's going to recognize me here."
"How could they? Most don't know you, especially not dressed the way you are now. You never step out of Sam's shadow."
"Somebody will. Then we're in big trouble." "Who is? Not me. You, only if you let yourself be. One dance, Shiloh." "Then what?"
"Then . . . we can go somewhere else."
And that was no comfort at all, she thought, but she went when his arm reached out to haul her into his long body.
There wasn't a whole lot of provocation in the Texas two-step, not if you were doing it with a regular Joe.
But every time Billy bumped against her, every time her face came near enough his chest to feel the beating of his heart, it meant something to Shiloh, reminding her of nights she'd lain against him.
And the way he smelled—she'd forgotten how his very scent could twist her up in knots.
Out of the blue, she wished suddenly that she'd kissed him longer in front of the judge. Did he taste the same?
His arms around her were strong as iron manacles; she could feel his fingers wrapping her side, as hard and determined as they had been when he held her face for his own kiss.
She had come tonight to tease and tantalize, but maybe she should leave as quickly as possible, as soon as she had the ring.
Billy Bob Walker Got Married Page 15
