More pitchers of beer arrive. I pour a glass and sip it slowly, making it last as long as I can. There’s no need to overdo it tonight. The memory of my recent hangover is still fresh in my mind.
The bar is packed, and Freddy pushes his way over and stands next to me. “Do you think I can get Patty or Sara Beth to dance with me?” he says.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I say, but I know he won’t ask either one.
Freddy is a longtime bachelor and not by choice. He’s a great guy, but he’s a socially awkward Mexican in a predominantly white town who happens to examine dead bodies for a living—not exactly what most women around here are looking for.
He keeps stealing glances at the girls. But another woman has caught my eye.
The band is doing its sound check and the singer has sandy-blond hair and is wearing tight jeans, red boots, and a sleeveless rhinestone blouse. I figure the women come to the bar to dance and the men come to look at the singer.
But when the band starts to play, the music seems to take over all of my senses. It’s like the sandy-haired singer is performing only for me. As her slightly husky voice bounces along the melody with a seemingly carefree confidence, people flock to the dance floor with hoots and shouts. The effect is fantastic.
Patty and Sara Beth try to pull me onto the dance floor, but I make the excuse that I need to finish my beer.
Pretending not to be hurt, the girls grab my two brothers and run to the floor. The four begin stomping their heels and swinging their hips along with the other line dancers. Freddy eyes them enviously.
I watch them for a moment, but then my eyes drift upward and I watch, mesmerized, as the beautiful woman struts around the stage. The singer sounds like Carrie Underwood with an additional little sexy rasp in her voice. I can’t understand why she’s in a roadhouse on the outskirts of Waco, Texas, instead of making platinum records in Nashville.
As I listen, I think this must be what the sirens of Greek mythology sounded like—the ones whose voices were so enchanting that their songs lured men into the sea to drown.
Chapter 26
THE SINGER CONTINUES with a nice mix of covers, both new and old, and intersperses the set every now and then with one of her own. Her songs are so good she could probably make it as a songwriter if she wanted.
She belongs in front of an audience. Every moment she moves around on the stage and interacts with the crowd, it’s obvious she enjoys what she’s doing.
I have always been a sucker for a good female singer. These days, country radio is full of guys singing about parties and trucks and chicks—frat boy posers singing about how country they are even though they’ve probably never ridden a horse or shoveled cow shit. I miss the old days when songs had a little more substance. I would take a female voice like Martina McBride or Sara Evans any day over the interchangeable bro-country guys crowding radio stations.
Darren comes and joins me, setting a bottle of Shiner Bock in front of me.
I tip my hat to him.
Darren and I were in a band together briefly in high school. Darren played drums, and I sang and played guitar. Neither of us had any future in music, but we had a lot of fun in those days, pretending to be country stars.
“Glad to see you back in town,” Darren says. “I’m sorry about the circumstances.”
“Thanks,” I say, and then, to change the subject, I add, “You’ve got a hell of a singer up there.”
“I know,” he says. “Name’s Willow Dawes.”
Darren gestures to the crowded bar and explains that the place is packed every night she takes the stage.
“She and her band are off two days a week,” Darren says. “I got a bluegrass outfit from Marlin that fills in, but on those nights, the place is as empty as an alcoholic’s shot glass.”
On the stage, Willow’s band is wrapping up a rendition of George Strait’s “Amarillo by Morning,” which she sings in a soft, haunting mezzo-soprano.
Darren says he’s got an idea and heads toward the stage. He allows Willow Dawes to finish her song, but before she starts singing another, he whispers something in her ear.
That’s when I get a bad feeling.
Darren leaves the stage grinning from ear to ear.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Willow says into the microphone, and I can’t help but notice that the rasp is even more pronounced—and sexy—in her speaking voice. “I’ve just learned we have a special guest here tonight, and I understand he’s quite the singer.”
I can feel blood rushing to my head.
“Maybe if we’re nice to him, he’ll come up onstage with me and sing a duet.”
She looks at me, and even though we’ve never met before, she gives me a bright, challenging smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, “please give it up for Mr. Rory Yates.”
The bar erupts in applause and whoops. There are a lot of people in here who know me or at least know of me, and their enthusiasm seems heartfelt.
I rise from my seat and Darren is standing there with a shot of whiskey.
“Liquid courage,” he says, holding it out to me.
I down the glass and head for the stage, wishing I was anywhere else.
Up close, Willow is even prettier. Just underneath her bright blue eyes is a dusting of freckles, and I find myself wanting to kiss each one.
Looking out over the crowd and all the laughing, hooting people, I catch a glimpse of my brothers and see how delighted they are by my embarrassment. Patty is applauding and Sara Beth is whistling. I tell myself that this can’t be worse than going face-to-face with a shotgun-wielding outlaw like Rip Jones, but right now that seems preferable.
“What are we singing?” I ask Willow.
“You’ll recognize it,” she says, and winks. “Or at least you better.”
One of the band members starts to pluck at his steel guitar. I feel panicked at first, not recognizing the melody, then it hits me what the song is.
