Rough Creek

by Kaki Warner

  “Thanks.” But instead of keeping the longneck for herself, she passed it to the asshole. “You take it, Trip. I’d rather dance.” And before Joss and Dalton could sit down, Raney rose and turned to her sister. “Joss, it’s the Electric Slide. Or Tush Push. One of those line dances. Whatever. Want to show me and Dalton how to do it?”

  “Sure,” Joss said.

  Taking Dalton’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, she smiled down at the befuddled man sitting alone at the table with his lukewarm beer.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Trip. My best to your folks.” Then with a finger waggle that looked more like a brush-off or a poorly executed flip-off than a good-bye wave, she led Dalton after Joss toward the dance floor.

  “I think I love you,” Dalton said as they took their places in line.

  “Of course you do. Everybody does. I’m a Whitcomb and I’m rich. Now be quiet so I can learn how to do this.”

  If Raney was a klutz at the two-step, she was a disaster at line dancing, despite her years as a cheerleader. It was like being caught up in a Three Stooges routine. She gave it a good try but after only a few minutes, they were both laughing so hard at all her missteps they left the dance floor before they injured any of the other dancers.

  “They must practice for hours every day,” Raney said as they stood at the rail, watching the dancers stomp by, hands in pockets, heels banging in unison on the floorboards.

  “It keeps them off the streets, I guess.”

  Dalton looked around. The asshole was gone. But two guys eyeing him from a table nearby looked familiar. Late twenties, wearing faded Texas A&M ball caps. When one of them leaned over to say something to the other, Dalton saw the bright red hair poking out from beneath the cap at the back of his bullish neck and realized who they were.

  Cousins of Jim Bob Adkins. He had seen them in the gallery at his arraignment, sitting with the commissioner, Jim Bob’s uncle. They’d made no secret of their hostility then. It was no different now.

  Trouble. Dalton recognized the signs. He’d seen it over and over during his short time in prison. The whispers. The looks. Then after they’d built up enough courage with talk, or drugs, or booze, they’d make their move.

  He couldn’t stop whatever was about to happen. But he could pick the place.

  “Want another beer?” he asked Raney.

  “No. I’ve got to hit the restroom as it is. Meet you back here.”

  Dalton waited until she was lost in the crowd, then rose and walked out the exit door to the parking lot, the two Aggies following close behind.

  Showtime.

  * * *

  * * *

  Raney was talking to Suze Anderson in the ladies’ room when Joss burst in. “Two guys are heading outside to fight Dalton. He’ll get hurt. We have to stop it!”

  Shit. Trying not to panic, Raney reached for her cell phone, then realized both she and Joss had left them in the truck. “You have a phone?” she asked Suze.

  Suze nodded and pulled it out of the back pocket of her jeans.

  “Call 911. Report a fight at Harley’s Roadhouse.”

  Suze punched in the numbers. As it rang through, she glanced at Raney in confusion. “Deputy Langers is here. Won’t he stop it?”

  “He’ll probably egg them on, the jerk!”

  The operator’s voice sounded. “911. What is your emergency?”

  Raney grabbed Suze’s arm before she could answer. “Ask her to send the highway patrol. If she tries to route you to the sheriff’s office, tell her Deputy Langers is part of it.”

  While Suze repeated that to the operator, Raney told Joss to find people who had cell phones with them. “Ask them to video the fight. All of it. Tell them I’ll pay fifty dollars for a clean copy.”

  Joss barged out the door.

  “Have Jerry announce it!” Raney yelled after her.

  Suze ended the call. “The highway patrol is on the way.” She followed Raney out of the restroom. “You sure Toby won’t help?”

  “He hates Dalton because of some girl Toby had the hots for.”

  “Karla Jenkins. She thought Toby was a perv. I better warn Buddy. He’ll want to back up Dalton.”

  “No! Tell him not to interfere, Suze. No use getting your husband involved and turning this into a free-for-all. But you could video it and send it to Sheriff Ford.”

