Between Heaven and Texas

by Marie Bostwick

  Poor Jeb. Poor, confused child. He was a good boy. She shouldn’t have been so harsh with him that morning. She didn’t want to leave him here with Jack Benny in this condition, but she knew what kind of explosion would result if she told the kids to get back in the car. Even so, if Carla Jean hadn’t been on the scene, she’d have done exactly that. Strange to think that she was actually grateful for the presence of her husband’s mistress.

  She turned on the ignition again and shifted into reverse.

  “Jack Benny Benton, if you ever try to strike me again, I’ll call the sheriff so fast you won’t know what hit you. And the next time you’re drunk when I drop the kids off, I’ll take you back to court and get the judge to cancel your visitation rights.”

  “I’m not drunk,” he snarled. “I had two beers.”

  Her temples were starting to throb. She was worn out from arguing with him, and there was no point to it anyway. She glanced into the rearview mirror, looking for broken glass.

  “I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to get to the dry goods store before it closes. I’ll pick the kids up at the usual time tomorrow. But I meant what I said about the judge. You hear me?”

  He walked alongside the truck as she backed up, keeping close to the open window.

  “The dry goods store? What do you need there?”

  This being Too Much, he already knew that she and Mary Dell were buying the store. Everybody did. She answered, not because it was any of his business, but because she was tired.

  “I have to drop off some paperwork from the lawyer. We’re closing the deal at the end of the month.”

  He worked his mouth and spat.

  “That right? I wouldn’t be too sure of that if I was you.”

  He thumped the hood twice with his fist and swaggered toward the house with a smirk on his face.

  “But we had a deal!”

  Mr. Waterson walked away from her, toting a bolt of fabric across the shop, his eyes on the floor. The old man, usually so direct, hadn’t looked at her straight since she’d come in the door. He seemed embarrassed and ashamed, and he ought to be, Lydia Dale thought to herself. They’d had a deal.

  “I never signed anything,” he said, grunting as he shoved the bolt of blue gingham into an already overcrowded shelf. “Marlena is offering me a lot more money. Four thousand more. And she’s willing to pay cash.”

  “Because she’s willing to do anything to get her hands on this building!”

  Lydia Dale closed her eyes and told herself to calm down. Shouting wasn’t going to get her anywhere, but she had to get through to him.

  “Mr. Waterson, Marlena isn’t interested in running a dry goods business. She just wants to keep my sister and me from going into business, any kind of business. She hates me, and she’s willing to spend any amount of money to hurt me and my family. Don’t you see that?”

  He pushed past her and walked to the ribbon rack.

  “Whatever feud you have going with Marlena Benton is none of my business.”

  He turned his back to her, pulled out some yellow grosgrain ribbon, wound it tight on the spool, and secured the loose end with a straight pin.

  “But don’t you see? If you sell to Marlena, not only will the Bentons have control of one of the last commercial buildings not already in their hands, but there will never be another yard of fabric or inch of ribbon sold in this store. The whole history of your family will disappear, like there’d never been any Water-sons in Too Much. Are you really willing to let that happen?”

  He stopped what he was doing, clutching a spool of green rickrack in his aged hands, thinking. Lydia Dale held her breath.

  “I can’t help that,” he said after a few seconds. “Marlena is offering more. She’s paying cash. I’ll give you back the money you paid me.”

  “We don’t want the money. We want the store.”

  Lydia Dale walked to the ribbon rack, blocking his path. He stared at the scuffed wooden floor, refusing to meet her gaze, but Lydia Dale would not be refused.

  “We had a deal,” she said quietly. “You and Mary Dell shook on it. And in Texas, so my daddy says, a man’s handshake is better than a contract. A man’s handshake is his word.”

  Mr. Waterson lifted his head, looked at her. His eyes were red.

  “Your daddy is right. But I have to sell to Marlena. I don’t have a choice. The doctor called a few days ago, wanted us to come into his office. Mabel has the cancer.”

