The Taming of Billy Jones

by Christine Rimmer

  Both of Nellie's thin eyebrows rose toward her hair. "Pardon me?"

  "I said, do not start."

  "Someone must speak truly to you."

  "You have, already, lots of times."

  "Watch yourself, dear. Protect your character. Not to mention, your poor heart."

  "Nellie, this is just none of your business."

  "You could end up like poor, dear Delilah. Crushed and humiliated, living in a rented room."

  "Delilah has not 'ended up' in a rented room. She's living at the Foothill Inn temporarily, until she and Sam work things out."

  "In the divorce courts."

  "You don't know that."

  "You'd be surprised the things I know."

  "And anyway, Delilah's situation and mine aren't the least bit similar."

  "They are perfectly similar."

  "How?"

  "The men, Prudence," Nellie intoned. "Sam Fletcher and Billy Jones. They're cut from the same cloth, those two. Everyone knows Sam Fletcher is as much a Jones as any real Jones. Ogden has always thought of him as another one of his sons. And he's certainly behaved enough like one of them over the years. Why, I could tell you stories—"

  "Please don't." Prudence took Nellie by the arm and guided her over the threshold. Nellie was still spouting dire warnings as Prudence murmured goodbye and gently closed the door on her. About fifteen seconds later, Prudence heard Nellie's footsteps retreating across the porch. She peeked out the picture window and saw the older woman, shoulders back and head high, marching down the slate walk toward the front gate.

  With a sigh, Prudence sank to the sofa. A moment later, it occurred to her that she would go stark, raving out of her mind if she hung around the house all day, missing Billy and Jesse, pointlessly revising her résumé, at the mercy of the opinions of anyone who knocked on the door.

  She jumped up, went to get her purse and coat and then headed out into the chilly November morning.

  Once beyond the gate, she lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to decide if she should head over to Lily's. It was almost noon, time for lunch.

  But then she turned for her car. She would go in to Nevada City and have lunch there. The steep, tree-lined streets and authentic gold rush Victorian houses always pleased her. She would shop for nothing in particular and forget her troubles for the afternoon.

  At each and every sharp bend in the twisting road to Nevada City, Prudence found herself half expecting to pass Billy's Jeep headed back for North Magdalene. But it never happened. Which was all to the good. If she saw the Jeep going the other way, she'd only end up wondering how Billy and Jesse were doing at home, wishing she were there with them instead of enjoying the solitary pleasures of a free afternoon.

  She had lunch at the Country Rose Café on Commercial Street

  , then she wandered up Pine Street

  to Broad. At Broad Street Books, she went in – to browse and to treat herself to a sweet, creamy cup of cappuccino. And then she wandered back down Broad, looking in the shop windows, thinking what a beautiful town Nevada City was – and wishing she could stop thinking about Billy.

  It was just before two when she got back into her car. She meant to go on home. But somehow, she found herself headed the wrong way on the freeway that ran between Nevada City and Grass Valley. For no reason she could fathom, she got off at Brunswick Road

  , turned left at the end of the exit ramp, and drove back over the freeway to Sutton Way

  . A few moments later, she was parking in front of Longs Drugs.

  Inside, she wandered the aisles for a while, pausing to look over the magazine racks and check out the stationery supplies. She'd progressed to the pharmacy section and found herself pausing in front of several shelves filled with contraceptives before she finally admitted to herself why she was there.

  * * *

  Jesse had been cranky all day. As far as Billy was concerned, the trip to Grass Valley had been pretty much of a bust. Jesse fussed in every store they visited, and squirmed and cried when Billy took him to the park. Probably Billy should have given it up early and gone home.

  But Prue was home. And he was mad at her. They had three days left on the agreement they'd made. Not much time for a hot and heavy affair. Hell. He had to face it. There probably wasn't going to be a hot and heavy affair. He'd had his best shot at it the other night – and he hadn't made the grade. She'd said she wanted to think about it. Billy had known enough women in his life to realize that when they said they wanted to think about it, a guy didn't have a chance.

