Laura stood, smoothing her skirt. "To end the story, he took her away. Gave her more money. Kept her up completely until she died a year later. She never asked about you again. That's hard—but it's truth. Sam was the one who wanted you. And me."
"Are you here ... for Papa?" Shiloh asked painfully.
"No. He thinks he hates you. He's in the wrong. Whether or not he likes Billy Walker as a son-in-law, you're the one who has to make this decision. And Sam's not bearable sometimes. I came to make my own peace, and to bring you some things. They're in the car. Come on. I need some help."
Her heart gave a warm jump at the familiarity of what was in Laura's trunk. Her jewelry case; her makeup bag; her portable combination CD player and radio and television—and clothes. A huge armload of them.
"I didn't bring anything elaborate. But I thought you might need these," Laura offered.
Shiloh buried her nose in them, in the rich sandalwood scent that floated from the sachets and potpourri in her closets and dresser drawers.
She hadn't gone to Sam for them; they were hers. She would keep them.
They dumped her belongings on the bed; she stood the jewelry box on the dresser.
Laura looked around curiously. The room still had an almost sterile look to it.
"Are you sure you live here? That you like it here, Shiloh?"
"I promise, Laura."
"When I think of what you've been used to, I don't understand it. But I tell you what, we could really fix the room up. Call me someday, Shiloh, and we'll paint and paper everything in sight."
Shiloh looked around, too. "I'd like that. But it's different here, Laura. It's not just a house that matters. It's a farm. I'm outside as much as I am inside. I live out there a lot of the time." She gestured toward the windows.
"Hmph. That explains why you're brown as a biscuit. But it won't hurt to domesticate that husband of yours a little. Winter comes. You'll be glad for my help then. And Shiloh—" Laura hesitated, "be careful."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about Sam. I think—I think he means to take Billy Walker down any way he can."
Shiloh, startled, stopped all motion. "What has he done?"
"It's not for me to say. I don't know it all, and besides, I owe Sam too much to tell you if I did. Ask your husband."
Billy knew as soon as he walked into the bedroom.
Shiloh's clothes told him; she was wearing a cool yellow buttercup of a dress. In her ears were matching tiny yellow earrings. On one finger of her left hand was a beaten gold twist of a ring.
In his pocket, another ring that he'd ordered in Martinsville and just picked up felt hard against his skin for a minute.
And her face told him: it was tremulous, hopeful, fresh from crying.
"Pennington came, didn't he?"
She was watching his face, waiting for his words.
"No. Laura did."
Laura. His breathing loosened a little, but not his anger. In fact, Laura might be worse. Shiloh would listen to her without any of the friction between her and her father.
"But he sent her."
"She came on her own."
"Don't think I'm that big a fool, Shiloh."
"What's the matter with you, Billy Bob? You used to be so much fun, and now you're—"
"What? Boring? Worried? All of it? Well, I can't help it. Sometimes you've got to live real life, Shiloh, and it's no fun."
"It's because of Papa, isn't it? What has he done, Billy?"
He went still, watching her warily. "I don't know what—"
"Don't try to protect me like I'm some kind of baby, the way Sam did. Laura said he was going to break you."
Anger washed over his face. "She was wrong. He'll never break me. I may be fighting right now just to keep body and soul together, but I'll hang on. We'll make it. He won't quit pushing, and I won't quit fighting back. Not ever. I swear it."
"Tell me what he's done."
"No."
"If you don't, I'll go to him. Now. I'll drag it out of him."
Billy stared at her face, rigid with determination, but he never said a word.
With a quick, purposeful movement, Shiloh twisted toward the door before he reached out a hand to catch her.
"Shiloh—no."
"Tell me, then. I mean to know, one way or the other."
Billy took a deep breath, then let it out in defeat. "Dammit—have it your way, then. He—he blocked the sale of the trees, for one thing. Everything I'd worked for, and I had to peddle the stock off to roadside dealers because he'd got to the warehouse owners. Why do you think I was gone three days? I was trying to get rid of the stock. I didn't want you to know, but there you are. Are you happy now?"
Her face went white; regret eased through him, under the anger as he released his hold on her. "I shouldn't have told you. It's got nothing to do with you, none of it."
"And how much more has he done?" Shiloh could hear T-Tommy's words even now, in her head. Sam really would destroy Billy.
"Nothing much," he answered evasively.
"I want to see him," she said at last.
"No—no, Shiloh."
"I'm going to."
"I said no. Doesn't it matter to you that I want you to stay away from Pennington until we get this marriage together a little more?" he demanded angrily.
"You're my husband, Billy, not my keeper. I love you, and I love my father. Can't you stop being afraid? I'm not going anywhere. I saw your face when you walked in. Even these clothes scare you. I don't have to wear them if you hate them—"
His face was flushed and tight.
"Wear them. Sleep in 'em. Do what you like. I'm not scared, and they're not the problem, anyway. They're the symptom. And talking to Pennington won't work. I tried the other day."
"You—you did? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it did no good."
