Billy Bob Walker Got Married

by Lisa G. Brown

  He'd barely said three words the entire time. Even if she understood why he'd waited for her to take a stand before Sam, she didn't understand it now. All she had to go on was the way he'd held her, his arms certain and secure, and the way his face had held reassurance when she'd confessed the marriage.

  "Take care of him." T-Tommy's odd words seemed the most appropriate ones she'd heard all day, because Billy—this one sitting quietly beside her in the car— seemed lost, dazed.

  Something had happened in that jail cell, something between him and Sewell.

  It had left Billy like this, somewhere deep inside himself, thinking. Or maybe grieving.

  Shiloh knew Billy Bob Walker, the semi bad boy, the teasing flirt. But she didn't know this one, the one that hurt.

  "Where are you taking me?" He asked the question uninterestedly, turning his head on the high seat back to look at her, startling her. He was alive; he could speak.

  "I don't know," she admitted. "Do you . . . want to go home?"

  He thought about it. "No," he answered at last, shaking his head, his face dark. "I want to get away. Out of this county. Out of . . . out of me."

  He shifted his position, gazing out the window, but Shiloh wondered if he saw anything at all.

  Okay, she thought in a mixture of anger and compassion. You want to leave everything to me. Well, I don't know what to do, where to go. So, we'll just drive until you decide to talk.

  Inside her, the loneliness and the stark anguish grew. Today had been harder than she'd ever imagined; she had harbored a secret hope that Sam would come around.

  Now she knew that would never happen.

  She needed Billy to touch her, to hold her, to reassure her. Instead, the heart and soul had gone out of him, too.

  They were two empty, miserable people speeding down the highway, going nowhere.

  Fifty miles down the road, a storm broke. Huge dark thunderclouds had been building overhead for the last hour, turning the early dusk into darkness, and big gusts of warm wind whipped tree branches into wild contortions.

  Up ahead, big blue neon letters that said Dreamland Motel glowed against the metallic, heavy gray of the sky. The shy, reserved Shiloh of a few years ago would never have taken Billy there; the hurting, confused, angry one of today pulled the Cadillac under its covered entrance without even asking him.

  He glanced at her, his face questioning.

  "We can't keep on driving, not in this," she answered him defiantly. "We have to stop."

  We have to face each other, and our actions, and our fathers, she wanted to say.

  "I'll get the room." He was out of the car before she could speak, and a tiny tendril of relief curled through her. At least he'd come to life a little.

  Shiloh watched him stride across the parking area toward the office, the wind molding the shirt against his ribs, making his shirttails flap as they hung outside his jeans. He looked so familiar, so much like the man whom she'd once met in her father's backyard.

  It was her wedding night.

  Not even that thought had much joy in it, and she sat numbly waiting for his return.

  "It's room 20," he said as he opened the car door. A gust of wind blew the smell of rain to her as thunder cracked across the sky. "I'll move the car. Do you want to go on and beat the storm?"

  She took the keys from the polite stranger who held them out to her. Even hurrying, she got damp as the fat drops of rain tumbled down on her in the run across the pavement. The lock was stiff, and the motel room smelled stuffy as she pushed the door open.

  Two double beds. One for him, one for her? A television. A bathroom and a separate dressing area. A green Bible from the Gideons. Perfect motel decor.

  Inside Shiloh, the depression mushroomed, and when the storm blew Billy in through the door, fear threaded through her as well.

  He shook the rain off, his movements rough, shoving the wet hair out of his face. He was too big and too masculine for the room when the door was shut behind him.

  Here she was, all alone with two beds and Billy Walker, and this time nobody was coming to pull him away.

  He shoved his hands down in his pockets, looking around.

  "Not too great, is it?" His words were flippant, casual. "It's fine."

  Her words were swallowed in another booming crash of thunder, and she crossed to the curtain along the back wall. Opening it, Shiloh looked out at the gray dusk and the heavy gray rain that beat against the glass. Homesickness and misery and tension made her whole body ache.