  So he was mad at her. And he was punishing her by avoiding her. Which was pretty damn ridiculous, considering she probably felt nothing but grateful to see less of him.

  Hell, this whole mess was driving him nuts. He wanted her. Now. It made no sense. She wasn't his type at all. But he was willing to just go ahead and take a chance if she would.

  But she had to think about it.

  So he spent the day in Grass Valley with a cranky kid.

  Finally, at about two-thirty, he gave up and headed home. By right around three, he was walking up to the door carrying a crying child on one arm and a bag of groceries in the other. He was looking forward to handing Jesse to Prue, tossing the groceries onto the kitchen counter and retreating to his room. There, he would put on his headphones and lie down on the bed and forget for an hour or two that cranky kids and thinking women even existed.

  But then he found the damn door locked. He almost dropped the groceries while he fumbled with the key. When he got the door open, he yelled, "Prue!" good and loud, which startled Jesse and made him wail all the harder.

  Prue didn't come. He was forced to admit that she must have taken off somewhere. He set the groceries on the coffee table and sat down with Jesse. A few moments of soft talk and cuddling, and the kid seemed a little better. He hugged up close and sniffled and sighed.

  Billy felt the kid's forehead, as he'd done more than once that day. But he didn't seem hot. He didn't even seem sick, not really. More like unhappy or maybe uncomfortable.

  Billy carried him upstairs and checked the diaper he was going to damn well make sure the kid stopped needing pretty soon here. It was wet. Billy changed him.

  "There. Feel better?"

  "Nawp." Jesse cried some more.

  Where the hell was that woman when a man needed her? "Come on. Jess. Tell your dad what's wrong. "

  Jesse puckered his lips and rubbed at his face and said something that sounded like. "Awut, awut."

  "Something hurts?"

  Jesse squirmed and pushed, so Billy put him down. He lumbered over to the bed and started chewing on the bed frame. Billy let him chew for a few minutes because it seemed to soothe him, and then he went and pulled him away. Billy didn't approve of kids sticking things in their mouths all the time and he was trying to break Jesse of what he considered a bad habit.

  But the kid started crying again the minute his mouth lost contact with the red metal frame. Billy tried to soothe him. Jesse cried louder. Billy tried singing – a little Shell Silverstein, because his stuff was funny and could be acted out.

  Jesse was not amused. He shoved his little fist into his mouth and went on sobbing.

  Billy felt like screaming.

  Maybe there was something really wrong. Where was Prue? She should be here at a time like this. He hoisted Jesse up and headed downstairs.

  "Maybe a little snack, huh?" He got Jesse into the high chair and poured out some Cheerios.

  Jesse looked down at them and then up at his father – and started calling, "Woo, Woo, Woo!"

  Billy wanted to shout, Woo is not here, and when she gets here, she won't be any good to you anyway, because I'm going to kill her! However, all he said was, "How about some juice?"

  His fingers fumbling in haste, Billy filled one of Jesse's safety cups with apple juice, then handed it over. Jesse took one sip, tried to bite the top off the cup and then threw it across the room. It landed on the sink counter, the top popped
off and apple juice exploded onto the splashboard, across the counter and finally dribbled down the side of the cabinet toward the floor.

  "Cute," Billy said.

  Jesse went on crying, wailing Prue's name.

  "That does it, I'm calling the clinic." The number was posted in a list of important numbers, right beside the wall phone. He dialed.

  Just as a woman's voice answered, "North Magdalene Medical Clinic," he heard the front door open.

  "Never mind," he told the voice, and hung up.

  "Woo, Woo, Woo!" Jesse sobbed.

  Billy heard her footsteps and then, there she was, standing in the door from the dining room, still wearing her coat, carrying a small brown paper bag and her purse. She set the purse and the bag on the table. "What's going on?"

  Billy was furious at her – and he'd never felt so relieved to see anyone in his entire life. "I don't know. He's been fussy all day. Now he won't stop crying."