  Lydia Dale clutched at her throat. “Oh, Mr. Waterson. I’m so sorry. Is there anything they can do?”

  Mr. Waterson pulled a dingy handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose, and shook his head.

  “The doc doesn’t think so. He says she’s got six months, maybe a year.” Mr. Waterson turned his head, looking out the front window of the shop to the empty street.

  “I’m sorry about backing out, Lydia Dale. I know how much your sister wants to open her quilt shop, and believe me, I’d much rather sell it to her than Marlena Benton. But I need money, and I need it now.

  “I’m taking Mabel to Hawaii. And Paris. And anyplace else she wants to go. I’m going to be good to her, the way I should have been all along. And then, when she’s seen all she wants to see or can see, I’m going to bring her home to Texas, to our son’s house in Houston, so she can be with the children. And then . . . well, I’ll figure that out later. The only thing that matters right now is Mabel.”

  He turned around, walked to the ribbon display, and began to rewind a spool of green rickrack, plunging the pin deep into the end so it would hold fast.

  “I’m sorry, Lydia Dale, but I need that money now.”

  Lydia Dale reached out and laid her hand on the old man’s arm.

  “I know.”

  She turned to go, her eyes brimming with tears for an old man filled with regrets, and an old woman coming to the end of her life, and for her sister who was somewhere on the road between Too Much and Dallas, whose dream was slipping away, though she didn’t even know it yet, stolen by a vindictive, black-hearted woman who liked to hurt people just because she could.

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And it was her fault.

  Marlena didn’t have anything against Mary Dell, other than she was Lydia Dale’s sister. She was only trying to hurt Mary Dell because she knew that nothing on earth would hurt Lydia Dale more. Lydia Dale reached out for the doorknob, clutching it so tight her knuckles went white.

  “I can’t let her do this,” she whispered. “I’ve got to stop her. I’ve got to try.”

  She turned around.

  “What if we paid you cash?”

  Mr. Waterson looked up from his ribbons. “What?”

  She walked toward him, moving quickly, talking fast. “What if we paid you cash? We can’t match Marlena’s price, but if we paid you cash up front, very soon, ten days from now, would you sell it to us instead of her?”

  “But,” he said, “where would you get that kind of money so fast?”

  “That’s our worry,” she said, though she’d been asking herself the very same thing. “I just need to know if you’ll let us have the store if we pay cash. Will you?”

  The old man looked vacantly across the room, took in a deep breath, let it out slowly.

  “Well, I’d a darned sight rather see it in your hands than Marlena’s,” he mused. “There’d be enough, I think, without the extra four thousand. And we did have a deal.”

  He sniffed, scratched his nose, and looked her in the eye.

  “Yes. If you can pay me cash within ten days,” he said, emphasizing the last phrase, “I’ll sell to you and your sister.”

  “And if Marlena comes back and offers you more?”

  “I’ll tell her to go to hell,” the old man said.

  Lydia Dale smiled. “Would you like to shake on that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and stuck out his hand. “I surely would.”

  CHAPTER 52

  It had been an exhausting few days. Mary
Dell’s body was almost as tired as her brain, but sleep eluded her.

  She lay in the dark, wondering how it was possible to go from the pinnacles of triumph to the depths of despair in the course of twenty-four hours and trying to figure out what, if anything, she could do about it. Lydia Dale had bought them some time, but Mary Dell couldn’t think of a way to come up with the entire payment they would need to take ownership of the shop, not within ten days—soon to be nine days, she noted, glancing at the glowing face of her clock radio.

  She planned to make another visit to the bank manager first thing on Monday, but doubted he would be willing to loan them the money. Lydia Dale was more optimistic about their chances for obtaining a loan, especially given C. J. Evard’s generous offer to give them fabric on commission, but her sister was optimistic by nature. Normally, Mary Dell was too, but Lydia Dale hadn’t seen the way the bank manager had talked to her the first time. He’d dismissed her out of hand, making her feel as dumb as a doll, basically telling her to go home and tend to her washing and cooking and ironing and leave business to the menfolk.

  She’d briefly considered asking Mr. Evard for a loan, but rejected the idea almost as quickly as it came to her. He was a kind man, a generous one, but Mary Dell couldn’t ask him for the money. Generosity has its limits, and besides, she barely knew him.

  And it wasn’t like she had to open a quilt shop. Now that Graydon was in the picture, she was convinced that the ranch could support the family. She hoped he’d stay on with them forever, but even if he didn’t, he’d shown her what to do. She could hire a new manager and run things herself, if need be. No, she didn’t have to open the quilt shop.

  But she wanted to, so very much, much more than she’d realized. Her trip to Dallas had only fanned that desire. Too Much was her home, her history, the taproot of her strength, and it always would be. But Mr. Evard was right—there was a whole big world out there. She wanted to be part of it, to taste and see all that life had to offer, to open doors for herself, her son, her family, and her town.

  Only twenty-four hours ago it all seemed possible; every avenue was open to her. Now all she could see were dead ends. And all because Marlena Benton was so hateful.

  She supposed she should hate her back, and she sure didn’t feel like tucking her into bed with a cookie and a kiss, but mostly, and much to her surprise, she felt sorry for Marlena. What kind of misery must it be to live life so eaten up by jealousy and the desire for revenge?

  Mary Dell didn’t have time or mental energy to waste on hatred or on revenge. All she could think of was that money and time were running out for her and her dreams. Try as she might, she couldn’t come up with any earthly way to get her hands on so much cash in such a short time.

  In moments of darkness and despair, Silky was often known to quote one of her favorite verses from the Bible: “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” When Mary Dell got into bed at the hotel the night before, smelling of gardenias, slipping into the cool luxury of freshly ironed sheets, and closing her eyes, that verse had floated unbidden into her thoughts, and she’d been filled with gratitude that God had given her such incontrovertible confirmation of His plan, plans that meshed so perfectly with her own desires.

  Now she didn’t know what to think. Was God paving the way for a divine plan for her life? Or putting up roadblocks to keep her from heading down a dangerous path? Was she wrong to want this so much? Every thought that came to mind seemed to circle round on itself. Sleep was obviously not going to come anytime soon, so she decided she might as well get up. She put on her red Chinese silk robe with the dragons embroidered in gold.

  “If you do want me to buy Waterson’s,” she said, casting her eyes toward the ceiling as she cinched her belt around her waist, “you’re going to have to do the heavy lifting, because I’ve got nothing.”

  She slid her feet into a pair of pink marabou bedroom slippers and tiptoed down the hall as quietly as possible, stopping to check on Howard before going to the kitchen.

  She took the milk carton out of the refrigerator and searched for a glass. She didn’t bother turning on the light switch; the moon was giving off plenty of light. More than enough light. Was there a full moon?

  She walked to the sink and peered out the window. Instead of seeing a yellow orb in a clear sky, she saw an angry orange glow on the ground, about a quarter mile off. Mary Dell gasped and dropped her glass. It stayed intact, but the milk splashed onto the counter, dripping onto the floor and down the drain.

  She picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  “Pick up the phone!” she begged. “Pick up, pick up!”

  On the fifth ring, Dutch answered, mumbling and irritated, stupid with sleep.

  “Daddy! It’s Mary Dell. Daddy, wake up. Listen to me. You’ve got to wake everybody up. The barn is on fire!”

  CHAPTER 53

  It was like the end of the world.

  Heat like hellfire, a sound of rushing wind, hungry orange walls of flames, the bawl of terrified beasts, acrid smoke that choked lungs and made eyes tear and burn, voices hollering and hawing, panicked animals herded away from flames and into the fields, arms that ached from the weight of buckets, the howl of sirens, flashes of red light, and sprays of water, the dousing of flames but not soon enough, the coming of dawn, charred beams still standing, black and smoldering, like skeletons of martyred saints, the drop of adrenaline, the weariness and hopelessness that comes so suddenly, wrapping tight as a shroud, the truth that is sometimes too much to bear, that feels like the end of the world.