  When he walked up beside her, his footsteps were so muffled by the storm that she didn't even realize he was there until her arm brushed his. She jumped violently.

  Billy never moved, but just watched her face, gauging her reaction to him before he, too, looked outside.

  "Some Fourth of July."

  She tried to laugh. "A big one for me. I'm—I'm independent, now."

  Billy reached behind her to grip the curtain with its straw weave of greens and pale blues, and he played with it, staring into the rain.

  "You can still go back." He said the words clearly, and his voice didn't hold even a tiny amount of emotion. "If you went right now, Pennington would forgive and forget sooner or later."

  "Is that what you want me to do?" She watched his fingers on the curtain at her elbow.

  "It's up to you."

  Hold me, Billy. Tell me you need me, that you want me. Say "I love you." Please. Then it will be worth it. But he didn't.

  "I'll think about it," she managed. "You don't have long."

  She twisted to look up at him. They stood so close that the heat from his body warmed hers—and they were miles apart.

  "What's wrong?" she demanded unsteadily.

  He never looked down. "Nothing."

  "Did you get what you wanted when I told Sam I was going with you? Your own back on him for what happened all those years ago? You won today. I heard it in your voice when you talked to him. Is that all you wanted?"

  "I didn't win anything. And I think you'd better go home."

  He moved away from her, finally sitting down on the edge of the bed with his back to her. Shiloh watched him, her heart aching and suddenly panicky. She was losing him, and she didn't know why or how. She couldn't seem to hold him.

  In the dusky room, his big body, his square shoulders, the tilt of his head—all had a stiff, harsh defiance. So why did her fingers want to reach out to caress him? Why did he seem so forlorn? So abandoned?

  "What did Robert Sewell say to you, Billy?"

  She had found the right button to push: he visibly flinched as if he'd been stung. But he didn't turn around.

  "Nothing much. And it's nobody's business but mine."

  "You're wrong. It's mine, too, because whatever it was, it's taking you away from me." Pushing her hair back with both hands, Shiloh walked to the edge of the bed and looked down on his head, on his hard profile as he turned his head away stubbornly.

  "Do you think you're the only one who's had a bad day? The only one who feels anything around here?" Her voice was rising in anger. "I've done everything I know to do for you today—"

  "Nobody asked you to."

  "I wanted to, because I thought you cared. I thought you needed me."

  "Yeah, sure. I really needed to hear Pennington come down on you like a ton of bricks. I needed to know that you'd lost a home and your father over me. You know what the whole town's sayin', don't you? It was all over J.C.'s face, T-Tommy's face." He stood in furious memory, his voice no longer calm but cracking under emotion. " 'She married Billy Walker. Threw herself away on that worthless bastard. He's no good to anybody.' And you know what, Shiloh Pennington? They're right. Right."

  The words were catching, sobbing, hanging in his throat, and he reached out to shove the Bible off the table in one fierce sweep of his arm.

  It slammed against the wall, then hit the floor before silence settled over the room.

  "Billy."

  "Don't touch me." H
e jerked away forcefully from her hand on his wrist, backing up against the table to get away from her. "Just leave me alone, Shiloh. You did all any man could ask today. I don't need anything more."

  He never even looked at her, keeping his face turned away.

  Shiloh stepped back as if she'd been slapped, aching so much she couldn't get her lips to speak.

  "I don't understand you," she whispered at last, painfully. "I thought—"

  "Maybe I thought the same once. Not anymore. Go on. Leave. Now. I want you to get out."

  His words were so brutal she gasped, a hand going to her heart as if to protect it. He fumbled in one pocket, finally pulling out the car keys and shoving them at her. She backed away from him, eyes wide and wet. At the door, she hesitated.

  "Just where am I supposed to go, Billy?"

  "Home. Go to Sam." The words were clipped and jerky as he strained mentally away from her presence, unmoving against the wall. "I'll call somebody to come and get me."

  "I trusted you. You said you wanted me." The accusation was unsteady.