I grin, and Willow grins back—a wonderful shared moment between two people who’ve never met—and then she begins singing. The song is “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.” She sings Waylon’s first verse, and then, without any prompting from her, I sing the second, which is Willie’s part. We harmonize during the chorus. There’s only one microphone, so we have to share it. We’re so close I can see beads of sweat in the hollow of her neck and smell her intoxicating jasmine perfume.
By the second jaunt through the chorus, the whole bar is singing along, holding their glasses high and shouting out lyrics.
It’s a perfect moment. And with everything that’s happened lately, I need it. Until now, I never realized how badly I needed it.
When the guitarist strums the last chord, Willow joins the crowd in applauding me. Unable to keep myself from smiling, I tip my hat to her and step off the stage, feeling a heady buzz from more than the alcohol in my veins.
Chapter 27
WHEN THE BAND takes its first break, Willow heads to the bar and is swarmed by men competing for her attention with bravado and Southern charm. I want to introduce myself, but I don’t want to mix with all the sharks. The bartender gives her a beer and a bottle of water, and she slips away from the men with a smile and a thank-you. I watch her escape down the hall to the bathroom.
I spot Sara Beth headed my way, and I decide that now is a good time to relieve my bladder as well.
Coming out of the restroom a few minutes later, I see Willow leaning against a pool table and talking to Darren, Freddy, and my brother Jake.
“Thanks for being a good sport about all that,” I say.
“Oh, no problem,” Willow says, beaming. “That was fun.”
“I’m Rory Yates.”
“I’ve heard of you,” she says, extending her hand. “Willow Dawes.”
“You’ve heard of me?” I say.
“Sure. You’re that Texas Ranger.”
I nod away any details about my brutal career and chang
e the subject to her. “Why haven’t I heard of you? You should be making records in Nashville.”
“I gave it a shot,” she says, shrugging. “It doesn’t work out for everyone.”
“Which is lucky for me,” Darren pipes up. “Look at this crowd.”
The five of us talk for a few minutes. Freddy is quiet. Jake has had too much to drink and won’t shut up. Darren talks only about how packed the bar gets and how good Willow’s singing has been for business. She takes the compliments with aplomb.
“You sure do have talent,” I say. I’m a bit worried the alcohol is making me praise her too much, but I can’t help myself. “I wish I could do anything half as good as you can sing.”
“Everybody’s got something they’re good at,” Willow says.
“Not me,” I say. “Not like that.”
“Oh, come on,” Jake interjects. “There’s something you’re good at—one of the best in practically the whole damn world.”
I cringe, knowing what Jake is going to say. He throws his arm around me, a proud little brother who is oblivious to my chagrin.
“Think of Beethoven and the piano,” Jake says to Willow. “Or Jimi Hendrix and the guitar.”
“Peyton Manning with a football,” Darren adds.
“LeBron James with a basketball,” Freddy says.
“Shakespeare with a fountain pen?” Willow asks.
“Exactly!” Jake says. “That’s what my big brother is like. Only with a pistol.”
Willow nods in understanding, and I can’t tell if she’s surprised, sickened, or somehow intrigued.
“I bet there ain’t but a couple people alive who can shoot like Rory,” Jake says. “Hell, there probably ain’t but five people who ever lived who can shoot as fast and as accurate.”
“He’s exaggerating,” I say.
“The hell I am.”
I am desperate to change the subject, but I can’t quite figure out how.
“It’s not exactly a useful skill,” I say sheepishly.
“Unfortunately,” Willow says, “we live in a world where that’s a very useful skill. Better that you—a Texas Ranger—have it than drug dealers and serial killers.”
I don’t know what to say, and Jake fills the silence for me. He asks Willow if she knows who Bob Munden is.
“The famous quick-draw guy?”
Jake explains that I trained with the Guinness-record-holding gunman before he died.
“Really?” Willow says, looking impressed for the first time.
“If you were just looking at them when they shot,” Jake says, “you couldn’t tell which one was faster. It’s only if you recorded it with a camera and played it frame by frame that you could tell Bob was slightly faster.”
“He was a lot faster,” I say.
Jake shakes his head. “We’re talking tenths of a second.”
Willow nods her head, and again I have trouble reading her expression.
“And Bob was always shooting at targets or bottles,” Jake says. “I bet Bob wouldn’t have been half as fast if he ever had to shoot a real person.”
This statement brings a silence to the group. Jake seems to realize what has been bothering me since the conversation began: the skill he’s been bragging about isn’t a skill that should be bragged about.
Perhaps it is a necessary skill, as Willow said, but to be good with a pistol means to be good at killing—and that’s something I am not proud of.
“Well, I need to get back to the stage,” Willow says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Y’all have a nice night.”
As Willow and her band start up again, I find myself sitting alone at a table in the back. My beer is half empty, but I don’t want to drink the rest of it. It’s time to sober up.
I am thinking about the song I sang with Willow. The chorus says that cowboys are never at home and they’re always alone, even with someone they love.
