Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4)

by Penny Reid

  “You look like shit.” He smiled, and then lifted his chin toward my ride. “Where’s the GTO?”

  “You don’t want to know.” I grabbed my fishing gear from the back seat of Cletus’s old beater and walked past Hank, bypassing his McMansion and making a beeline for the dock.

  He fell into step beside me. “Late night?”

  “Yep.”

  I sensed Hank hesitate before asking, “You and Patty?”

  Stopping short, I peered at my friend. “What is wrong with you? I know you got a thing for her since the spring. What kind of friend would I be if—”

  “Settle your feathers.” He held his hands up. “I was just asking.”

  “Well, don’t ask stupid questions.” I continued my march toward the boat, seeing red and spitting nails.

  Here I was, making a point to come out fishing after cancelling on Hank last week, wanting to be a good friend. And what does he do? Accuse me of going after the woman he’s interested in. What the hell?

  “I—uh—I have something I need to tell you.” Hank leaned in close as we walked, his voice hushed.

  “What about?”

  “Don’t get mad. Slow down.”

  I didn’t slow down; I was ready to get fishing.

  I glanced at him again. “What did you do?”

  He grimaced. “It’s no big deal.”

  “Then why’re you making that face?”

  “Because—shit.” Hank tugged on my arm, bringing me to a stop, his attention affixed to some point in front of us.

  Confused, I followed his line of sight and my stomach dropped. No more than six feet away stood Christine St. Claire and Drill.

  To her credit, the woman’s expression wasn’t smug. She wasn’t smiling. She was just looking at me expectantly, like Let’s cut the shit, shall we?

  Releasing a gigantic sigh, I closed my eyes and shook my head. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so pissed off at Hank.

  “We’re going to give you two some privacy.” Drill’s rumbly voice had me opening my eyes a slit and peering at Hank.

  My friend had the good sense to look guilty. He also had the good sense to refrain from offering excuses for his shitty behavior. He grabbed my fishing gear, giving me a tight, remorseful smile, and moved off with Drill toward the boat.

  I watched them walk off, making all sorts of plans for retribution. Perhaps I would consult Cletus on the matter. He was the king of retribution after all.

  Razor’s old lady cleared her throat, bringing my attention back to her. “I’ll say what needs saying and then leave you in peace.” Her gaze flickered over me, then she added, “If that’s what you want.”

  “Whatever it is, the answer is no.” Channeling my inner Duane, I crossed my arms.

  “I’m not here to ask you questions, or favors.”

  Yeah, we’ll see. I didn’t trust this woman. Even if my momma hadn’t warned me that she was a bad lady, I saw how she treated her daughter—like Claire was property of Razor Dennings, like the man could do whatever he wanted because she was his blood—and as far as I was concerned, Christine St. Claire was irredeemable.

  Christine shoved her hands in her back pockets. She was wearing tight jeans, a blue tank top, and a black leather jacket. I’d never seen her without the leather jacket; it marked her as Razor’s property.

  “You’re not making this very easy on me.” She looked out over the lake, a bitter-looking smile on her features.

  “Lady, I’m tired. In case you forgot, I was out late last night.”

  “About that,” her gaze flickered to mine and then away, “I see now I was wrong, ganging up on you like that. I should’ve known better. That’s why it’s just Drill and me this morning. I didn’t want to scare you off.”

  “I wasn’t scared. I was irritated.”

  “I don’t mean you no harm. I told them boys not to chase you.”

  “Okay.”

  “You had Duane in the car? He’s always been a great driver.” She gave me a small smile, like she knew Duane, like she knew my brother.

  And it was the small smile that set the fine hairs on the back of my neck standing in alarm.

  This isn’t right.

  I tensed, taking a small step back.

  I need to go. I need to get out of here.

  My heart kicked up, warning me of imminent danger. Instinctually, I glanced around the woods lining the lake, searching for a threat and finding nothing but early morning stillness, silent trees, and serene grass.

  This isn’t right. Something isn’t right.

  “Beau—”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.” I shook my head, knowing intuitively that I wasn’t going to like whatever she had planned to say.

  I’d turned halfway, intent on leaving my fishing gear with Hank and getting the hell out of here when she blurted, “I’m your momma, Beau.”

  I stopped.

  I stopped because my heart stopped.

  My breathing stopped.

  Time stopped.

  In life, there are three periods of time: before, after, and now. It’s happened very rarely, but there have been a few instances where I’ve experienced the limbo of now with any clarity: When our daddy first put Billy in the hospital and we all thought he was going to die. When Duane fell out of a tree and was knocked unconscious. When Ashley left for college and I knew, I knew she’d never come back. When my momma died.

  This moment was now. There was no escaping it. There was no going back to before and I had no desire to live in the after.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Tangentially, I was aware she’d moved closer. I saw her in my peripheral vision, her hands still stuffed in her back pockets, her eyes on me, her leather jacket still in place, marking her as the property of Razor Dennings.

  I breathed.

  My heart started.

  And time began again.

  21

  “Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.”

  ― Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein

  *Beau*

  I drove home. I parked Cletus’s car right where I’d found it. I went inside, walked to the library, and I pulled out the family albums dated the year before Duane and I were born.

  There weren’t many pictures of Momma—of Bethany—she was usually the one taking the photographs. So I flipped and flipped, searching.

  August, September, November, December . . .

  Four pictures. She didn’t look pregnant in any of them.

  “Shit.” I shoved the book away, my hands shaking, and stumbled to one of the chairs.

  My thoughts were very loud, and circular, and all-consuming, and completely involuntary. I couldn’t see and I couldn’t hear and I couldn’t think.

  I pressed the base of my palms into my eye sockets and breathed, unable to do anything other than just sit there, caught in an undertow of chaos and misery.

  “Beau?”

  Someone was shaking my shoulder. I glanced up. It was Billy.

  “Hey.” His eyes moved over my face. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head, not knowing what to say. How could I say it? How could I even think it?

  Billy stared at me, his brow pulling together by degrees as his concern visibly increased. Tearing his eyes from mine, he glanced around the library until he spotted the picture albums where I’d haphazardly dropped them on the floor.

  Leaving me, he picked up the album, flipped through a few pages, and then stilled. I heard him exhale.

  “How did you find out?”

  I choked.

  On nothing.

  Actually, I choked on shock.

  “What?” My voice cracked.

  He turned to face me, his eyes sober, knowing. “How did you find out?”

  “Christine told me,” I said automatically, because I wasn’t sure we were talking about the same thing. How could we? How could he know?

  But he does know.

 
Billy the brave. Billy the fearless. Billy the strong. Billy our great protector.

  He looked ashamed. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

  So many questions. I couldn’t figure out what to ask first, but my mouth was forming words even though I hadn’t decided what to say. “Who else knows?”

  “In the family, just me. Grandma Oliver knew. Daisy knows, Judge Payton, and Mrs. Cooper . . . I think. They helped move through the paperwork.”

  A thought occurred to me and it turned my stomach. “Did the Pooles know?”

  It took him a moment, but then I saw he realized who I was talking about. “No. I don’t think the Pooles knew.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “Beau,” the muscle at Billy’s temple jumped, “that girl did you a favor. That whole family looked down their nose at all of us.”

  “Yes, but she didn’t want to marry me,” I pointed to my chest, “even though she thought she was carrying my baby.”

  “She wasn’t pregnant. It was a false alarm. You didn’t love her.”

  “But she didn’t know that at the time.”

  “Beau, stop being crazy. Andrea Poole being young and stupid had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with her being young and stupid. Lots of sixteen year olds don’t want to . . .” he paused, closing his eyes and rubbing his jaw before finishing, “marry their high school boyfriends. It’s not ’cause you were adopted.”

  “Adopted.” I repeated the word. It was a word I would have to get used to. I’m adopted.

  “A couple of folks in town—folks who’ve been around long enough—know you and Duane weren’t Momma’s. Not the Pooles,” he reemphasized, “ because they moved here much later. But nobody who remembers the adoption knows who your biological parents are.”

  “And nobody ever said anything.”

  “Why would they?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that because it seemed so obvious to me. You don’t hide the fact that a person is adopted. Unless . . . unless . . .

  “Who is the father?” I felt very far removed from the conversation, like we were talking about other people.

  Billy looked taken aback by my question, like it confused him. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No. Is it—”

  I couldn’t speak the words. I couldn’t ask. Growing up, I’d reconciled myself to the fact that Darrell Winston was my father. He was a piece of trash, but Razor Dennings . . .

  “Darrell.” Billy closed the album and crossed to me, setting it on the side table. “Darrell and Christine. They are your biological parents.”

  I breathed out, closing my eyes, and leaned back in the chair. I never thought I’d see the day I was actually relieved that Darrell Winston was my father. And now I knew that asshole not only beat on my momma, but cheated on her as well . . . and kept the collateral damage under her roof.

  Such. A. Bastard.

  But then again, I’d always thought the good in me came from my mother, from Bethany.

  “It doesn’t matter, Beau.” The urgency in Billy’s voice had me opening my eyes. My brother—my half-brother—was sitting in the chair opposite mine, his elbows on his knees, leaning toward me. “You were Momma’s. Duane is Momma’s. She didn’t tell you because she didn’t want you to think differently.”

  “Why did she tell you?”

  Billy’s eyes lowered to his hands. “She didn’t. I found the adoption paperwork and I confronted her about it.”

  “You didn’t remember? Her not being pregnant? Coming home with two babies?”

  He shook his head. “No. I was barely six. Jethro was barely seven. She’d been telling us for a while she was going to have another baby. Then she left one afternoon, said to take good care of Ashley while she was gone. She came back the next day and she had two babies. She said she was doubly blessed.”

  I closed my eyes again. I couldn’t stand it. My throat worked. I couldn’t swallow.

  “It didn’t occur to me,” Billy continued, his tone faraway. “And if it didn’t occur to me, then you know it didn’t occur to Jethro.”

  I didn’t move. Part of me hoped this was a dream, a nightmare, and I clung to that hope. I mentally shook myself, told myself to wake up. I didn’t.