  "Woo, Woo!" Jesse waved his arms and sobbed in a sort of urgent despair.

  Billy backed out of the way as she went right to Jesse, pulled him from the chair and carried him to the refrigerator. She took an object from the freezer, removed the plastic wrapping and handed it to him. With an audible sigh, he stuck it into his mouth and started gnawing on it.

  Billy backed up enough that he could lean against the sink rim. "What is that?"

  "Half a frozen bagel. He's teething. He needs something to chew on. And the cold helps."

  Jesse gnawed away, still hiccuping a little, but noticeably calmer. Gently Prue set him on the floor.

  Billy stared at his son. He couldn't believe it. A damn frozen bagel and the kid was just fine. "He's been crying all day."

  "Why didn't you take one of his teething rings with you?"

  He didn't like her tone, so prissy and judgmental, but he answered her reasonably enough. "I don't like to see him gnawing on things all the time."

  She started unbuttoning her coat. "Well, teeth hurt, coming in." She scooped up her purse and the brown bag. "Unless you want him in pain, you'll have to make an exception, I think." She turned around and left the room.

  He stared at the place she had been, anger churning inside him, making his gut burn and his skin feel too tight.

  A few moments later, she reappeared, minus the coat, the brown bag and her purse, but carrying the groceries he'd left on the coffee table. Pausing only to hook the child gate in place, she marched to the counter right beside where he stood – and set down the bag in the middle of the puddle of apple juice.

  She pulled a head of lettuce from the bag and went to the refrigerator, where she knelt and put the lettuce in the crisper. About halfway back to the counter, she noticed the spilled juice. With a long-suffering sigh, she lifted the bag and looked at the bottom of it. "Great." She looked at him, a look that clearly said. The least you can do is get out of my way. He stayed right where he was. Sighing again, she walked around him and set the bag on the other side of the sink. She sighed a third time as she was reaching for the sponge. He'd had about enough of those sighs by then. So he stuck out a hand and snared her wrist.

  She gasped and stiffened – which he found quite satisfying.

  He said, very precisely, "I do not want my son to be in pain."

  "Let go of my wrist."

  "Do you believe that I want my son to be in pain?"

  She tried to jerk away.

  He held on. "Do you?"

  She gave him one of those haughty, high-chinned looks she was such an expert at. "No. Of course not."

  He released her. "Good."

  She started for the sponge again.

  "Don't."

  She stopped in midreach and looked at him with one eyebrow raised above her glasses' rim. "Why ever not?"

  "I'll clean it up."

  "Don't be silly."

  "I said, I will clean it up."

  "Fine." She stepped back, folded her arms and waited.

  He put the safety cup and lid into the sink and picked up the sponge. With great care, he blotted up the puddle of juice on the counter. Then he rinsed the sponge and wiped down the splashboard and the woodwork. That accomplished, he rinsed the sponge a final time and squeezed it out. Through the whole process, she stood there, waiting.

  When he set the sponge back on the sink rim, she asked, so politely, he wanted to shout obscenities at her, "Are you finished?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then I'll finish putting the groceries away."

  * * *

  It was like that the rest of the day. They spoke to each other only when they had to, and then in short, precise sentences.

  Billy wanted to yell at her. He wanted to grab her and kiss her. He wanted to walk out the door and never come back. He wanted to break something. He wanted release from the tension that gnawed at him from the inside and didn't seem likely to go away until he either got his hands on Prue – or got clear of her for good.

  Dinner was pure hell. Billy chewed and swallowed and scowled.

  Prudence pushed her food around on her plate and wondered how things had gotten so awful all of a sudden. He'd seemed to blame her for everything since she got home this afternoon. He was downright nasty.

  She thought of the small brown bag she'd left on the bureau in her room and wondered what could possibly have possessed her, to imagine she might need contraceptives this evening. She shot a glance at Billy. He glowered back at her.

  Never, she thought grimly. Never in a hundred thousand years. Not if he was the last man and I was the last woman and the future of the human race depended on it.

  No way.