  Corney Tate took off his helmet and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of soot and sweat. “I’m sorry we couldn’t save the barn, Dutch.”

  “You saved the house. That’s the most important thing.”

  Corney shook Dutch’s hand, accepting his thanks.

  “Well, it could have been worse, Dutch. A lot worse. You saved your stock, most of it anyway, thanks to this young man. Graydon, if we would have gotten here sooner, I’d have sat on you myself to keep you from going back into the barn for the animals. But you’re one brave son of a gun, I’ll say that for you. Brave or crazy. You’d make a darned good fireman. If you’re ever looking for work . . .”

  “Thanks, Chief, but I think I’ll stick with ranching,” Graydon said with a weary half smile that quickly faded. “I don’t understand how it happened. I checked the stock before turning in and when I woke up, I was choking on smoke, and the loft was in flames. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “We’ll be out again tomorrow to do an investigation, but it’s been so dry that most anything could have started it. A cigarette butt, a spark from a lantern . . .”

  Graydon shook his head. “I don’t smoke, and I doused the lantern before I went to sleep. And it started in the loft, not the tack room.”

  “Well, it could have been a spark from something, even static electricity. Wouldn’t take much in this weather.” Corney put a big arm on Graydon’s shoulder. “Without you, these folks might have lost everything. It’s a miracle they didn’t.”

  Chief Tate climbed into the cab of his truck and drove away, sticking his beefy arm out the window to bid them farewell.

  When the truck was gone and the dust settled, Dutch turned to his daughters and said, “I guess we’d better start cleaning up.”

  Mary Dell shook her head. “You’re tired, Daddy. Go inside and get some sleep. Moises will be here soon. Me and Lydia Dale can help Graydon until he gets here. We’ll wake you up when it’s time to eat.”

  “You sure?” Dutch said uncertainly. “I don’t think I could sleep, but my leg is bothering me. Maybe I’ll go and spell your momma, keep an eye on the babies so she can make breakfast.”

  “You do that,” Lydia Dale urged.

  Considering what could have happened, they had been lucky, incredibly so. Graydon had managed to get all the horses out, throw
ing his jacket and an old towel over their eyes and leading them out two at a time. Then he’d gone back for the sheep, opening the pens and herding them into the pasture. He’d gotten them all out, but they’d lost four of the lambs to smoke inhalation. The chickens were all dead, but the hogs were fine. It could have been so much worse.

  The barn was a total loss, and of course, all the hay and feed was gone. They’d have to get some more right away. They’d need a backhoe to take down the scorched frame of the barn, but in the meantime, there was shattered glass to sweep up and piles of debris to clear away.

  “Thank heaven we’ve got insurance,” Mary Dell said.

  “You should call them right away,” Graydon said. “The sooner you do, the sooner we’ll get a check and be able to start rebuilding. Then call the feed store and ask Lester if they can bring us out a load of hay and some feed today.”

  “All right,” she said and started jogging toward the house. “I’ll come back out to help as soon as I’m done.”

  Graydon turned in a slow circle, cataloging the devastation. “You know, until the insurance adjuster gets here and we’ve got a backhoe, there’s not all that much we can do.” He rubbed his neck, thinking. “Well, I’ve got to bury those lambs and chickens. And we better get the broken glass up before somebody steps on it or drives over it.”

  Lydia Dale bobbed her head, agreeing with his assessment. “I’ll get the shovel and broom.”

  The shed windows were dirty to begin with, but the added layer of soot from the fire obscured most of the light from the glass, making it hard to find anything. She laid her hands on the shovel almost immediately and quite by accident, just by reaching her hand out to find the wall and bumping against the handle. The broom was harder to locate; prolonged searching left her empty-handed.

  She groped around the boxes and barrels, shoving aside newspapers and a couple of old tarps, hoping to stumble upon a flashlight. Her efforts were rewarded when she reached into a box and laid her hand on a grooved metal cylinder. She flipped the switch, hoping the batteries were still good. They were.