  "Maybe I meant it at the time. But I know better now. My God, Shiloh, what does it take to get you to leave?" He looked at her at last, and even in the twilight, his eyes looked blank. "Do I have to open the door for you?"

  "You don't have to throw me out. I'll walk," she said raggedly.

  Rain slapped her in the face as she slammed the door shut behind her, and it blew through the cotton blend of the dress she had on, as cutting as little cold needles against her hot skin and bruised heart.

  She bit her lip against the pain, running to the Cadillac.

  She wasn't going back to Sam in defeat, not now, not ever. Her face against the steering wheel, her eyes burning with emotions, she fought away tears. What was she going to do?

  More than one woman had made a fool of herself over Billy, even Shiloh Pennington. Well, now Sweetwater had proof that she wasn't like Sam: She was human, capable of grief and pain and shame.

  She tried to put the keys in the ignition.

  Why did it feel so wrong to leave him here, by himself in this motel while the rain blew and beat all around?

  He needed somebody. He shouldn't he alone.

  The thoughts were so ridiculous Shiloh scoffed at them. He had hurt her.

  Because he was hurting, too.

  Billy's emotions ran deep; they always had, no matter what he pretended. He couldn't walk away from his mother or his past or his crippled grandfather or even a stray animal, not from anything that belonged to him.

  And just last night, he had claimed her. She closed her eyes, remembering in agony- how his mouth had caressed her, letting her fingers touch the place.

  Grief and pain and shame. Especially shame. All of that was in him. Why hadn't she recognized it sooner?

  Because Billy Bob Walker didn't want her to, probably wouldn't admit to it.

  Her father alone had been bad enough. Billy had had his own father to deal with, too.

  She climbed out of the car, making herself walk back to the motel, the rain drenching her.

  She couldn't bear much more, but she would try one more time to reach him.

  The room was nearly totally dark when she slipped into it, and the roar of the air-conditioning unit competed with the pounding rain to hide the sound of her entrance.

  Breathing shallowly, shivering in her wet clothes, she leaned against the closed door until her eyes adjusted. He was lying on the far bed, his back to her. Not moving, but she knew he wasn't asleep.

  Silently she moved toward the bed, stopping just behind him, hesitating, afraid to speak, afraid to touch. Why was he so still?

  Some sixth sense alerted him to her presence. He rolled over just as her hand hovered over his shoulder, his eyes a strange, light shade in the darkness.

  "I thought you—" He couldn't say more, his words strangled, torn, choked.

  Her wavering fingers touched his face, and for an instant, he let them. Then he pushed her hand away and rolled back over on his side like a scolded child.

  Her fingers were wet.

  Billy Bob, rough and tough Billy Bob Walker, was crying.

  "Will you get the hell out of here?" he pleaded with effort, covering his face with his hands, his whole body outraged.

  She couldn't leave. He wouldn't let her near him again if she walked out after seeing him in this condition.

  "I won't leave. You can't make me, short of dragging me out. Oh, Billy—" Her hands touched his stiff shoulders tentatively; he was warm under the shirt, alive and hurting.

  "Please, Shiloh, leave me in peace," he groaned huskily. "I don't . . ."

  But her whole body had come to vibrant life with the feel of him, with the sudden rush of understanding, and she slid both arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely to her, letting the side of her face touch his.

  He fought her mentally for a moment, then something snapped inside him, and his body collapsed as he began to cry, great, tearing sobs that shook his whole frame and terrified her before she tightened her hold on him.

  She had once heard Sam cry, but it had not been like this. Her father had never seemed as determinedly masculine as Billy, and his grief had been resigned. Billy's was desperate; it was wrenching him apart.

  This was more than today's misery spilling out of him. This was the accumulated passion and anger and anguish of a lifetime, something tied up with Robert Sewell and with Billy's self-worth.

  What poison had Sewell poured into him to exacerbate the wound?