  “Beau—”

  “Stop talking. Please.”

  What was I going to do now? This wasn’t the end of the world, but it felt like the end of mine. I wanted to feel betrayed by Momma—Bethany—but I didn’t. I felt grateful. I never wanted to know the truth, and I wish I didn’t.

  “She’s a terrible person.” Again, my mouth was forming words without me deciding what to say.

  “Momma?”

  “No. Christine.” I lifted my eyelids, and peered at my brother. “Last year, she was going to let Razor cut on Duane.”

  “What?” Billy stiffened. “When was this?”

  I waved his question away. I didn’t have the energy to answer his questions. “She was going to let him carve his name in Duane. She was going to let him. She didn’t do a thing to stop him.”

  Billy continued to glare at me, and I could see he was holding himself back from asking for more details.

  “I don’t want that woman to be my mother.” I shook my head. “I don’t want her to be Duane’s mother.”

  “Don’t tell him.” Billy’s eyebrows ticked up, his expression stark, like he was issuing me an order. “You save him from what you’re feeling. Don’t you tell him. He doesn’t need to know.”

  He’s your responsibility, I’m counting on you. You keep him safe.

  “Where does the good come from?” I asked. “How can we be good if those are our parents?”

  Billy’s features softened considerably. Not with pity, but with understanding.

  “No. Don’t think that. You and Duane, and . . . Claire for that matter, you’re the best people I know. You three have that in common.”

  Claire.

  I started, sitting up straight. “Claire.”

  Billy pressed his lips together like he was grinding his teeth.

  “Claire is my sister.”

  He nodded, just once. I noticed a shift in him, like he was withdrawing, stepping away even though he sat perfectly still.

  “Does she know?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Billy shook his head, his voice rough and ragged.

  I thought on that. I’d known Claire my whole life, mostly in periphery. She’d been Jethro’s and Cletus’s friend. I didn’t know her as well as either of them.

  Would she want to know me?

  And how could I tell her the truth without telling Duane as well?

  * * *

  “Look who finally decided to show up.” Cletus greeted me with both hands on his hips, standing just outside the garage. “I was about to send out a search party, but none of Hank’s exotic dancers are awake at this time of day.” Cletus paused thoughtfully, and then added, “Except Hannah.”

  I walked past my brother and into the garage, heading straight for the stairs leading to the second floor. Billy had taken me to Daisy’s for a cup of coffee and a doughnut, then dropped me off at the shop. We hadn’t spoken much, and I wasn’t hungry, but sitting with someone who knew the truth and understood the depth and breadth of my dilemma made a heap of difference.

  It was like being caught in a storm, blinded by rain and wind and darkness of my own making, of my own wishes and longings.

  My mother is alive.

  But she’s not Bethany.

  I have another sister.

  But she can never know.

  My mind was still a mess, but there was shit that needed doing. Oil needed to be changed. Tires needed to be rotated. I figured I could work on cars and work through the morning’s revelations at the same time.

  Thankfully, Cletus didn’t follow me up the stairs. I was able to change in relative peace until the sound of someone shutting the door had me looking over my shoulder.

  It was Shelly. I blinked, startl
ed, because I’d completely forgotten about her. I’d been so wrapped up in my own mess, it was like she’d faded into the background of my thoughts.

  Oh. So that’s what it’s like. And now I feel like an asshole.

  “Hi.” She was giving me her almost smile. “I was worried about you.”

  “I’m sorry. I, uh,” I hesitated, licking my lips. I didn’t want to lie. But I couldn’t tell her the truth either. No one else could know, not until I decided what to do.

  She crossed to me until she was standing directly in front of me, her lovely gaze moving over my face. “I have something I was supposed to give you, but I forgot.”

  “Oh?”

  Shelly passed me a folded piece of paper, and then snatched her hands back. “For Friday, for our appointment. It’s about exposure therapy, also sometimes called flooding therapy.”

  Opening and then scanning the paper, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

  “And I lied,” she added in a rush. “I didn’t forget to give you the paper. I wanted to, but I worried about it, after last week and how I behaved with my brother. I didn’t want you to feel pressured to help.”

  I lifted my gaze to hers, taking solace in the now precious-to-me double skip of my heart.

  “I’ll be touching you. On purpose. In order to interrupt my compulsions to—” She was twisting her fingers, shifting her weight from side to side. “You don’t have to come. I can tell Dr. West that you had something come up.”

  “No. I want to. I’ll be there. I want to help you.” My voice sounded sandpapery, likely due to guilt.

  How could I forget about her? How could she be anywhere other than the forefront of my thoughts?

  “Are you okay?” Her eyes narrowed just slightly and she tilted her chin up. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” I responded immediately, my hands coming to her arms. “No. You are amazing. Thank you for last night. Thank you for being an excellent driver.”

  Some of the worry eased from her brow, but her tone was solemn. “Yesterday you said I was a sexy driver.”

  “And you are.” I nodded, with enthusiasm, pulling her into a tight hug. After a moment’s hesitation, her arms came around me and squeezed.