by Dixie Cash
Opening the front door, she broke into laughter herself. Just as she thought, Quint was perfectly groomed. But beneath the soft gray cowboy hat he was wearing an eerily lifelike rubber mask of President George W. Bush.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” she said on a laugh. “Sorry I don’t have a recording of ‘Hail to the Chief.’ No Secret Ser vice agents with you to night?”
“I ditched ’em about two miles back. Pesky bastards. A man can’t take a leak without them standing outside the door.”
“And Laura?” Allison asked, still laughing.
“She’s outside in the rig, facedown in a sack of Snickers. Taking advantage of the private moment. It’s hell being in the public eye all the time.”
Allison laughed more. She could like Quint if she could stop thinking about Tag. What a delicious predicament. “Come in. Where in the world did you find that mask?”
“Some store off the interstate selling Halloween garb. Looks like him, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll say. There are constant reports of George W. sightings in Midland. Now I know why.”
Quint had removed the mask and was combing his hair with his fingers when Jill and her friends came in. Their freshly scrubbed faces gleamed as they pushed and shoved, jockeying for a position.
“Whoa,” Quint said with a big grin. “I thought we were taking some little kids trick-or-treating. Who are these beautiful ladies? You girls waiting for dates?”
The trio blushed, gushed, and all but swooned.
“You remember Jill?” Allison said. “And these are two of her friends, Casee Thompson and Susan Kay. Girls, this is Quint Matthews. He’s a world-champion bull rider.”
Casee and Kay wiggled their fingers in greeting. Casee pulled a felt-tip pen from her back pocket, then boldly stepped forward, lifted her shirt, and exposed her midriff. “Will you sign my tummy?”
Allison was stunned to silence. This girl definitely had a future. It just wasn’t clear if it was in a sleazy trailer park with babies on her hip or as the head of a major corporation.
Without blinking an eye, Quint stuffed the rubber mask in his jacket pocket and replied, “Let me sign your forearm instead. Then everyone can see it.”
The less-than-thrilled girl made an exaggerated eye roll.
Grinning, he lifted Casee’s arm and scrawled his name. Jill and Susan Kay extended their arms for the same.
“Girls, go get your jackets,” Allison said. As they made their exit she turned to Quint. “You handled that so well. I suppose you’ve had incidents like that before? Overanxious fans? Aggressive women?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s those underage ones you gotta watch out for. Nowadays it’s harder and harder to tell how old they are. In a few years that Casee will be exposing a breast when she asks for an autograph.”
“Yikes, let’s go before that happens.” Allison picked up her purse from the chair near the door.
“Hold on. I thought we were going trick-or-treating. Door-to-door stuff. They’re not in costume. Have the plans changed?”
“Only just a little. Until Jill informed me, I didn’t realize twelve-year-old girls don’t trick-or-treat anymore. I promised them the mall, then a meal. They want to see some friends at Tag’s place, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure.” Quint replaced his mask and positioned his hat on his head. “I’m game for anything.”
EDWINA PULLED A pan from the oven and sighed. “Vic, I want you to promise me you won’t leave me.”
She stood in her kitchen doorway holding a pan of chicken breasts that looked like lumps of coal. Every Monday night was her night to prepare dinner and here it was, Monday night again.
Her husband, Vic, being a well-traveled man, an ex–navy SEAL, and a gourmet cook, had been urging her to learn to cook. What was the big deal? Using her less-than-bragging-rights skills in the kitchen, she had raised three daughters and none of them had died.
Vic enjoyed creating meals so much he was convinced that it was something they would enjoy doing together. Bullshit. She knew what she enjoyed their doing together and she had heard no complaints in that department.
He rose from his king-size recliner. The grin on his face did nothing to improve her nasty mood. She didn’t understand why he was so hell-bent on this project, but because she loved him, she wouldn’t refuse to try cooking. Her hardheaded attitude in the past was part of the reason for her three divorces. That plus three lousy choices in men and a dozen “other women.”
Vic came to her and placed a kiss on her forehead. “Tell me what you were going for here, Mama Doll.”
“What I should have been going for was a take-out order from Hogg’s. Trying to bake this damn chicken is where I went wrong.”
Vic poked a finger at a chicken breast that had been charred into a rock-hard mass. “How high did you set the oven and how long did you let it cook?”
“Five-fifty for about an hour and a half. I like steak a little rare, but I can’t stand the thought of rare chicken.”
“Well, you did a real fine job of taking care of that, hon. It’s not rare, that’s for sure. But what I’m more worried about is the fire in the microwave.
“What!” Edwina whirled and saw a flame in the microwave oven.
“Don’t open it,” Vic said. He quickly reached for the box of salt in the cupboard and poured his hand full. He opened the oven door and threw in the salt. The flame died away.
“I’ll be damned,” Edwina said. “How’d you know to do that? You didn’t learn that in the navy.”
“Just a little kitchen trick. Now, how much longer before Debbie Sue and Buddy get here?”
“An hour or so.”
“Good. That gives me plenty of time. I’ll clean up this mess and you run up to City Grocery and get some more chicken. I’ll cook it.”
“You got a deal.” Edwina set the pan of chicken on the counter. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”
Damn plastic-and-wire twisty ties, Edwina thought as she drove the short distance to town. She kept forgetting about those when she put things in the microwave straight from the fridge. She had added bread to her list of items to buy at the grocery store.
She lit a cigarette the minute she lost sight of their double-wide trailer. God, it felt good to suck the smoke into her lungs. Oh, sure, she had quit smoking once. Vic had asked her to try and she had. Tried, that is. Her habit had been cut back severely and she could even feel the physical benefits. But stopping altogether was like learning to cook. It was going to take time and it was going to take patience on Vic’s part.
You might know Debbie Sue would beg her to invite her and Buddy to supper on her Monday night to cook. That girl’s relationship with Buddy was something else. Most women would kneel and kiss Buddy Overstreet’s boots every day if he cared about them as much as he cared about Debbie Sue. But Debbie Sue, as much as she loved him, was always doing something, either deliberately or accidentally, that pissed him off. Or for that matter, something that would piss most men off.
Tonight Debbie Sue wanted to discuss with Buddy, with Edwina present, working with Quint on a daily basis to solve his mystery. Buddy might already know the Domestic Equalizers were taking on Quint’s case, but he would balk for sure at the daily contact part. Debbie Sue’s logic was that if Buddy heard from Edwina’s own lips that she would be there, too, he might be more accepting.
As she sat waiting for Salt Lick’s one traffic light to go from red to green, Quint’s big red truck passed, driven by…George Bush?
Hmm, so that was Quint’s new approach. Incognito. She’d have thought Quint clever enough to come up with a disguise other than the current president of the United States. But who was she to judge?
Edwina recognized Allison Barker in the passenger seat and she saw three heads in the back. She made a mental note to clue Allison in about Quint at her first chance. She didn’t know how they had gotten started, but she knew how they would end.
Concentrating on her thoughts, Edwin
a almost missed the green light. A pickup was approaching, so she made a sharp, death-defying turn in front of it, causing her tires to squeal and narrowly missing being broadsided.
She stomped on the brake, not because the gray pickup’s horn had blasted, but because that driver appeared to be someone she knew. Not someone she ever expected to see again, and dammit, not someone she could remember.
Well, the name would come to her later.
THE DRIVER OF the gray Ford pickup couldn’t believe that the classic Mustang had turned in front of a speeding vehicle. What was that person thinking? Did they have coupons that were about to expire? A blue-light special on canning jars? Damn small-town drivers.
The chore of staying far enough behind Quint to be undetected was proving difficult in the sparse traffic. The only way not to be recognized was to follow at a distance, and the driver of the vintage Mustang had almost ruined everything.
Quint had gone into the same house he had been to Saturday night. This time he was wearing a mask of the president’s face, and when he came out, he had an adult woman and three girls with him. What was that about? Was the entertainment-starved Quint going in for group sessions now? Was he filming an episode of Girls Gone Wild? Answers weren’t apparent, but two things were: keeping an eye on Quint Matthews wasn’t easy and knowing when to make the right move wouldn’t be either.
twelve
The ride to Midland in Quint’s luxurious pickup passed quickly. Allison had made the trip so many times she knew every scrubby bush and pump jack by heart. Quint answered the girls’ questions with extreme patience. Yes, he knew Kenny Chesney. Yes, Shania Twain was as pretty in person as she was in her videos, and no, he didn’t plan on starting a singing career. The girls shrieked with laughter when he gave them a demonstration of his inability to carry a tune.
Allison joined the girls in their banter. It was good to be in the company of happy people, good to get out of Salt Lick for an evening, good to hear the laughter of a male. Her daily world was, for the most part, filled with women. All in all, Jill’s impetuous move to improve her life seemed to be working. For the first time ever, she had a man by her side and one in her head. She had to wonder if either one of them would end up in her heart.
Quint had to admit to having a good time. He hadn’t looked forward to the evening—hauling a bunch of kids around from door to door, begging for candy. He had never been allowed to do that as a child. His father said it was a “disgraceful display of vagrancy.” He didn’t know what his mother had thought; once his father had spoken, no one else’s opinion mattered.
He stole a glance in Allison’s direction. A ready-made family wouldn’t be so bad. A twelve-year-old wouldn’t be the same as having a baby and being saddled eighteen or more years with a kid in the house. Jill would be eighteen in only six more years.
TAG FREEMAN WAS happier than a flea in a pet store. He was in the Zone, at the peak of his point of comfort and wallowing in sheer delight. Music, laughter, sticky fingers, and adoring looks from ecstatic young faces surrounded him.
The minute Vanessa Parker, manager of the Lone Star Mall in Midland, called and asked if he’d dress in clown costume and help entertain children at the shopping mall’s Halloween festival, he had jumped at the chance. The mall would be packed with parents, teens, and children looking for a substitute for the door-to-door practice of his childhood days and that was fine with him.
One of the most rewarding parts of his bullfighting years had been the interaction with an audience, especially the kids. He had taught himself to do simple juggling and a few simple but corny magic tricks that evoked peals of laughter from them.
Some of the youngest ones shied away, not sure about the tall man in the funny clothes. But the ones who had run to greet him with a hug around the knees, a tiny hand on the face, a kiss blown on departing…well, those were the ones who made it all worthwhile.
He was shaping his umpteenth balloon animal and elaborate balloon party hat when he spotted Quint.
And Allison.
Three young girls appeared to be with them. They circled him and Allison like moons drawn to their planet. One girl in particular bore a striking resemblance to Allison. Jill.
Quint being surrounded by women wasn’t an unusual sight, but seeing him escorting a group so young was. And this shopping mall was the last place in the universe Tag would ever have expected to see him. Quint must care more about this woman than he was willing to say, was Tag’s first thought.
Allison looked beautiful. Understated and simple in jeans and a white shirt. She walked with the ease and confidence of a woman happy in her own skin, not into making an impression or stealing somebody else’s thunder.
The palms of his hands had started to sweat and it wasn’t from the big white gloves he wore. He recognized the symptoms of adrenaline rush. He was fighting the urge to flee. Not good, buddy, just not good.
Thank God for the face makeup, protruding teeth, rubber nose, and oversize glasses hooked on oversize ears. They and the cap with an attached purple wig made him unrecognizable. At times in the past, people he had known for years had watched his performance without realizing they were looking at someone they knew. One of his favorite jokes was to call out the name of a friend who knew him and watch the look of slow dawning. Priceless.
A young female artist seated near him was painting Halloween scenes on faces—black cats, grinning jack-o’-lanterns, or ghostly shapes running from temple to chin. A sprinkling of glitter on the wet paint made a pretty picture. Practically every young girl who passed fancied the look, and the three accompanying Quint were no different.
“Y’all look,” said the one he believed to be Jill, tugging on her mom’s arm. “Let’s get our faces painted! I love the pumpkin. Can I get my face painted, Mom?”
The other girls joined in, each declaring a choice with enthusiasm equal to Jill’s.
“Wait, girls,” Allison said. “Let’s find out what it costs. Do any of you have money with you?”
Jill said she had ten dollars she had earned, another girl produced a ten and some change, and the one dressed as if she were twenty-five dug a plastic card from her jeans pocket.
“Your mom trusted you with her credit card?” Allison said to her.
“It’s not her credit card. It’s mine,” the girl said. “And it’s a debit. No big deal. My account only has fifty dollars in it at a time.”
Allison smoothed her hand down the length of the young girl’s hair. “Well, be careful and don’t lose it. I’d hate to see your evening spoiled.”
Tag was close enough to hear the conversation and smiled as he turned away. Allison’s message to the young girl was delivered with a sweet, motherly tone.
He was glad for the distraction the face-painting artist provided. Quint’s group showed no interest in him as he busied himself with some gawking three-year-olds.
“Hey,” Quint called out close to Tag’s elbow, “y’all come over here and check out these hats this clown’s making.”
Tag turned and looked into his old friend’s eyes and saw no indication that Quint recognized him, which was surprising in a way. Tag had worn this costume early in his career, before bullfighting became as popular an athletic event as the bull rides themselves. He had expected his longtime friend to remember it, but Quint just looked away, toward Allison and the girls, apparently clueless.
This was an opportunity for some fun and Tag couldn’t resist. While the girls took turns having their faces painted, he constructed a huge cowboy hat from a dozen elongated balloons. He tapped his unsuspecting friend’s shoulder, quickly lifted off his Stetson, and replaced it with a pink latex substitute, producing great laughter in the group that had gathered.
Quint enhanced the comedic effect by grabbing one of the balloons and blowing it up to its full length. He handed the balloon over to Tag, blew up another, and then challenged him to a mock sword fight. They jabbed and poked at each other until Quint suddenly stopped. With a quizzi
cal stare, he loosened his hold on the balloon, allowing it to float to the floor.
Oh, hell. Something was amiss. Red whelps and streaks were forming on Quint’s face and neck. He began to tug at his collar. Quint’s allergies rushed into Tag’s memory. Tag dropped his own balloons and grasped his friend’s shoulders. “Quint? Quint—hey, buddy.”
Quint’s eyes cut to Tag in obvious bewilderment. “Twag? Twag, ith ’at ’oo, man? I din’t weckanithe ’oo.”
“You’re having a reaction, buddy,” Tag said.
Quint yanked the balloon hat from his head and began clawing at the fresh whelps. “Fug. Watex. I’m awergic to watex. I shou’n’t o’ bwone up tho’ bwoons.”
Allison came between him and Quint, looking worried. “What’s wrong? Quint, you’ve got red marks all over your face.”
Tag focused his gaze on Quint. “Apparently he’s having an allergic reaction to the balloons. I forgot all about his allergies.” He turned to Allison. “Do you know if he’s got his medication with him?”
Allison’s brow creased into a frown and she gave him a squint-eyed look. “Tag?”
“Medication. Does he have—”
“In my twug,” Quint interjected. “I kee in my twug. Inna gwuf bos.”
“How far away did y’all park?” Tag asked Allison.
“The mall has a valet service to night,” she answered, a bewildered look darting between Quint and Tag. “We couldn’t find a place to park, so we gave the keys to the valet.”
Tag reached into his bag of tricks and retrieved a walkie-talkie. “I’m calling mall security. We can’t wait.”
“No,” Quint exclaimed. “They a caw a amwance! Fug!”
“Sorry, dude, but we gotta do something. You’re looking worse by the minute.”
“Eeeew, yuck,” Casee exclaimed, pushing her way between Tag and Allison for a better view. “What’s wrong with his face?”