  Although she'd come to this isolated little motel with every intention of becoming Billy's wife and lover, she could be more. She could hold him, and soothe him, and whisper nonsense phrases of sympathy against his wet face, like a mother tenderly wrapping a child against the harsh world.

  She could be his everything.

  "He ... he offered me money," Billy got out at last, his breathing so hard, the tears so heavy she could barely understand him. "Just like you did. I hated him. I hated you. I didn't know I could make such a living, selling myself in Michael's place." His words were jerky, half laughter, half tears—all agonized.

  "I'm sorry. So sorry." The whispers on his skin, the way her arms tightened around him. Could he feel her horror? her understanding?

  "That's all he wanted to know. Could I be paid to take Michael's place. He said I'd been a mistake. I'd rained lives. He called my mother a gullible fool. He tried to get her to have an abortion. And she should have. She should have."

  Shiloh's hands caught in his long hair, her voice cutting off his terrible words. "No. Your mother can't live without you. She loves you. She needs you."

  "I always thought... he had some kind of feeling for me," Billy whispered jaggedly. "I kept thinkin' someday when I've made it, when I've done something big and right, he's gonna finally admit who I am. He'll stop me on the street, maybe, and—and—" Billy started to laugh again.

  "Listen to me, Billy Walker. He's the fool, not you. Never you. He's got no feelings for anybody except himself and the people who make him look good. He's liable to turn his back on Michael if he doesn't straighten up, if he's too big a threat to the things the judge wants."

  Shiloh let go of Billy's throat to rise to her knees on the bed behind him, tugging his shoulders insistently until he rolled over on his back, looking up at her.

  "You're the only good thing he ever did, Billy." She let her hands soothe his cheeks, wiping away the wetness, let them stroke the hard jaw line, the warm neck, the smooth chest under the open shirt. A man and a boy both were here. Her words were for the boy; but her fingers offered an adult, sensual stroke. "You've got all the passion he's never had. Any man would be proud to have you for his son."

  His chest heaved. "Don't lie, Shiloh," he whispered, his words more still. The worst of the storm had passed, at least here in this room. "Your own father knows what I am. And he's right. I can't—"

  "You're going to stop feeling sorry for yourself," she said angrily, clutching at
his open shirt.

  "I'm exactly what he called me all those years ago, Shiloh, a hayseed plowboy. I can't do anything for you."

  "I don't know what you are, Billy. Neither do you.

  You've spent your whole life being Sewell's bastard. Me, I'm the same. I've been Sam's good little girl. But that's over now. I know there's more. Now we're free to find out who we are, and what we can be, all on our own, together."

  She bent over him, her heavy brown hair falling to brush his face, her hands on the heavy muscles in his upper arms. She needed the man in him.

  "Do you know who I am today, Billy?"

  He stared up at her, his throat working, his eyes puzzled. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Shiloh. That's all I know."

  "I'm your wife. My name is Walker, just like yours. Not Pennington, not Sewell. Shiloh Walker." She'd never said it out loud before; it had an odd taste on her tongue.

  Then she followed each of his arms out to his palms, entwining her fingers with his in a warm, intricate lock, pulling his hands up above his head as she hovered over his lips. "You said you couldn't do anything for me, Billy. But you can."

  She closed her eyes, her heart pounding too hard for her to look into his face, and laid her lips on his in a searing kiss, opening his mouth, pouring her soul into him. Burning away the memories of the hurt, offering him passion and love.

  He was gasping for breath, nearly blind and dumb when she pulled away, his chest under her heaving.

  She slid her hands from his despite his belated effort to hold her, then her fingers went to the big, bright, turquoise blue buttons that matched the dress she'd put on this morning with such big plans. One by one the buttons slid through the loops and she peeled the wet dress away until it fell open.

  He watched, mesmerized, as she shrugged out of it and it puddled around her waist, a bright sea of color. Then she reached behind herself to unclip the delicate lace and satin that wrapped her breasts, catching it as it fell forward, one strap off one graceful shoulder.