That describes me during my marriage.
I was out playing cowboy, chasing down bad guys with a pistol on my hip, while the woman I loved was home, sleeping in a cold bed. Even when I was there, I wasn’t really there.
I let her leave me.
And tonight, for the first time I can recall, I feel the same kind of spark I felt with Anne.
I look at Willow, who seems to glide across the stage, and whisper to myself, Don’t let this one get away.
Chapter 28
I ORDER COFFEE instead of beer. One by one, my friends leave for the night. Freddy shakes my hand and says good-bye. Sara Beth and Patty give me hugs when they’re getting ready to leave. When Sara Beth hugs me, she whispers in my ear that she’ll leave the door unlocked in case I want to swing by.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve got to work early tomorrow.”
“You’re missing out,” she says, and then Patty, the designated driver, pulls the giggling Sara Beth toward the door.
When closing time comes and the employees begin cleaning up and the band starts to disassemble the sound equipment, I approach Willow and ask if I can talk to her for a minute.
We sit down at the bar, and Darren serves us the last of the coffee. Willow’s long hair is damp at the temples, and she has a glow to her skin from performing all night.
“I just wanted you to know that”—I hesitate—“what my brother said, that’s not me. Or that’s not all of me. There’s more to Rory Yates than being some modern-day gunslinger.”
“I know that,” she says, giving me a smile that makes my heartbeat quicken. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“I guess I just…” I think for a moment about how to put my thoughts into words. “I guess I’m having a crisis of conscience lately. I’ve seen too much violence.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Willow says. “But I honestly believe that we need people like you. We live in a world full of evil people. Someone has to be willing to fight them for the rest of us. If it was really something you wanted to do. No one would blame you if you quit law enforcement. You’ve done your duty. But if you’re good at it, you should consider persevering.”
I look into her blue eyes, considering her words carefully. Silently.
“I think too many people do what you do for the wrong reasons,” she says. “There are cops who are as bad as the criminals and like the thrill of carrying a gun or cracking heads with nightsticks more than actually helping people.”
“How do you know I’m not one of those people?”
“Because you didn’t have a big boastful expression on your face while your brother was going on and on about you. And because you’re asking yourself whether you should continue to follow this career path.”
I don’t want the conversation to remain on me, so I ask her to tell me her story.
She explains that she is from a small town in Tennessee and grew up singing in the church choir and at local events. She decided to make a go of a recording career in Nashville but fell short a decade ago. Since then, she’s been taking singing gigs here and there.
“It’s fun now,” she says, “but there isn’t much future in it. If I don’t figure something else out, I’ll end up sixty years old singing for tips in some smoky casino in Gerlach, Nevada.”
We keep talking. We banter and jest, but we also get to know each other. I wouldn’t call it flirtation, exactly. It’s the sort of getting-to-know-each-other chat that typically happens after the flirtation, when two people already know they like each other and can skip the part where they try too hard to impress each other.
Darren comes over to wipe the bar counter in front of us and says, “I’m sorry to break up your conversation, folks, but I’m getting ready to turn out the lights.”
I look around and see that the chairs are all upside down on the tables, the floor is mopped, and all the neon beer signs in the windows have been turned off. Willow’s bandmates have long since packed up their gear and left.
I walk Willow out to her car, which is a Toyota pickup that seems to have some ha
rd miles on it.
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Rory Yates,” Willow says with mock formality.
“It was a pleasure talking to you, Ms. Willow Dawes.”
She gives me her incredible smile like it’s a good-bye gift, and says, “You know where to find me if you want to talk some more.”
I watch as her taillights retreat down the road. I stand for a minute, inhaling the cool night air, thinking I haven’t felt this good in a long time. Maybe I am on the road back to life.
Then my eyes drift over to the truck stop just down the road from the Pale Horse. Its proximity to the roadhouse makes it a popular stopping point for truckers traveling through the state. The drivers park their rigs for the night and wander over to the bar. At closing time, they stumble back, sleep off their drunk, and head out in the morning to wherever they’re going.
There is only one truck parked in the back lot tonight and it belongs to Calvin Richards.
How easy it would be to walk over there, fling open Cal’s door, and pound on that son of a bitch, as I wanted to at Anne’s funeral. There wouldn’t be anyone around to stop me this time.
But then I remember what Willow said to me—how the world needs law enforcement officers like me, who are good men.
I want to be the person she thinks I am.
So I climb into my pickup and drive away.
Chapter 29
TED CREASY AND I are in my F-150, blasting down the road at ninety miles an hour.
I have been back on the job for almost a week now, and Creasy has kept a close eye on me. This might have annoyed me if I thought Creasy was doing it just to make sure I stayed out of the murder investigation, but it seems mostly—or at least partly—that Creasy wants to make sure I’m okay after all I’ve been through.
And having Creasy tag along is better than being forced to sit behind a desk all day, which was where I was a month ago.
Right now we’re racing to see if a fugitive from Oklahoma is holed up with his girlfriend in a Waco trailer park.
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