Jilted

by Varina Denman

  “But I don’t have a car seat for the little guy. Fawn wouldn’t like it.”

  Nathan’s face was turning red and blotchy, and he drew in ragged breaths between his cries. “This is an emergency,” I said. “Come on.”

  We buckled ourselves into the car, and as I drove, I watched Clyde out of the corner of my eye, surprised by the way he held the baby firmly against his shoulder, trying to comfort him with soothing tones.

  As we turned onto Main Street, Clyde cursed under his breath, and anger burst into my head from its convenient resting place between my shoulder blades. I glared at him. He never spoke that way in front of Nathan, and Fawn would have a conniption if she heard him do so.

  But when I saw what Clyde was looking at, I almost cursed, too.

  Neil Blaylock stood on the sidewalk in front of city hall talking to Lee Roy Goodnight, and as we passed, he craned his neck to watch us.

  My nerves rattled, not because we’d been caught with Nathan out of his car seat or because Neil would surely tell Fawn all about it, but because Neil should have looked furious. He should have been concerned for the safety of his grandson, but instead of anger, his expression was calculating, as though he were putting together pieces of a 3-D puzzle, and he had just found one that fit perfectly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the past two years, I’d never had reason to go inside Clyde’s trailer, but now I stood in the middle of the living room, snooping a little while he tended to Nathan. The furniture looked worn, and the carpet radiated the faint scent of pets, but other than a few newspapers on an end table, the place was neat. Next to the front door, there was a hole in the wall, but when I looked closer, I noticed the thin paneling and figured it could have been an accident. Maybe.

  When I heard bathwater running, I trailed my fingertip across the splintery edge of the hole, then went to help Clyde.

  An hour later we had Nathan cleaned up and powdered, and by the time JohnScott and Fawn arrived, Clyde had cooked four steaks on the grill and convinced me to stay for dinner. As we sat down at the small table in the kitchen, I realized I was uncharacteristically nervous in front of my nephew and Clyde’s daughter.

  “Aunt Lynda, can you reach that stuffed giraffe?” JohnScott motioned to the counter behind me, and I stretched for the toy, then handed it to Nathan who sat in an outdated high chair that I assumed was another of Clyde’s garage-sale finds.

  “Hopefully that will keep him quiet long enough for us to pray.” JohnScott held his hands palms up on the table.

  Even though I no longer got caught with food in my mouth during the prayer, I still felt awkward participating in the ritual. My right hand met JohnScott’s solidly, but my left barely slid into Clyde’s. I bowed my head, keeping my eyes focused on Clyde’s fingers that wrapped completely around my palm and covered the back of my hand.

  “Dear Lord,” Clyde began, “thank You for this food and for these friends.”

  My gaze traveled from Clyde’s wrist to his bicep, where his tattoo teased from the edge of his shirtsleeve. It looked like the number nine, but I had never seen the whole tattoo.

  Nathan squealed in the high chair and clapped his hands, spurring Clyde to finish quickly. “And thank You for the little guy, who keeps us all on our toes. Amen.”

  Clyde rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb, then let his fingers trail away. His soft touch made the skin around my wrist itch, and I pressed my hand against the edge of my chair until it stopped.

  “He’s not so little anymore,” JohnScott said.

  Clyde smiled at Nathan. “Still seems pretty small to me.”

  The two of them, side by side, made quite a contrast, and I found myself wondering if Nathan would look more like Clyde the older he got.

  “Little fella,” Clyde said, “you be good for your momma and JohnScott.”

  The baby giggled as if the idea was absurd, and then he squealed again. “Daddy!”

  Clyde rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Does he call you Daddy?”

  “Yep, Fawn’s been encouraging it lately.” JohnScott looked at his wife, then back to Clyde. “We figured he could call his biological father Dad. It may sound awkward for a few years, but when he’s older, it’ll suit better. And he can call me Daddy till I’m old and gray, and it won’t bother me.”

  I grunted. “I can’t imagine Tyler Cruz being called Daddy. Now or ever.”

  “No, it don’t really fit,” Clyde agreed. “He doing all right?”

  “Good,” Fawn said. “He’s working on his ranch again. And his mental health is stable.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Fawn dug into her baked potato, then scooped a spoonful onto the high-chair tray. “Thanks for grilling out, Clyde. I haven’t had a steak in a while.”

  “Me, neither,” he said. “Everything down at the Queen is cooked in oil.” He glanced at me. “And Dixie only serves chicken-fried and salisbury steak. It’s about time for an honest-to-goodness T-bone.” He forked a steak from the platter in the middle of the table, but then his eyebrows quivered.

  JohnScott laughed out loud. “Those steaks are bleeding all over the plate.”

  “Eww …” Fawn pressed a hand to her stomach. “I like mine well done.”

  Clyde rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “I can’t always tell when meat’s done. When I grill the hamburgers at work, I watch the clock, but I guess steaks are different.” He smiled sheepishly. “They’re the same color either way.”

  JohnScott snickered. “If I’d remembered you were color-blind, I never would’ve risked eating here.”

  Clyde swooped up the platter and stomped to the back door, calling over his shoulder, “Five more minutes ought to do it.”

  “Maybe more,” JohnScott crooned.

  Nathan stared at the back door as it clicked shut. “Cyde?” He slammed his hand on the high-chair tray, sending chunks of potato bouncing to the floor.

  Fawn reached for his hands. “He’ll be back once the steaks stop mooing.”

  Silence fell over us until JohnScott started telling Fawn about a pistol one of the other coaches had bought. Bless my nephew for filling the silence.

  He leaned his elbows on the table. “Makes me want to get my concealed-handgun license.”

  “Seriously?” Fawn asked. “If you are, I am too. That way I can pack heat in the diaper bag.”

  “You two are nuts,” I said. “I’ve never wanted a gun.”

  “I can’t picture you shooting a gun, Aunt Lynda,” JohnScott said.

  My nerves calmed as a happy memory came to mind. “I shot your BB gun that year at Christmas.”

  “I don’t remember you shooting it. I remember you spilling the ammo in the grass.”

  Fawn picked three chunks of tomato out of her salad and tossed them on the high-chair tray. “My dad let me shoot his pistol once when I was a little girl, but I don’t think I’ve shot a gun since then.”

  JohnScott formed Nathan’s hand into a finger gun while Fawn insisted he “stop that right now.”

  My thoughts scattered.

  I remembered that pistol of Neil’s. He had brought it back from TCU his freshman year, bragging that it had belonged to Buddy Holly and had even been in the singer’s overnight bag when his plane crashed. He expected his parents to buy a glass display case, but Gerald Blaylock had the gun appraised and discovered his son had been duped. After that, Neil kept it stashed in the glove box of his pickup, and he and his friends—Clyde and Hoby included—used the thing for target practice on the side of every barn in Garza County.

  JohnScott sighed as his laughter faded. Then he looked at me. “So … you and Clyde?”

  I took a sip of tea and shrugged a little. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Fawn’s gaze bounced between the two of us, and she tried to hide a smile. “We don’t mean
to pry. We just want you both to be happy.”

  But they didn’t know what would make me happy. I didn’t even know.

  The door opened, and Clyde held the tray above his head before setting it on the table. “Let’s try this again.”

  JohnScott boldly cut into his meat and shoved a forkful into his mouth. “Now that’s a steak, Clyde. That’s a steak.”

  Fawn laughed. “In spite of that, I’m wondering if you should look for a job that doesn’t involve cooking.”

  “Aren’t too many options around here.” Clyde glanced at me. “Troy Sanders has been pestering me about working on the wind farms, but I’m not sure what I think about that.”

  I had just taken a bite of potato, but I now found it difficult to swallow. Was Clyde actually considering working on the turbines?

  Fawn tore off part of a roll and gave it to Nathan. “That’s a big step considering your PICS.”

  “Aw, now …” Clyde salted his salad with a vengeance.

  “PICS?” I asked.

  Fawn looked from my eyes to the saltshaker in Clyde’s fist. “Sorry. I didn’t know it was a secret. It’s just something I studied in a class last semester.”

  After a long pause where no one seemed to breathe, I snapped, “Well, I don’t need to hear anyone’s secrets, that’s for sure.”

  “It ain’t a secret,” Clyde spoke quickly. “It’s post-incarceration syndrome, that’s all.” He chopped his fork into his baked potato, mixing in butter and grated cheese. “When I first got out, I had some trouble, but things are better now.” He stirred his potato long after it was mixed, not meeting my gaze.

  JohnScott leaned forward and cleared his throat. “The birthday party was a success, don’t you think?”

  “Bir-day!” Nathan lifted both hands above his head as though he were calling a touchdown, and then he rubbed butter deep into his dark curls.

  “All things considered,” Fawn said, “it went all right.”

  The party had been strange, and Fawn knew it. Neil and Susan spent an hour traipsing after Nathan with their flashy gifts while the Pickett side of the family chatted in our lawn chairs, trying not to make fun of them.

  Clyde’s movements stilled, and he looked at his daughter. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I could’ve given the boy my gift anytime.”

  “No way.” JohnScott shook his head. “Neil will not dictate the guest list for our son’s birthday parties. I’m glad you were there.”

  He didn’t say as much, but I had the feeling it was easier for JohnScott to stand up to his father-in-law when Clyde was around.

  “Your parents doing all right?” Clyde asked Fawn.

  “I guess.” She looked doubtful.

  Clyde set down his fork and slowly finished chewing. “We saw your dad in town earlier, and he didn’t look any too happy with us.” He lowered his head. “I already told you I had the boy out of his car seat.”

  “I would have done the same thing,” Fawn said. “In my book, a screaming baby trumps a traffic law any day.” She glanced at JohnScott, who gave a subtle nod. “I’m not sure I should say anything, but I’ve been worried about my dad.”

  My gaze met Clyde’s for a brief moment. Maybe this was the antsy behavior.

  “I’m not sure there’s really a problem,” JohnScott said. “He seems stressed to me, but that’s all.”

  “He’s different now, though. Mom, too.”

  With my finger I wiped a line of condensation from my glass. “How?”

  “He’s been talking crazy lately, and Mom’s freaking out. He says he might sell his livestock and the ranch and move away.”

  So that was it. My mind instantly cluttered with questions. The thought of the Blaylocks moving away from Trapp seemed as far-fetched as the pope moving in. Still, the idea nudged my heart with hope … and apprehension.

  Fawn glanced at Nathan, then lowered her voice. “I think Mom’s a little scared.”

  A sick feeling filled my stomach, not quite nausea but close. I’d seen that scared look on Susan’s face before—scared of Neil, scared of her circumstances, scared of life—but in the past few months, she had seemed better. More confident.

  Nathan held his cup over the side of the high-chair tray, then dropped it. Immediately he peeked over the edge and giggled at the cup where it lay under the table.

  JohnScott bent to retrieve it. “We’re worried there might be abuse there again, but Susan denies it.”

  “She always did,” I snapped.

  Fawn squinted at me, but then her eyes softened. “You’re right, but this seems different somehow.”

  JohnScott pulled out his cell phone and checked the time. “We better get Nathan home.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you guys,” Fawn said. “I just don’t know what to think.”

  She started unbuckling Nathan from the high chair, but Clyde laid a hand on her arm. “We should pray.”

  Fawn looked startled for only a second before she lifted her hands.

  This time when we bowed our heads, I slipped my hand firmly into Clyde’s and let my fingers wrap around his pinky. Two prayers in one night was a record for me, and praying for Neil felt downright backward. But as I listened to Clyde pray for the man who had done so much damage to my life—to all our lives—an unfamiliar emotion settled around my shoulders like a mink stole.

  I was concerned for Neil Blaylock.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The feedlot on the edge of town had been in business all Clyde’s life, yet he had never had reason to set foot on the place. Until Wednesday morning. Riding shotgun in JohnScott’s old pickup with Ansel nestled between them, Clyde scanned row after row of fenced holding yards, all jammed with livestock. “This place is big.” It was a nonsense thing to say, but Clyde felt the urge to fill the cab with something other than sadness and stench.

  Ansel sat with his hands casually resting one on top of the other, but his right thumb rubbed against the knuckles on his left hand until Clyde thought he might wear a hole in the skin. “That it is,” Ansel said.

  JohnScott had been encouraging his dad to sell some of his herd, and after the latest prognosis, the old man finally agreed. His rusted stock trailer bumped along behind the truck, full of cattle, and occasionally Clyde could feel the weight yanking the pickup just like the sale of the herd was bound to yank Ansel’s pride.

  “Pull up right here, Son.” Ansel pointed at a louvered metal building labeled office. “Sam will be in there.”

  “Want us to come in with you?” JohnScott slid the truck into neutral and put on the brake.

  “I reckon I can manage on my own.”

  Clyde and JohnScott climbed out of the truck, and Ansel followed, scooting across the seat to the passenger side. He leaned heavily on his cane as he made his way across the gravel parking lot, and the three steps leading up to the door prompted him to cling to the pipe rail.

  “You sure he don’t need help?” Clyde asked softly.

  “He won’t have any trouble negotiating a price with Sam, but I’m a little concerned about him running into my father-in-law.” He motioned toward the shiny, black-and-gray double-cab parked at the far end of the lot. “I’m sure Dad noticed it, though, so he’s on his own.”

  “I never knew Ansel to be crossways with anybody.”

  “It was a long time ago, but Neil cheated him in a cattle deal. Sold him some sick heifers, and we lost five or six of them within a month.”

  Clyde ran his fingers through his hair, then held the mess out of his eyes as he gripped the back of his neck. He didn’t need another reason to be disgusted with Neil.

  “Dad keeps it to himself,” JohnScott said.

  “When did it happen?”

  The coach took off his cap to scratch his head. “About five years ago, I guess.”

  “Huh.” Clyde rested his f
orearms on the rim of the truck bed, and across from him, JohnScott did the same. “So they’ve been uncomfortable around each other for that long?”

  “Why do you think we didn’t invite our parents to our wedding?”

  “I thought it was just Neil and me.”

  “Yeah, well …” He chuckled. “Mostly.”

  Clyde sighed, thinking back to his time in the pen, the regularity of it, the boredom. So much had happened in his little hometown while he was away. So much had changed.

  To their left stood a large metal barn, painted blue, and Neil sauntered out of its gaping door. At first he didn’t see them because of the angle of the sun, and as he stepped around a portable cattle chute, he removed his cowboy hat and rubbed his eyes. He stopped walking, seemed to take a deep breath, then put his hat back on.

  Only then did he see JohnScott and Clyde. He stood up straighter and pulled his hat down more firmly, then hesitated for a split second before striding toward them.

  “Coach,” he said loudly. “That grandson of mine giving you any trouble?”

  “Every day.”

  Clyde was glad Fawn’s husband had a relationship with Neil, even if it was shaky.

  “He’s a feisty Blaylock.” Neil cut his eyes toward Clyde, but Clyde didn’t take the bait. Not only was he tired of fighting, but he didn’t give a hoot whom Nathan took after. The child may have shared Neil’s last name, but he didn’t share his blood.

  JohnScott’s gaze bounced between the two of them. “Yep. Fawn says she probably deserves anything he dishes out, seeing as how she was a handful herself.”

  “She certainly was.” Neil grinned as broadly as a shady politician. “Kept her momma and me busy.” He looked at Clyde again, and his smile faded.

  Clyde thought JohnScott’s shoulders wilted, but just then, the office door opened.

  Ansel paused when he saw the three of them, but he called, “Son?” He motioned for JohnScott to come inside, and then he disappeared again.

  JohnScott shook Neil’s hand. “You and Susan still planning on dinner at our place Saturday?”

  “You know it.”