"It will when I talk to him. I can make him quit."
"I don't want you begging for me." His face was as white as hers.
"Nobody's going to beg. But I've got to see him."
He stared at her, shocked. "You're going back, really. To 'Papa.' " "Just for a little while, Billy. You could take me."
"No."
"Then I'll call Laura. She'll pick me up. I'll be back before bedtime."
"And when he's through, I'll be the man you bought and paid for from the jail with thirty-five hundred dollars, and you'll wonder why you're living with me. I remember what happened once before when you tried to talk to Sam about me."
"If I go to see him, maybe everything will be better. He can't undo the marriage. I'll be back. Then when I come home—"
"You don't mean here, do you? This run-down old farm? Because I'm telling you, honey, don't come back for me tonight; I won't be around. If you can go back to your old friends and your old life, I can go back to mine." He grabbed up his cap off the bed and headed for the door, striding with monster steps off the porch, his long legs swallowing ground.
She ran after him, furious herself—and scared. "You can't threaten me, Billy. I've got a right—"
He slammed the truck door behind him. "You've got all the rights in the world. So do I."
"Where are you going? To the Legion Hall?"
"I don't feel much like dancing, but you don't have to dance at the Palace."
"If you think I'm going to turn you loose to go to the Palace—"
"You're my wife, not my keeper. I'm free—you're free. I'll do what I want. And you have a good time with Pennington."
♦ ♦ ♦
Shiloh admitted it to herself: she had handled the situation wrong. But they'd been living under a strain ever since he'd come back from Arkansas. And he hadn't done more than hold her in bed at night for nearly a week. All of her frustration had gone into the argument tonight. That, and her anger over the way he'd treated like a child by not telling her about Sam.
Why had he mentioned the money again, after all these weeks? She wondered une
asily if her father knew the answer to that question.
No matter what, she wasn't going to let Billy get away with his challenge, because he'd made it more out of fear than anything else. She hadn't been wrong about that. Whether he admitted it or not, he was afraid of Sam's power. Well, he had a right to be.
But Billy needn't think he could just waltz off to the Palace after they'd had an argument, no matter what his reasons.
Sam could wait. Her husband couldn't.
So she changed her clothes and called Laura. "Could I borrow your car for a little while?"
The housekeeper asked ruefully, "If I bring it to you, will I get it back in one piece?"
The Country Palace was in the south end of the county, off the highway in a low, flat spot of land. Pine trees almost obscured it from sight in the daytime, but at night a lurid pink-and-blue neon sign flashed on top of it, turning everything in sight alternating hues of the same colors.
The parking lot was graveled; Shiloh's feet crunched over the little rocks as she slid out of Laura's car. Laura would die if she ever discovered that the vehicle had been parked in front of a joint like this.
Even in the darkness, Shiloh could see that the white exterior needed painting; the place had a hard, desperate look to it that scared her and made her wonder why so many people came here; trucks jammed the lot.
Billy Bob's was here.
Her heart sank like lead when she saw it. Why hadn't he cooled off and come home? What did he get out of coming to a place like this? Even out here, she could hear the jukebox; the music was so loud the walls were vibrating.
Well, she was about to find out. Taking a long, steadying deep breath, she pushed open the door.
Dim lights, cigarette smoke, and even louder music— that was her first impression. And under all of that, laughter and stray, rowdy yells.
The door shut behind her, and she stood pressed against the wall beside it, her hands flat against her stomach, as if to protect herself, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the murkiness of the room.
Men hovered around a pool table in the back; two women stood watching, one of them smoking the longest cigarette Shiloh had ever seen.
Women were here: that was both a relief and an annoyance.
This place was a dive, and Shiloh began to simmer; Billy had no business coming here, not when he had a wife and a home.
Where was he?
It didn't take long to search him out: the woman he was with was by far the prettiest thing the Country Palace had to offer. Delicate, petite, sparklingly blond, she was bent over him at a corner table, right under a blue neon sign that screamed BUD. Angie Blake.
She was talking in his ear, her tiny hand lost on his wide shoulder, her body practically draped over his side.
As Billy listened to the voice of the siren, he turned the silver can on the table in front of him restlessly between his hands, looking up into her face as she reached over to force his jaw up toward her.
Shiloh's blood pressure shot through the roof; she forgot about being afraid as she advanced like an enraged tigress on this ball of fluff and her low-down scoundrel of a husband.
Either the Country Palace had lost its appeal (it never had been blessed with a whole lot of it) or he had changed. He didn't want to be here.
He wanted Shiloh, at home, happy with him. Why couldn't he be enough to satisfy her?
The women here were hard and brittle. There wasn't a one of them whose arms would have held him while he cried. They would have thought he was a fool.
And he'd never wanted to kiss any woman's foot—not her lips, but her foot—the way he had Shiloh's that day in the shoe store.
On the other hand, none of these women would have run home to Daddy, either, or dished it out like she had.
Billy Bob was miserable, wishing he hadn't shot off his mouth to Shiloh about coming here, wishing he could go home.
Then Angie turned up.
She was all he needed.
He just looked up, and she was standing there, watching him.
"Well. It's been a while, sugar." Her face was immobile, quiet. "So, did you come back to sow some more wild oats? Or did you and your sweet college girl get sick of each other?"
Straightening in the chair, Billy answered, "I don't want to talk about Shiloh."
"Oh, don't you? Well, maybe I do. I love you, Billy."
He jerked, looking up at her in surprise.
"I never told you because I was waiting for you to decide to settle down, and I was gonna be there."
"I didn't—"
"Don't say you didn't know. You did."
"I was about to tell you that I didn't mean to hurt you."
"No, probably not. You're just like most men—I was handy and willin', so you helped yourself. But you got paid back, it looks like. You're one miserable-lookin' hound dog tonight. Why'd you marry her, Billy? To slap Michael Sewell in the face?"
He pushed the can away. "Damn it, Angie, leave me alone. You made me feel guilty, okay? Is that enough?"
Instead, she came to his side, leaning against him, her heavy perfume smothering him, and she put a hand on the far side of his face to turn him to her. "You should'a married me, Billy. We're alike. She's gonna hurt you bad one of these days, and when she does, look me up. I'll be—"
"If you don't get your hands off him," the furious voice snapped, "I'm going to pull those false fingernails off and stick them down your throat."
Angie jumped, instinctively springing away.
Billy stared. "Shiloh?"
She was right in front of him, right in the middle of the
Country Palace, aflame with anger and radiating it like heat, her hands on her hips. She looked country clean, nearly boyish in the denim shorts.
"That's right. Shiloh. Remember me?"
"What are you doing in here?"
"I ought to ask you the same thing, you—you double-crossing, two-timing rat!" She shoved her heavy fall of thick brown hair back behind her ears with both hands; her eyes were huge and sparking lightning.
"Now wait a minute—"
"No, you wait. I wanted to go see my father—that's all. But you came here. You let her hang all over you"— she shot fire at Angie, who took another step back—"and touch you. If I'd been ten minutes later, you'd have been in bed with her."
By now the people around them were listening avidly, straining to hear them. Even the music seemed to have gotten a little quieter.
"I was just sitting here," he began again, heatedly.
"Which you had no business doing. You have a home and a wife—"
"Who had run off to Daddy's," he roared at last, shooting up out of the chair in frustration. He didn't care anymore who was listening; let the whole county if they wanted to.
"You should have understood. I've been blind as a bat. I've spent all these weeks thinking how sweet and kind and gentle you are—"
Okay, he wasn't ready for the county to hear that. Toy Baker had already burst into laughter, and Billy struggled for composure, finding it in sarcasm, knowing it was the wrong solution even when he used it. "Yeah, well, honey, I guess I had you fooled."
She looked about eighteen again for a minute, her eyes hurt, then she struck back. "You know that money you were talking about this afternoon? The thirty-five hundred dollars? Well, I got ripped off. Because, honey," she mimicked his sarcasm, "you're not worth it."
She walked out in the closest thing to silence that the Country Palace had ever known, slamming the door behind her.
Somebody in the crowd whistled in awe, then spoke. "Brother, did you get told."
Angie grabbed at his shirt as he started purposefully out the door, his face white, grim, furious.
"Billy, listen," she cajoled frantically, "don't do something stupid. Women say things . . . Our tongues are the best way we've got of fighting somebody bigger. She didn't mean it—"
But he tore away from her, getting outside just in time to see Laura Kershaw's car roaring off down the
highway.
If she'd turned a knife in his stomach, he couldn't have hurt worse.
She was old man Pennington's daughter, right enough: she went for blood.
20
Shiloh didn't have a mother to go home to, so she did the next best thing: she went straight to Laura with her car, and she stayed there.
Laura took one look at her tear-stained face and put her in her one extra bedroom, where Shiloh pulled pillows over her head in hot mortification.
She—Shiloh Pennington, no, Walker—who had been well bred and polite most of her life, had caused a public scene in a horrible joint. She had brawled with her husband and, worst of all, she had threatened to do the same with Angie Blake.
She was never leaving Laura's house again, never going out in public, never looking any man in Briskin County in the eye again for fear he'd been in that honky-tonk tonight and witnessed the whole embarrassing mess.
She had actually threatened Angie Blake, acting like some heathen, violent and primitive.
But then, she'd discovered she was violent and primitive where Billy Walker was concerned.
So here it was at last, the real heart of the matter, the thing she was trying to avoid facing: what she'd said to him.
Well, he deserved it.
She had wanted to kill him when he let Angie drape herself all over him; he hadn't done much more than touch his own wife in a week.
Why couldn't he tell her what was wrong sooner?
She didn't ask, her mind accused. She kept waiting for him to spill his guts, but he kept important things down tight inside him.
She'd had to drag the story of his encounter with Sewell out of him forcibly. And then she remembered the way he had at last collapsed emotionally, the way his wet face had felt against hers.
Billy Bob Walker Got Married Page 33