  After they left the bathroom, Suze went looking for her husband, while Raney hurried across the dance floor. As she neared the exit, Jerry made the announcement. As soon as he said “fifty dollars,” the crowd surged toward the doors, carrying Raney along with them.

  When she finally got outside, she saw Dalton and two other guys walking across the parking area, not far from where her truck was parked. Dalton led, the other two following close behind. One was jittering around. The other was a huge redhead, not as tall as Dalton, but a lot heavier.

  And off in the shadows, Deputy Langers watched and did nothing. Damn him!

  Heart pounding, Raney shoved through the crowd, desperate to get to the truck and her phone.

  * * *

  * * *

  Dalton’s prison experience had taught him a lot, and one of the most important lessons was how to fight like a street brawler. That meant relying less on fancy footwork and fists, and more on his knees, elbows, feet—as long as he had on boots—and his head. Literally. Headbutts could end a fight with one blow. Fists were too vulnerable, unless they were aimed at soft tissue, but that called for close work, which Dalton didn’t want. The object of those lessons was to put his opponent down as soon as possible, while minimizing damage to himself.

  These two guys didn’t worry him, unless they were armed. But he hadn’t seen any suspicious bulges in the pockets of their tight-fitting jeans, so he figured they hadn’t come prepared to fight. They were both big and beefy, probably played football, maybe even at the college level. But that was at least seven or eight years ago, and most of that beef had since turned to fat.

  Besides, in a street fight, size wasn’t as important as speed and agility. And Dalton had both. In addition, he had very quick hands—“sticky hands,” the newspaper had called them, back when he’d been an all-state wide receiver three years in a row. That was more than a decade ago, but he could still move. And thanks to the hours of weight training in the prison yard and his few early run-ins with other inmates, he figured he could handle these two assholes. Probably.

  He stopped in a clearing on the edge of the parking area. Solid ground. Dirt, rather than loose gravel. Well lit, but far enough from the parked vehicles to give them space. As he waited for them to make their moves, he rolled his neck and shook out his arms, then said, “You sure you want to do this, fellas?”

  “You killed Jim Bob.”

  “And you spending time in a hospital bed with a tube up your nose will make you feel better about that?”

  Behind the assholes, people spilled out of the Roadhouse. Most were holding up phones turned sideways. Videoing. That could complicate things. But it might also keep him from going back to prison for assault—a clear parole violation—as long as he let the assholes make the first move.

  He could do that.

  He studied his opponents, watching their hands, how they moved their feet, where their eyes were looking. They were younger than Dalton, but not by much, and they hadn’t aged well.

  The redhead was the calmer of the two. He had long arms and a thick body. A scar through one eyebrow and a lump on the bridge of his nose marked him as either a fighter or a defensive lineman. Able to take punishment. Able to dish it out. But he also had a beer gut that hung over his belt. Plus, he had to move a lot of weight. At least two-seventy. Maybe more. He’d be slow and tire easily. But if he got Dalton inside those orangutan arms, he could pin him against that beer gut and squeeze the air out of him.

  Th
e other guy was slightly smaller and skinnier. Wired. He couldn’t keep his hands still. His feet kept shuffling side to side, and his eyes darted back and forth like he was watching a Ping-Pong match. Hopped up on something and raring to go. He’d come first, but he wouldn’t last long. He was already rattled. A quick elbow to the side of his head and it would be lights-out.

  Dalton just had to make sure he came at him first.

  “Hey, crackhead,” Dalton called to him. “You still giving blow jobs for smack?”

  Childish, maybe, but it worked. With a shout, the guy charged.

  Instead of backing off, Dalton stepped toward him, sidestepped into a half turn at the last second, swung around as the guy went by, and brought his elbow with all of his two hundred thirty pounds behind it against the side of the druggie’s head. The guy’s forward momentum kept him going several steps before his legs gave way and he face-planted into the dirt.

  Down for the count.

  The other guy was already moving. Not fast, but not slow, either. His fists looked as big as cantaloupes. He held them high, protecting his face, his right hand slightly behind the left, his left foot forward. A right-handed boxer’s stance. He wouldn’t go for the face and risk hitting bone and breaking his hand. He’d go for the gut. Dalton would have to go lower.

  He watched the Aggie come closer and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, timing it in his head. As soon as the guy started his swing, Dalton would feint left and kick out his right foot, hook him behind the knee and pull him down.

  But just as the guy’s shoulders signaled his move, Dalton saw Raney running behind him toward her truck. He thought gun, and yelled, “Raney, no!” just as a sledgehammer fist slammed into his stomach.

  He staggered back, head spinning, gasping for air.

  Somehow, he stayed on his feet.

  The redhead kept coming.

  Dalton kept moving backward to give himself time to catch his breath.

  The Aggie came closer. Fists lower. Eyes darting down. Moving in for a kick.

  Right-handed usually meant right-footed. Dalton watched the guy’s feet. When the Aggie planted his left foot and jerked his right foot back, Dalton took a hop-step forward and drove the heel of his boot into the redhead’s left knee.

  A howl of pain, and the Aggie went down.

  The crowd jeered and clapped.

  Dalton bent over, hands on knees, and struggled to fill his lungs, hardly aware of the movement around him.

  Until a voice shouted, “Freeze, Cardwell!”

  Shit. Langers. Dalton slowly straightened.

  Deputy Langers stood in firing position, both hands on the pistol pointed at Dalton’s chest.

  “You’re wrong, Toby,” Dalton said, still breathing hard. “I didn’t start this.”

  “Put your hands up!”

  Dalton slowly raised his hands above his shoulders. Another lesson learned in prison: never argue with a man who has a badge and a gun.

  “On your knees!”

  Dalton dropped to his knees beside the two Aggies. One wasn’t moving, but Dalton was relieved to see he was still breathing. The other was cussing and holding his knee.

  “Hands on your head,” Toby ordered.

  Dalton put his hands on his head.

  Still holding the gun on him, the deputy came around behind him. A moment later, Dalton heard the click of the cuffs closing around his wrists. It was a sickening sound. One he remembered well. And for the first time since he’d walked out of the Huntsville state prison, he felt afraid.

  The onlookers murmured, phones still up, not sure what was happening. Maybe videos would help. Maybe not. If Langers had his way, Dalton would be headed back to prison tomorrow.

  The crackhead rolled over and vomited into the dirt. The redhead moaned.

  “Stand up,” Langers ordered.

  Dalton stood. He looked out past the sea of faces and saw Raney staring back at him, eyes stricken, a hand clamped over her mouth. I’m sorry, sweetheart.

  “Why are you arresting Cardwell?” a familiar voice shouted. “The other guys started it.”

  Dalton looked over, saw Buddy Anderson standing in front of the crowd, a belligerent scowl on his face. Suze stood beside him, phone up and recording.

  “He’s right,” another man said. “I’ve got everything on video.”

  Other voices shouted they did, too.

  Toby ignored them. “Step aside!” Gripping Dalton by the elbow, he shoved him through the crowd toward his cruiser parked next to the building.

  Then suddenly Raney stepped forward and blocked their way. She no longer looked stricken. Now her blue eyes were snapping with fury. “Why didn’t you do anything, Deputy?” she demanded. “Instead of just standing there and watching?”

  “If you interfere, Miss Whitcomb, I’ll have to arrest you, too.”

  “Then do it.” Raney held out her arms, wrists up. “Cuff me and within half an hour a dozen videos will post on the Internet. They’ll show that those other two guys started the fight while you watched and did nothing then arrested the wrong man because of some twenty-year-old grudge.”

  “Seventeen,” Dalton reminded her.

  Joss stepped up behind her sister, arms out. “Arrest me, too, Deputy Langers. You’ll be an Internet star. I’ve already sent a video to your boss, Sheriff Ford.”

  Other people stepped forward, arms out, asking to be put in cuffs. Laughter, catcalls and whistles, voices chanting, “Arrest me, too!”

  And in the distance, the wail of sirens. Several sirens.

  But Dalton could only stare at the woman in front of him. Fierce, brave, beautiful Raney. God, how he loved her. He reminded himself to tell her that when this was over.

  Waving people aside, Langers continued to push Dalton toward his patrol car.

  Dalton looked over, saw the nervous sweat sliding down Toby’s temples, the look of panic in his eyes, and decided this had gone on long enough. “Don’t do this, Toby,” he said in a calm voice. “You know I didn’t start it.”

  “Shut up.” They reached the car and Langers yanked open the door. “Get in.”

  Dalton tried one last time. “Don’t ruin your career over something that happened when we were kids. Stop now before it’s too late.”

  “Shut the fuck up and get in the damn car!” Toby shoved him into the backseat, then leaned down and glared through the open door, breathing hard, his breath foul and smelling of beer. “If neither one of those guys presses charges, I will. Count on it!” Then he slammed the door so hard it rocked the car, just as an ambulance drove up, lights flashing. Two Texas Highway Patrol SUVs came in behind it in a swirl of dust, followed by another ambulance.

  Someone had called out the troops, and Dalton could guess who. God love her.

  It took two hours to sort it all out. Deputy Langers received a call from Sheriff Ford and left soon after. The ambulances carted off the Aggies, one with a concussion, the other with a damaged knee. After talking to witnesses and viewing more videos than he wanted to, the trooper in charge issued disorderly conduct citations to all the combatants, told Dalton when and where to show up if he chose to contest it—which he advised him to do—then he and the other state troopers left.

  Excitement over, the onlookers went back inside, lured by Joss’s and Raney’s promise of a free beer for everyone old enough to drink. Within minutes the music started up again, life went on as usual, and only Dalton and Raney remained in the parking lot, arms crossed, leaning side by side against the front fender of her truck.

  “You owe me at least three hundred dollars,” Raney said.

  “I’m good for it.”

  Off to the east a late moon poked over the horizon. Dalton could see a tiny reflection of it in Raney’s eyes. “You have a lot of your mama in you,” he said. “And I’m not just talking about the
color of your eyes.”

  “Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”

  “It’s a miraculous thing. You’re both amazing women.” Seeing she was about to argue with him, he added, “But you’re a lot prettier.”

  “And younger.”

  “That, too.”

  With a deep sigh, she tipped her head over to rest against his shoulder. “You keep scaring me.”

  “I don’t mean to.”

  “Then stop.”

  They didn’t speak for a time. Dalton felt his energy level drop as the rush of adrenaline left his body. Aches and pains became noticeable—a throb in his elbow, a hitch in his rib cage whenever he took a deep breath. But he’d had worse. And it probably would have gone worse tonight, if not for Raney. Joss had told him about her sister’s fifty-dollar offer for a clean video and how she had made sure the 911 call went to the state troopers, rather than the sheriff’s office. Without her help, he might have been headed to the county lockup right now, instead of standing under the stars with her head on his shoulder. “Have I told you today that I love you?”

  “Only the once. And as I recall you only thought you loved me.”

  “I’m pretty sure I do.”

  “Hmmm.”

  He looked down at her. “You don’t believe me?”

  She lifted her head and studied him with an expression he couldn’t decipher. “You don’t know me well enough to love me, Dalton. When—and if—you decide you do, tell me then.”

  “Will you say you love me back?”

  “I don’t know.” She dropped her head to his shoulder again. “You stay out of trouble and keep saying nice things to me, maybe I will.”

  Dalton took that as a yes.

  Miles overhead, a satellite blinked to life. He watched its wavering path across the night sky and wondered if its camera could see his grin.

  CHAPTER 13

  Spring slid through May into early June. The days grew longer, the temperature higher, and life went on as usual. Which was part of the problem. Despite changes all around her, Raney felt stuck in a slow-motion cycle that went nowhere. Dalton was spending more time with Rosco than with her, Joss was nesting like crazy as her pregnancy advanced, and Mama was a little too excited about abandoning them and heading off to God knows where.