Billy Bob Walker Got Married (7 page)

But there was a commotion behind him that made him twist to see what had caused the racket, and his mouth dropped nearly to his knees.

T-Tommy, flustered, was arguing with an angry, red-faced state trooper, who had Shiloh in a firm grasp above the elbow. The policeman meant to pull her forcibly into the cell area; he'd pushed open the door between it and the office, and he, Shiloh, and T-Tommy stood framed there as they argued.

"You act like you know this girl," the trooper was saying angrily. "That's real good, because she's gonna need friends. I clocked her at ninety-eight miles an hour out on Highway 25. That's fifty-three miles above the speed limit.
Fifty-three,"
he nearly shouted, flapping his free hand in T-Tommy's face, which paled considerably as he faced Shiloh.

"Good Lord," he said to her piteously, "tell me you wudn't makin' no such speed as that, Shiloh."

But before the flushed girl—she was shaking in the cop's grasp, Billy realized—could open her mouth to answer, the trooper added, "She's got no license, either."

"I told you—I left home in a hurry."

"I noticed." Furious sarcasm hardened the cops voice.

"It's in my purse, but I didn't remember to get it before I left."

"I can tell you who she is—" T-Tommy began.

"I don't care who the hell she is," the other man said loudly; then, through clenched teeth, he added distinctly,
"she wrecked the damn car."

T-Tommy gave a violent jerk. "What?"

"And she better be down on her knees thanking God she ran off in a ditch instead of into a telephone pole, which would have killed her. She was able to walk away— or I should say, run. I had to chase her down on foot, across a cotton field. Then she
kicked
me," the trooper said in painful remembrance, reaching a hand down toward his left shin.

Shiloh struggled briefly in his hard grasp. "I—he scared me, yelling and swearing. He came after me like a ... a mad dog. When I ran, he jumped me—grabbed me from the back. Of course I fought—what else was I supposed to do?" she asked T-Tommy, half furious, half pleading.

"Reckless driving, no license, wrecked car, attacking an officer," the cop reeled off. "I want her locked up.
Now."

"Shiloh, what's got into you?" T-Tommy demanded in desperation.

She took a quick, shuddering breath. "I—I had a fight with Sam. I thought he'd sent you after me, T-Tommy. Then this—this man—"

"Who in the hell is Sam?" the trooper demanded in a rush of frustration. "I hope he's her keeper, because she needs one. This girl's a lunatic."

"Her father," T-Tommy returned mournfully. "Sam Pennington."

The trooper stared. "Sam Pen—" he got out in shock. Then he looked wildly at the girl and made haste to drop her arm, which Shiloh rubbed painfully. "I don't care if her old man does own three counties," he began bravely, but his voice was already more subdued. "She ought not get out of this. It's—it's gonna cost her a bundle, this little joyride. And Pennington ought to be grateful she's getting away so easy. Wait till you see what she did to that car—she could be dead right now."

There was a long silence while the three of them looked at each other. The trooper was just a kid, Billy Bob thought, and getting younger every minute.

T-Tommy took a deep, resigned breath.

"You're right," he told the officer. "She pays. Write up the accident. Give her a ticket, and make it stiff. And I've got an empty cell," he added, pulling the huge jangling clump of keys up from his belt.

Shiloh s face flushed and her chin came up in surprised defiance. "You can't lock me up, surely. I didn't hurt anybody except maybe myself."

"You kicked this man," T-Tommy pointed out.

"I'm
—
I'm willing to forget that," the trooper put in hastily. "And I'll settle for a
heavy
fine and a wreck going on her driving record. No need for jail. I was pretty mad when I—"

"She knows better than to run a car at any such speed," T-Tommy cut in flatly. "Don't get your badge all heated up, son. I'm the one that's lockin' her up, and I'm the one who'll be takin' the blame if there is any.

"But—" Shiloh began.

"But nothin'," the sheriff interrupted. "I got no desire to see you dead, Shiloh. So you can just take your medicine. You'll spend the rest of the night right here, thinkin' about why. A'course, you got a phone call comin'. You could go right now and call Sam. Tell him what's happened," T-Tommy added shrewdly.

Shiloh stared at him wide-eyed, then swallowed heavily before she shook her head without a word.

"That's what I thought," T-Tommy said with a sigh. "He's what you're running from, all right, in more ways than one. Look at you—you're a bundle of nerves. You ain't fit to drive, nor fit to face him, either."

Then he fumbled for one of the keys and walked to the cell beside Billy Bob's, where he unlocked the door and flung it wide.

"Come on. And then I'll call Laura—just to let her know you're safe. She can tell Sam that much."

Shiloh tossed back her head defiantly and turned toward the row of three cells. For the first time, she caught a glimpse of Billy Bob as he stood in silence in the shadows, leaning indolently against the window, his elbows propped up in it, his long brown fingers locked together over his flat, bare stomach, and she jumped just a little, whether in surprise or apprehension he couldn't tell.

But she sucked in a deep breath and with a sort of if-you-don't-like-it-you-can-lump-it movement, she limped into the cell. Limped, because one heel was broken off of a shoe—the one she'd kicked the trooper with, Billy assumed.

T-Tommy moved with a heavy finality to shut the door behind her, then hesitated at the last minute and didn't quite push it all the way closed.

The watching trooper made a weak protest. "Looks to me like you're babying her."

T-Tommy eyed him, then answered dryly, "She ain't goin' nowhere. And for all your fussin', you're the calm before the storm. You ain't nothin' to what Sam Pennington's gonna be." Then he switched his attention back to the girl and said gravely, "This is for your own good, Shiloh."

He watched the girl who'd sunk onto the edge of the cot as her long, delicate fingers nervously smoothed the white sheet once or twice. She avoided both his gaze and that of her fellow prisoner.

T-Tommy, who suddenly seemed to remember that Billy existed, frowned at him and shook his keys in his general direction. "You watch yourself, Billy Bob. Don't give her a hard time."

His male prisoner lifted his hands in a mocking, silent surrender, then T-Tommy followed the trooper into the outside office, closing the door behind them.

That left the two of them alone in the dusky silence; even the church service had ended.

It had been four years since he'd been alone with Shiloh Pennington, and her unexpected presence here tonight just might make his thirty days in jail worthwhile. Excitement and pure devilment seeped into him as he looked her over.

She was wearing a sleek black nothing of a dress, and her matching hose had been torn up one side. The wild thickness of her shoulder-length hair had bushed out into a wavy, short mane, and she had a scratch along one cheek.

For the first time in years, she looked . . . touchable. Maybe even a little forlorn.

He pushed himself off the wall and as her wary brown eyes swung to find him, he drawled in a weak imitation of a gangster film, "So, Lefty, it's just me and you in the slammer tonight."

"If you say one more word, I'll—"

"Do what? Call the law? Well, don't look now, but somebody beat you to it, honey."

"Don't 'honey' me. I'm not in the mood for it."

His voice went dead serious as he stepped closer to the bars that separated them. "So you wrecked your car, just because you felt like speeding."

"And the worst part is—I lived through it. Right?" she asked defiantly, staring up at him. "Well, don't worry. I'll get a new car."

"Yeah, I guess you will. But what I want to know is, why were you running?"

"None of your business," Shiloh retorted, as she slid off her shoes and wiggled her toes. "If this is a game of twenty questions, two can play. What did you do that you're in here?"

"Nothing."

She made a funny huffing sound.

"It's the truth. I got fined three thousand dollars and two weeks' jail time for being in a fight. But the judge didn't like the way I answered his questions. So he tacked on two more weeks—or five hundred more dollars. And since I don't have the money . . ." Billy's voice trailed off as he looked around himself at the four walls and shrugged. "I guess I'll be in here the whole month."

"All that in one swoop? What did you do, set fire to his robe?"

"I took a dislike to his name. It was Sewell," Billy Bob told her flatly. "Your future father-in-law."

She couldn't contain the shudder that passed over her, nor the flash of understanding that lit her face. "Oh." Then she looked around the cell. "This place is a dive."

"I've been in worse," he said, his voice careless.

Unwillingly, she smiled a little, and the tiny dimple in her left cheek appeared. "Like Farmer John's?" Then she shut her lips tightly, as if she regretted letting him know the memory was in her head, one they had shared.

His head lifted sharply in surprise, and suddenly he recalled things about that long-ago night, too, things he didn't want to remember. A flash of anger swept over him—he hadn't been with her but a few minutes and she was already getting to him.

He said stoically, "We left when things got too rough, then we went parking at Seven Knobs, out on a dark road so quiet I could hear your heart beating—"

She came up off the narrow bed like a shot, cheeks flaming, her hands going up to her ears, and he heard her gasp of breath.

He got a rush of satisfaction from her reaction and he finished inexorably, "—beating like a scared rabbit's."

"Don't, Billy."

"That's what you said that night, too. And I'm sure that's all
you
remember," he told her ironically.

But he knew better—the vivid memory he'd pulled up from the past lay between them now like a quivering, living thing.

He had pushed away from her that night all those years ago, fighting down every instinct that told him to go further.

After all, she'd said, "Don't," and he was trying desperately to obey.

Then she'd suddenly caught at him, kissing his face and lips there in the dark, her hands fumbling at his shirt. He could still remember how hard it had been to breathe, with shock and passion both threatening to strangle him. It was nearly too late when he'd realized the truth—she wanted to please him, but she was scared to death.

He remembered how he'd made himself catch her hands, whispering no to her, telling her they'd wait. And he'd brought her home aching all over, trying to remember she was eighteen, the most innocent eighteen he'd ever seen.

Which showed just how naive he'd been at twenty-three, he thought now, wryly. That same eighteen-year-old had dumped him two weeks later.

But Shiloh in the cell beside his was recalling more than just the way he'd stopped things. She'd been embarrassed when he'd brought her home; she could almost hear the angry words they'd had just before she slammed out of his truck.

Maybe she really was just a tease, like Michael said, because she'd been furious with herself
and
Billy Bob the night he'd been the one to say no.

Was she the same girl who'd kicked and clawed Michael last night?

She stumbled back to the cot and collapsed on it, her head against the wall. She was tired, and confused, and sick with the excessive emotions of the day; that was why she wanted to hide somewhere and cry, why Billy Bob Walker's words had brought both such a flood of half-forgotten memories.

Unwillingly. Bilk began to take in things about the girl opposite him that he didn't want to see: her hands were still shaking; a bruise was appearing on her arm where that bully of a policeman had hauled her around; and the shadows under her eyes made her look exhausted.

Why had he said anything? It had been four years ago. He should have played it cool—he should have forgotten everything instead of dwelling on the memory of the one night she'd come on to him.

The door to the office area opened, and T-Tommy entered again, this time alone. His face was apprehensive as he entered the cell where Shiloh sat.

Billy watched, biting back his protest. She'd just got here—he had a whole lot he still wanted to say. So much for being cool and quiet.

Shiloh herself looked surprised as she opened her eyes. "You're letting me go?" she asked hopefully, straightening.

"No, ma'am," T-Tommy answered decisively. "I just got to thinkin' you might need to . . . to wash your hands or somethin'." His thin, leathery cheeks flushed a little; so did hers as she caught his meaning. "I'm gonna take you to the bathroom in the office just in case. You do what you need to do before she gets back, Billy Bob. They ain't no privacy in here, but she'll be gone awhile. I got some things to say to her."

"Yes, sir," Billy Bob said lazily. "I'll get my hands washed real quick." But inside, relief spread. Shiloh would be back.

"You watch your mouth, boy." T-Tommy said without a lot of heat as he ushered Shiloh out. and he began grievously even before they left the cell, "What got into you, Shiloh? Randy just radioed in from the wrecker—he says that car is totaled. The whole frame's bent."

"Well, I wasn't trying to wreck it, T-Tommy," she retorted. "I was scared half out of my mind. Why didn't he just lay off chasing me for a few minutes? I was too scared to—"

The door closed on her words.

Billy Bob took T-Tommy s instructions to heart, then lay back on the cot, punching the pillow up underneath his head, waiting . . . and thinking.

She had changed.

He'd already seen the physical changes when he'd caught glimpses of her around town since her return home last fall. Her eyes looked bigger, her figure was more slender, her lips were more vulnerable.

Up until tonight, he'd thought she was quieter, more contained than ever, at least in public. Shiloh at eighteen had been almost shy, slow to anger, but quick to burn when she finally did get upset.

And sweet . . . Lord, she'd been so sweet.

Billy moved restlessly. The sweetness had been the hardest part to forget.

But now there was an edge to her—she knew how to bite back. She'd learned sarcasm somewhere, just as she'd picked up a gloss of sophistication. The girl with whom he'd spent a summer had worn shorts and jeans and cotton dresses; half the time she'd had her long hair, nearly to her waist back then, looped in a loose braid.

He didn't recognize the girl in the black dress.

But most of all, this Shiloh didn't laugh and tease and sparkle the way his had.

This girl was serious and sad and angry.

Fifteen minutes later, when the door opened again, T-Tommy was still fussing like an old hen, but this time about something new. "—can't go without supper. How long's it been since you ate?"

"I don't know.' she said indifferently, sliding down on the hard cot with a sigh of relief. Tin just tired. Not hungry."

T-Tommy took a deep, aggravated breath. "I'm gonna get you a Coke, and I got a moon pie out in the desk."

"I hate moon pies—but I'll eat it," she added hastily as T-Tommy opened his mouth to fuss some more. When the deputy returned, he waited until she opened the package and took a bite before he moved.

"You understand, Shiloh,' he began apologetically, "that I'm doin" this—"'

"—for my own good," she intoned, and took another bite.

T-Tommy hesitated.

She said at last, looking up at him, "I'll think about all you said. No more speeding."

T-Tommy left, satisfied, and neither Shiloh nor Billy Bob said a word for a long time. He just straightened up, then sat propped in a comer, one arm wrapped around his raised knee; she finished every crumb of the pie and polished it off with a deep draft from the red can.

In the long waiting stillness that followed, a car went past on the quiet street of the little town, its headlights reflecting briefly on the wall opposite the row of cells; somewhere out in the office area, a phone rang several times, its sound muffled by distance; and at last, Shiloh set the empty Coke can down on the concrete floor at her feet. Then she asked offhandedly, "Wonder what time it is?"

His voice was startling after the quietness. "Getting close to midnight, I'd say."

"That explains why I'm tired."

He could sense her nerves, the edginess in her that seemed to intensify at his immobility, and he got even more silent.

"It seems like forever since I went to work this morning," she offered at last. unwillingly.

"Where do you work?" he asked, knowing good and well where Sam Pennington had sent his daughter.

"At the branch bank in Dover.

"So, you're a banker," he said, flatly. He didn't like the image the word conjured up; it called up visions of her stiff-necked father.

"Not hardly," she returned, and laughed a little. He didn't think she liked the word either. "I'm a lowly assistant to Mr. Parsons, the bank VP who's in charge over there. That's all."

"I thought," he said carefully, because this was getting into a too-personal knowledge and remembrance again, "that you wanted to be a teacher. It's what you used to talk about."

"Oh, that," she said dismissively, "I was a kid."

He kept his voice neutral. "And your daddy wanted you to be in banking."

She said nothing—but he'd hit home. He knew it. When at last she spoke again, there was a trace of anger in her voice. "And you? You were dying to leave the farm and the greenhouse to be a vet. So—why didn't you?"

Big dreams in a little town," he answered with a shrug.

"They didn't seem big to me," she told him slowly, with reluctance. She didn't want to get too familiar again, either. "You were good with animals. I remember that colt you worked with all summer. What was it you named him?"

"Chase," he answered.

"Have you still got him?"

"Yeah."

And you're still at the farm? Still landscaping?" "I don't landscape anymore," he said quietly. "You meet too many dangerous people that way." There was a moment's pause.

Then Shiloh slid her hand down to her ankle carefully, feeling across the bone. "I think I twisted something," she said with rue as she rubbed her foot. "It must have been when I kicked the state trooper."

"He bruised your arm," Billy Bob said shortly.

Shiloh looked in surprise at the mark above her elbow, then laughed. "It's not really his fault. He thought I was an escaped maniac."

The thought of Shiloh grappling with the policeman didn't do much for Billy Bob. "He turned loose fast enough when he found out who your daddy was," he said harshly. "He's a smart man."

The bitterness in his words ended their carefully neutral conversation. They sat breathing in the dim cells, neither speaking, then Shiloh said politely, "I think I need to sleep. I'm really—"

"The way I see it, wrecking the car and kicking the cop, those were real stupid. I heard you tell T-Tommy you thought Pennington was coming after you. Why run? Why fight? You'll do what he wants in the end."

_I

"I don't really care what you think," she answered hotly.

"I know. I found that much out the night you let your daddy talk you out of me," Billy Bob said, his words utterly emotionless.

"Please. I don't want to hear this again. We said it all four years ago. Why can't we just—"

"No, we didn't." Billy sat up slowly, his anger rising. The misery was gone; he'd suffered through its demise, but the temper was still there. "You talked, and Sam Pennington talked—and swore—and threatened, but me, I mostly got talked at. And talked about. And talked down to."

He stood suddenly, and even in the dim light, the gold in his hair glistened when he raked his hand with its long

_I

fingers and big knuckles back through it. Sam had hated Billy Bob's hair, Shiloh remembered just before he spoke. "I came to get you. I can still see where you always waited for me, there beside the magnolias. Where nobody could see you sneak off after dark to meet me—and that was my first mistake." He took a step closer, his hands on his hips, his open shirt swinging.

"From the very beginning, from the das I first saw you out on the porch when Grandpa sent me to landscape your yard, I should either have run or gone right up to your dad and said, 'Here I am. I'm the grandson of the fruit stand man. Sometimes I work as a landscaper when my grandpa tells me to. That's who I am, Sam Pennington, and I mean to see your daughter.' "

"It wouldn't have worked," Shiloh told him pleadingly, looking up at him.

"Yeah, it would've," Billy Bob corrected. " 'Cause then he would've thrown me out from the start, and I wouldn't have spent the summer runnin' after you only to find out too late that you didn't mean a word of it. You were a damn cheat, Shiloh Pennington," he finished hotly.

Two red flags burned in the girl's cheeks, and she, too, came up off the cot, her eyes snapping. "I'm tired of being called names, d'you hear me? I never cheated you of anything. You talked about Farmer John's—well, you were the one who stopped, remember?"

"And it was a good thing—two weeks later you went to Mexico with your old man."

'You know why," she answered his angry words in desperation.

"Yeah," he returned after a long pause while he struggled with his anger and calmed his words. "Sam Pennington found out, and by the time he got through, there wasn't
anything
left of us."

He'd gone to meet her that last night—and when he walked up the shadowy little path, Shiloh had been waiting at the magnolias, just like always—but so had her father. One look at the man's stern face and Billy had felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach.