“More like thirty.” Dodd pulled out his cell phone, swiped the screen, and immediately became enthralled with the contraption.
I rolled the small rock between my palms like a ball of Play-Doh. “Checking the weather? Surfing Facebook? Playing a mindless game?”
His fingers stilled. “Texting JohnScott.”
I let the pebble slip to the ground. “Oh … What did he say?”
“Didn’t reply.” Dodd turned his phone off but didn’t put it away. “You don’t have a handheld device?”
A giggle slipped from my throat, and I shook my head slightly, thinking the preacher sounded like an advertisement for an electronics store. “You mean a cell phone? No, I don’t have one. I’ve got better things to spend my money on.”
“Yeah, Grady doesn’t have one either. When we moved, that’s one of the things we cut from the budget.”
I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye, surprised his teenage brother would give up his cell phone for the good of the family. I wondered what else had been shaved off their expenses.
Dodd punched a button, and the screen lit up again. “I’m addicted to Candy Crush.” He smiled tightly, as though ashamed.
“What’s Candy Crush?”
“A stupid game. What was the adjective you used?” He nodded. “Mindless.”
“It can’t be that bad if you’re addicted to it. Show me.” I leaned toward him but kept a comfortable distance.
He held the phone toward me, swiping here and there as a happy tune played. “You just match the candies and try to get three in a row.”
I was supposed to be watching him play the game, but instead I inspected his square palm. Hardly any calluses. Long fingers. Neatly trimmed nails. And for some reason, his hands seemed … kind.
But that was absurd.
Hands were not kind. Hands had no personality traits whatsoever, and even if they did, I had no reason to trust Dodd Cunningham’s.
I turned my head away. “You’re right. That’s stupid.”
He chuckled. “Grady says I need a twelve-step program.”
“Not a bad idea. I think JohnScott might be addicted to ESPN. He checks scores more often than he eats and drinks.”
“He certainly loves the game of football.” Dodd went to work on his phone again. “Check out this app I found. It shows you the stars.”
“It can’t be better than Candy Crush,” I said flatly.
He wagged a finger back and forth an inch in front of my nose. “Just you wait.”
Dodd Cunningham may have been a jerk, but he had extraordinary people skills. Even though I despised him, he somehow kept drawing me out of myself, and only part of me wanted to get away from him. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
He shrugged. “I don’t think JohnScott would feel threatened by it.”
JohnScott wouldn’t feel threatened no matter who I played games with. Not that I had tested that theory lately. Picking up a handful of gravel, I let it sift through my fingers.
“See?” Dodd held the phone above his head, pointing at the screen. “It shows you the stars and constellations that are above you.”
I rested one palm on the ground behind his hip and cautiously leaned in to get a closer look.
“And you can move it around.” He demonstrated. “Whatever direction you choose, it shows you what’s there.”
“Too bad it’s so cloudy tonight. I’d like to see the real stars now that I know what I’m looking for.” I nudged his hand, sweeping the device slowly across the night sky, and then I put my finger and thumb on each side of his wrist, stilling his movements. I tilted my head, squinting to read a caption about a satellite.
I heard a tentative sniff just before Dodd’s breath brushed my ear.
Was he smelling my hair?
I stared blindly at the stars on the screen—his thumb partially obscuring the words—and in a split second, I racked my brain for an appropriate course of action.
None came.
I turned my head slightly, and his eyes studied my lips before traveling upward to meet my gaze.
I held my breath. A dormant longing awakened inside me, and a pleasant shiver rippled across my shoulders. At the same time, the tolerance I’d been nurturing began to curdle into a soured knot of contempt.
“I should go.” I shoved away from him, knocking my elbow against the taillight as I jumped to my feet and stumbled from behind the El Camino.
For crying out loud, I could walk home. I could run home. I could flag down a passing car and get a ride.
“Ruthie, wait.”
Dodd’s voice did nothing except propel me forward in a frantic attempt to distance myself. But just as I made it to the sidewalk, Clyde Felton’s sedan came to a stop at the red light. My movements caught the convict’s attention, and when his eyes locked with mine, I felt the burning urge to release a guttural cry like a trapped animal. God has quite the sense of humor.
Instantly weighing the lesser of two evils, I spun around and slammed into Dodd’s chest, knocking both of us off balance.
He wrapped an arm around my waist to steady me.
The sensation of his embrace startled me, and I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Could think of nothing except the heat of his arm on my back, seeping through my T-shirt to warm my skin.
“Watch it!” I convulsed away from him.
“Ruthie, I … I’m sorry.”
“Take me to JohnScott.”
The preacher’s eyes widened. “Miss Turner, you know I can’t go down there.”
I trembled with rage and angst and acute embarrassment. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t be seen at the elevator where there’s alcohol, but you can hide out at the car wash trying to seduce a single woman. That makes perfect sense.”
“That’s not what happened,” he said forcefully.
“Take me to JohnScott,” I demanded. “Now.”
Chapter Twelve
As Dodd and I pulled into the white-rock lot adjacent to the grain elevator, I attempted to get my bearings while the headlights still shone. We were away from streetlights, and the place would fall into darkness as soon as Dodd killed his headlights. Hence the desirable location.
Luis’s Jeep angled near us, with a handful of vehicles around it. Seven or eight people holding beer bottles and wine coolers squinted into the brightness, and on the far side, Fawn Blaylock perched on the hood of her Mustang with Tyler standing next to her, his arm around her waist. JohnScott and Grady leaned against the step-side, and as we pulled up, Grady floated toward the El Camino with his palms up.
I had the car door open before we came to a complete stop and was halfway to JohnScott’s truck when Dodd turned off his headlights. Instant blackness fell over me, and I stopped, hoping my eyes would adjust to the darkness.
“Over here, Ruthie.” JohnScott opened his cell phone, creating a beacon of light. “You must have pitched a fit to get Dodd down here. Grady was just telling me how much pressure he feels to be the perfect preacher.”
“Perfect?”
“Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?”
I had no intention of relaying Dodd’s and my star-gazing experiment, or the tangle following, even though Dodd insisted he would understand if I told JohnScott. Really? Did he think JohnScott was my guardian?
I bumped my cousin’s shoulder with my own. “Why are you still here? I thought the plan was to get Luis and meet me back at the car wash. Ten minutes tops.”
“The twit won’t leave.” JohnScott sighed. “When I suggested we go, he made a scene. Loudly.” From JohnScott’s tone, I knew Luis would be running laps on Monday. “So my search-and-rescue mission got downgraded to basic childcare.”
Muffled words coming from the direction of the El Camino told me Dodd and Grady were in disagreement about their next move. I’m sure Dodd
had planned to get Grady and hightail it out of the vicinity, but apparently he was having as much luck with Grady as JohnScott had with Luis.
JohnScott pulled me to the back of the truck, where he lowered the tailgate. I could hear a few other conversations, none of which were loud enough to understand. Most people were keeping to themselves, probably huddled in small groups, and without a doubt, couples slipped away occasionally for privacy.
The sickeningly sweet scent of beer reminded me of my daddy. I rested my thighs on the squeaky tailgate, scooting back until my feet lifted off the ground, and I thought how nice it would be to keep inching back, crawling to a place where memories couldn’t reach me.
A low roar transformed my melancholy into alarm, as headlights illuminated the lot around me. It was Clyde Felton’s loud car, and my spine tingled as exhaust fumes temporarily eclipsed the odor of alcohol. “JohnScott?”
“It’s all right, Ruthie. Stay with me, and you’ll be fine.”
Clyde’s door screeched as it opened, and the interior of the car lit, revealing the hulk of a man. He pulled himself up and gazed around him before slamming the door.
I clenched JohnScott’s elbow. Unbelievable. We were hobnobbing at the elevator with a convicted rapist and a bunch of drunks. Suddenly I could feel the darkness. It lay over me like a suffocating tent, trapping me on the tailgate of JohnScott’s truck while I listened for any tiny sound that might alert me to Clyde’s whereabouts.
Dodd, breaking his silence, called a greeting, but Clyde didn’t acknowledge him.
Silence hovered over the lot, indicating my cousin and I weren’t the only ones who had heard the rumors. Several phones lit up the darkness, but they only managed to identify their owners.
A loud belch broke the silence, and Luis drawled, “Anybody need another beer?”
When a deep voice answered, I recoiled. Clyde stood at the front bumper of JohnScott’s truck, not eight feet away. “Throw me one, kid.”
JohnScott flinched when a bottle bounced off the side of his truck.
“What’d you do that for?” Clyde’s speech slurred.
My cousin slipped off the tailgate as another bottle crashed.
I rested my hand on the metal where JohnScott had been sitting and tried to absorb any confidence that might be lingering there. I would be fine. JohnScott wouldn’t let anything happen. There were people everywhere.
But when I heard a scuffle and the truck shook from being bumped on the passenger side, I jerked to my feet, stumbling along the far side with a hand raised. A tremor shook my knees, but I figured as long as I knew where Clyde was, I could keep the truck between him and me.
My hand touched skin, and I jumped back. “Grady?” I whispered. “Is that you?”
“Came to check on you, Ruthie-the-checker-girl.” He gripped my forearm.
Dodd’s voice crooned from across the bed of the truck. “Go on away from here now. Go on.”
“Get your hands off me, preacher man.” Garbled speech dampened the menacing tone of Clyde’s voice.
Someone produced a flashlight and shined it toward the commotion. Dodd had his hand resting on Clyde’s shoulder, and JohnScott had moved between him and Luis.
Dodd repeated, “Go on back home. You don’t want to be here anyway.”
Clyde gazed over Dodd’s shoulder, glaring not at Luis but into the darkness toward Fawn’s Mustang. “No, I suppose I got no reason to be here.”
He jerked away from Dodd, and soon his car thundered to life. I expected him to speed away, pelting us with gravel, but instead he eased back, letting his headlights shine on the lovebirds. Fawn turned her head to avoid the glare, but Tyler raised his chin and scowled.
I peered after Clyde’s taillights as he wove toward town, and only then did I retreat to the familiarity of the pickup’s cab. I took several deep breaths, inhaling the comforting scent of my cousin and his mundane life while slamming the door on alcohol fumes and danger.
The El Camino pulled away, and as I watched Dodd and Grady turn toward town, I realized that as much as I hated it, Dodd Cunningham’s cool behavior settled my nerves. An hour before, I was so angry I wanted to do the man bodily harm, but after seeing him with Clyde, I didn’t know what to think.
In the end, I let it go. It didn’t really matter if Dodd was a nice guy or a jerk. He was still the preacher. I was still me. The two didn’t mix, and I knew I couldn’t trust him.
Chapter Thirteen
“Meet me outside the field house, little cousin. I’ll bring your mum before I start the boys stretching. Mom wants you to have it on before you hit the stands.” JohnScott’s telephone call should have lifted my spirits, but it only served to remind me how pitiful I was. A mum from my aunt? Delivered by my cousin?
“Will do.” In spite of my humiliation, I wore my favorite blue jeans and hoodie, even a little makeup, for the big game. As I walked briskly through the parking lot, I passed Fawn and Tyler arguing. She turned her pointed nose away from him, but he snatched her by the arm, pulling her back. The victimized look on her face sent a tiny ray of justice streaking across my hardened heart. The bully was getting a mouthful of her own medicine.
JohnScott was waiting for me by the brick wall of the field house. He bent down, then raised the lid of a white box and pulled out a large chrysanthemum draped with yards of blue-and-white ribbon and scores of trinkets.
I lifted it to my shoulder, fingering a tiny cowbell as the cool petals nestled my neck. “Smells like homecoming.”
He rubbed his chin as I pinned and repinned the mum. “Everything hitched up all right?”
“That should do it.” The mum held secure at my shoulder, with ribbons falling down to my waist. I gave him a sideways hug. “Thanks, JohnScott.”
He leaned so close I could smell the mint of his toothpaste. “You’re welcome.”
I picked up the box as Dodd jogged past, diverting his gaze as though embarrassed to look our way.
“Ignore me, then,” JohnScott called after him. “I’m hurt. I’m cut to the core.”
Dodd pivoted, walking backward. “You’ll learn to live with the disappointment, J.S. Carry on.”
The two coaches pushed through the door of the field house, leaving me perplexed. The Cunninghams had been in Trapp only two weeks, and already the preacher had a nickname for my cousin. It didn’t seem natural. JohnScott hadn’t been to church a day in his life. I’m not sure any of the Picketts had. Momma only ever went to church because Daddy led her there.
I wandered toward the bleachers while the band’s warm-up tones bubbled across the field. Uncle Ansel and Aunt Velma were camped on the fifty-yard line, already settled into their folding bleacher seats. My aunt nestled under a quilt, and my uncle held an empty Dr Pepper can in which to spit tobacco juice, but my mood soured when I saw the Blaylocks right behind them. I wouldn’t have paid them any mind, but when I went to sit down by Velma, Neil’s boot perched on the edge of my seat.
“Excuse me,” I said, keeping my eyes on his footwear.
He waited a good five seconds before sliding his boot out of my way, and the gritty scrape rubbed my pride like sandstone rock against an open blister.
Velma patted my knee as I sat. “Ruthie, you want to share my quilt?”
“I’m all right. And I love the mum, Aunt Velma. Thank you.”
“Aw, it was nothing.” She waved her hand through the air as though swatting a horsefly. “Looks right nice on you, though.”
Ansel didn’t speak, but he leaned forward and smiled. My uncle didn’t use many words to convey his thoughts, but I knew his smile meant Good to see you, sweetheart.
I smiled back.
Twenty minutes later, we rose to our feet while the band played the national anthem, and we remained standing for a prayer led by none other than Trapp’s new preacher. But he didn’t pray like a preacher at all. In fact, h
e sounded like he did any other time, citified and stuffy. I didn’t pay attention to the entire speech, but I heard him mention something about forgiveness. Strange. Most of the men prayed for safety and sportsmanship. Occasionally one of them would be so bold as to request a win. Forgiveness was something new.
I put it out of my mind until I spotted Milla Cunningham headed toward our section of the bleachers. She climbed toward us, but I studied the field, assuming she would ignore me right along with the Blaylocks. No such luck.
On the contrary, she slipped her arm around me and gave my shoulders a light squeeze. I instantly imagined a blaring megaphone instructing every fan to look my way and make note of the irony of the situation. “Hello again, Ruthie,” she said.
Her hug startled me, and from Velma’s expression, I’d say it surprised her as well.
“Hello, Velma.” Milla reached across to grope my aunt’s hand and then focused her attention behind us.
“Thanks for saving me a seat, Neil.”
“Oh, sure, sure,” he said as he traded places with his wife so the women could sit together. Milla hugged both of them before sitting down, and I giggled under my breath. I hadn’t witnessed such a public display of affection since the rodeo dance last summer.
Milla settled onto the bench. “Do you guys know Ruthie?”
My back straightened, and my ears became high-powered radio antennae tuned to the most sensitive frequency.
Neither of the Blaylocks replied, so Milla repeated herself. “Are you acquainted with Ruthie? I bet Fawn knew her in school.”
After an endless silence, I peeked back.
Neil studied the scoreboard as if he had never seen one in his life, and his wife dug frantically through her oversize handbag. Milla’s gaze volleyed from them to me, her face a mask of confusion.
The nerves in my stomach exploded. “We know each other.” Maybe Milla Cunningham could read lips, because I’m certain no sound came from my mouth.
Facing forward once again, I exhaled as Velma muttered under her breath. “Pay ’em no mind, Ruthie. Not worth the trouble.”
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