  He growled, "You gonna eat that, or just shove it around on your plate?"

  She inquired sweetly, "Why? Do you want it?"

  "Hell, no. But you shouldn't play with your food. It sets a bad example for Jesse."

  She granted him a cold smile. "Thank you, Dr. Spock."

  In his high chair, Jesse mimicked, "Spaw, Spaw, Spaw." When both adults turned unsmiling faces his way, he put his nice, cold half bagel into his mouth and said nothing more.

  * * *

  It took Billy until after eight to get Jesse down. Not a record night, but the poor kid had sore teeth and deserved an extra bedtime story.

  When he left Jesse's room, he told himself he was going straight to his own room and shutting the door. If it turned out he couldn't stand it alone in there, he'd go visit Sam. He and Sam could commiserate on the evilness of women.

  But then, when he got downstairs, there was Prue, sitting on the sofa in the living room. She had her nose buried in a book, though he didn't believe for a second that she was actually reading. No, she was just pretending. Her real purpose was far more sinister. She'd been lying in wait for him to come down the stairs. She didn't want to miss an opportunity to cut him down to size with that acid-dipped razor blade she called a tongue.

  Well, he wouldn't disappoint her.

  He lounged in his usual spot in the archway. She didn't look up. He coughed. She turned the page.

  He straightened from the archway and approached her, not stopping until he stood right over her, looking down at the open book, which he saw was titled, Income Property Appraisal. She was on chapter six: "Compound Interest and Discount Factors."

  "Now I know what your problem is."

  "Go away, Billy."

  He reached down and grabbed the book.

  Her head shot up. She glared at him, furious, her lips pressed together, her bug eyes full of fire.

  He shook the book at her. "No woman should be reading something like this in her spare time. A book like this is bad for you."

  "Give it back."

  "It's too dry, Prue. You don't need dry. You need juicy. Adventure. Romance. Something to heat you up a little. Something to get your imagination in gear."

  "Give me my book."

  He held it high and grinned at her, at the same time wondering what the hell was wrong with him, snatching her book up, waving it over her head, bullyin
g her.

  She stood. "Good night, Billy." Red head high, she walked around the other end of the sofa and headed toward the dining room.

  "Prue."

  She just kept walking.

  "Damn it, Prue!"

  She turned at the stairs and disappeared.

  Billy stood there, more angry at himself by then than he'd ever been at her. He listened as her footsteps attained the landing, then faded away overhead. And then, very carefully, he set her book on the coffee table. He looked down at it, shaking his head, knowing that he'd gone too far – and not sure what the hell he ought to do next.

  * * *

  By the time Prudence reached her own room, she was trembling in rage.

  She dropped to the edge of her bed, shaking, remembering…

  Her mother and those awful boyfriends she was always bringing home. Men who usually started out nice, but turned mean soon enough, when they drank, or when Betsy did something that they didn't like. If Prudence closed her eyes, she could see their ugly, sneering faces, yelling at Betsy. And Betsy crying and yelling right back at them.

  And Prudence and Randi huddled in a corner, trying to be small, trying not to be noticed – while furniture got broken and terrible things were said. A couple of times, Betsy got beat up bad. She'd wander around their double-wide house trailer for days after that, looking like something from a horror movie, crying and smoking cigarettes and swearing that men weren't worth it at all.

  But then, within a month or two, she'd come home with a new one.

  Never, Prudence had sworn to herself, would she let a man talk to her that way, let a man invade her world that way. Never would she give one the chance.

  She had planned her whole life around self-sufficiency, around total independence from the male of the species. And her plans had worked out just fine.

  Until bad Billy Jones came along.

  Prudence sprawled backward on the bed, closed her eyes and ordered her body to relax. But she couldn't relax. She was just too full of frustrated wrath.

  Right then, she heard a tap at the door.

  She could not believe his nerve. "Go away, Billy," she whispered at the canopy overhead. He only knocked again.

  "Go away." She said it loud enough that she knew he would hear, and then she waited, listening hard, for the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall.