Justified (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Where was God?

Monday morning, Labor Day, I sat on the hood of the Chevy, picking at the polish on my thumbnail and waiting for Him to show up.

Probably He was angry. Even though I turned my back on some of my sinful behaviors, greed had driven me into another scandal with Tyler, and I hadn't even prayed about it. Not much anyway.

In general, prayer was a new thing for me. I had been raised in the church, perfect attendance three times a week and years of potluck meals, but in spite of that, I hadn't developed a faith of my own.

I lifted my hair to the top of my head and fanned the back of my neck. If I didn't shower soon, I wouldn't be ready when Dodd and Ruthie picked me up for the softball game. But I shifted to a more comfortable position, gifting myself five more minutes as I considered the terminology.
A faith of my own.

I heard that phrase in sermons, read it in blogs, and listened to it in Christian songs on the radio. And I recognized it in myself. Once I started looking.

And I started looking about the time I left home. I don't mean when I went to college because nothing changed then. But when my parents kicked me out of their house? That's when I started questioning God, wondering why I couldn't feel Him. Yes,
feel Him
. According to the sermons and blogs and songs, God could be felt. He could be heard. And if I believed strongly enough, He could be seen.

But so far, He hadn't shown up.

He hadn't been at Ansel and Velma's house either, in their guest room where I first started fumbling with prayer and cried and moaned and pitched a fit. I had expected Him to show up immediately, and when He didn't, I longed to ask for Velma's advice. But I didn't. Even though we talked about every topic under the sun, religion was off limits. The Picketts were still trying to make sense of JohnScott's baptism last year.

Ruthie was no help either. I tried to talk to her about God a few times, but she could hardly understand the
faith-of-my-own
dilemma. She had been going to church such a short time, she couldn't understand the habitual boredom I felt every time I entered the building. Or worshipped. Or prayed.

“God?” I leaned my head back and stared at a puffy, white cloud. “I get the feeling I should have talked to You about Tyler a while back.”

Nothing. My words floated over the cliff, dropped straight down fifteen feet, then tumbled end over end down the sloping terrain until they came to a stop two hundred feet below.

Maybe I should speak more confidently. Boldly. Assuming God would grant my requests. But no, I'd heard strong Christian women in the Tuesday-morning ladies' class praying soft and humble prayers, and they seemed to be feeling His presence constantly.

“Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't consult You about Tyler, but now … what am I supposed to do about JohnScott?”

I ducked my head. How could I expect God to answer? I carried one man's child, yet somehow attracted the attention of another. And I enjoyed it.

Maybe I had a thing about sin.

I shoved my curls out of my face and frowned at the cloud. “Okay. So I don't deserve a man, but could You at least help out with my bills? I can't take care of this baby all by myself.”

In slow motion, the cloud slid to the left, mocking me with silence, and I jerked to my feet, wincing as the backs of my thighs stuck to the metal hood. I cursed, kicked the bumper, then slumped against the driver's door and sobbed.

Chapter Twenty-Three

JohnScott pulled to the side of the road, slid his truck out of gear, and leaned his head against the back windshield, wondering if he would see Fawn today. Ever since Saturday night's street dance, she had invaded his thoughts to the point he couldn't concentrate. But fortunately, he'd been on the tractor most of the weekend and hadn't had much to think about.

Except her.

As two more vehicles parked, he thrust his door open and plastered a smile on his face. “Hey, Clyde. You ready to play some softball?”

“Might as well.”

They had met at the overpass on the edge of town, calling a few friends and spreading the word. Even though Trapp boasted a Little League field, the gate remained chained nine months of the year because of a political mix-up, forcing pickup games to be held at the intersection of Highway 84 and Farm-to-Market 288, where the two roads created a knoll, perfect for use as a baseball diamond.

JohnScott transferred four bags of feed from the bed of his truck to the grassy area, creating three bases and home plate, while a plastic trash can lid marked the pitcher's mound. More cars pulled off the road, some with players, others with spectators, and soon tailgates lined the makeshift field, creating two dugouts and a series of bleachers.

When Dodd backed his El Camino between JohnScott's truck and Clyde's old sedan, the coach immediately noticed Fawn's long blonde hair in the passenger seat. His pulse raced, but he turned away quickly, holding a baseball bat at each end and using it to stretch his shoulders.

Dodd called to him as he lowered his tailgate and pulled an ice chest to the back. “J.S., I say you and I should be team captains.”

Ruthie wagged her finger. “You're picking me first.”

Dodd raised an eyebrow. “I never said that.”

JohnScott peeked at Fawn, but she had turned away from him to watch Grady as he talked to an elderly man. She pulled her hair back in a ponytail. Surely she didn't intend to play. He frowned at Dodd and tilted his head toward Fawn, questioningly, but Ruthie popped him on the shoulder. “Fawn, my cousin doesn't think you should play.”

JohnScott's stomach tightened as if his team had just lost the state championship, and when Fawn glared at him, he thought he would've preferred losing a game, if he had been given the two options.

“I'll be on Dodd's team,” she quipped.

“No way.” Dodd wrapped an arm around Ruthie. “I've already got one weak link.”

She smiled, but JohnScott noticed she only looked at Dodd and Ruthie. “I'll have you know I played softball in high school and intramurals at Tech my freshman year. Even if I can't run at the moment, I can still knock the occasional home run.”

The preacher held his palms up in surrender. “But still, I only want one of you.”

Ruthie kissed him on the cheek. “And you're stuck with me.” They walked toward the pitcher's mound while Fawn crossed her arms in a pout.

A small, faint bruise lay across her cheekbone, barely visible beneath a thick layer of makeup, and when JohnScott saw it, he had the overwhelming urge to protect her. She seemed so fragile. And sometimes naive.

“You could get hit in the stomach with a ball,” he challenged.

“In all my years of playing softball, I've never been such a bad player that I could actually miss a ball coming straight at me.” She still kept her eyes diverted.

“Okay, fine.” JohnScott slid his hand into his baseball glove. “But if you're going to be on my team, you can't refuse to look at me for the entire game.”

She blinked twice, and her gaze flitted to his knees, sending a burst of energy through his muscles.

“I … don't know how to act,” she mumbled.

“Neither do I, and it's my fault. I'm sorry.”

“You mentioned that.” She turned her back on him and walked to Ruthie.

JohnScott could have kicked himself. They had been good friends, and he, like an idiot, had messed that up. Only a few moments before he kissed her, the poor woman had been slapped, betrayed, and humiliated by her boyfriend, and JohnScott hadn't slowed down long enough to consider all the reasons for him to keep his distance.

Dodd and Ruthie's easy banter settled his nerves, but at the same time, their comfortable relationship shone in stark contrast to his and Fawn's. But he could repair the damage he had done. He would show her they could be friends, even if he had acted like an adolescent schoolboy strung out on hormones.

Clyde held a bat toward Fawn. “Just try to hit the ball, and then run like a jackrabbit.”

“We don't have to worry about her making contact with the ball,” JohnScott said. “But I'm not sure I want to see her running like a jackrabbit.”

“Aw, now.” Clyde chuckled. “Forgot about that.”

As JohnScott watched Fawn's back at home plate, he could see why Clyde forgot. She swung the bat in a slow arc, and from this angle, she didn't look pregnant at all. She even had a bit of a waistline. His gaze dropped to the curves of her shorts as she swayed, but he pulled his attention away, scolding himself.

He didn't see the bat connect solidly with the ball, but it sailed high into left field, a little short. Fawn jogged to first base and stopped as Dodd fumbled the ball, picked it up, and threw it home.

The huddle of players around JohnScott cheered.

“She's our secret weapon,” he called to Dodd.

“A pregnant girl who runs like a duck?”

Fawn laughed from first base. “I don't run like a duck.” She shrugged at Ruthie. “Do I?”

JohnScott's nerves settled as he stepped to home plate, hoping he didn't make a fool of himself. Football was his game, not baseball, but sometimes he got lucky at bat. He glanced at first base, and when he saw Fawn staring at him, it charged him with adrenaline, but he quickly reminded himself she
ought
to be staring at him. He was batting, for heaven's sake.

The pitch flew right over home plate, and JohnScott connected with it, hitting it high in the air. Holding his palm to his forehead, he followed the ball as it soared over his head to drop onto the frontage road behind him. Foul ball.

As Grady chased it, JohnScott called to him. “You might want to stay over there until I'm finished batting.”

“Turn around and hit backward,” Grady said.

“Not a bad idea,” JohnScott chortled.

As predicted, the next hit also sailed in foul territory, but the third slammed over Ruthie's head in right field and turned into a clean home run.

JohnScott sailed around the feed bags, catching up to Fawn and sweeping her into his arms to carry her across home plate. Her giggles only made him run faster, and when he set her down, they both stomped on the feed bag.

“Two to zip.” JohnScott put his thumbs in his ears and wiggled his fingers at Dodd.

“You wait, J.S.” Dodd shook his head. “The best is yet to come.”

JohnScott pulled a Gatorade from the ice chest in the back of his truck, then sank onto the tailgate next to Fawn. “Be sure and keep drinking. You don't want to get dehydrated.”

“Dehydration isn't going to be the problem. You thought of everything except restrooms.”

“I suppose the cedar tree I used won't do.”

She made a face. “Definitely not.”

“If worse comes to worst, take my truck to Allsup's on the edge of town. Can you drive a standard?”

“Of course.”

A car honked as it passed, and JohnScott, along with several others, responded by lifting a hand in the air. But when he glanced toward the highway, he recognized the F-150 as Tyler's, and he spoke quickly. “Hey, Mom and Dad are missing you. Can you come tomorrow night for dinner at my place?”

Her forehead wrinkled slightly, but then a swell of yelling brought their attention back to the game. Clyde was strolling around the bases, guzzling from a bottle of water, having just hit a home run far across Farm-to-Market 288.

“I'd like to see your parents, JohnScott.”

He gripped the edge of the tailgate as he grinned over Clyde's home run, but then he slowly turned his gaze back to Fawn, forcing his actions to appear casual and unbothered. Her makeup had run slightly, and the bruise on her cheek was more prominent. He worked his sore jaw back and forth absentmindedly, wishing he could have been the one to bruise, not her. He didn't realize he was staring until Clyde sat on the tailgate between them and spoke to Fawn.

“Seen any more snakes?” He pushed his hair out of his eyes.

“No, and I don't expect to.”

“Best be on the lookout just the same. Back in the day, there were lots of critters out at that place.”

“So you've heard the rumors.”

“They weren't all rumors. A team of hunters used to make a special trip to your place every year during the round-up.” His voice softened. “But even if there are more diamondbacks out there, they won't bother you none unless they feel threatened.”

“But if a team came out, they would have gotten all the snakes, right?”

Clyde shifted on the tailgate, and JohnScott and Fawn lifted up, then down. “Well, that was a long time ago.”

“Which makes me think the stories don't apply anymore,” she said.

“Not necessarily.” He spoke slowly, and JohnScott could tell his friend didn't want to scare her. “Rattlers live in dens, and the odds of every last one of them getting caught is slim to none. Usually at least a few are left behind.”

“Well, you guys got two the other day.”

“Yes, but …”—Clyde ran a hand over his chin, causing a scratchy sound—“they keep coming back to the same den, sometimes for years, having babies.”

JohnScott could see the gears turning behind Fawn's eyes. He kept his mouth shut though, glad she had finally humbled herself enough to carry on a conversation with the ex-convict.

“Okay,” she said. “Let's say there were two snakes left behind. If both of those came back every year and gave birth to a baby snake, then after a year, there would be four snakes. And after two years, there would be six.”

Clyde sighed and seemed to choose his words cautiously, as though he were about to step on a diamondback himself. “Well, there's a couple things you have to think on.”

“Such as?”

“Well, that second year, the babies would be having their own babies.”

“Of course.” She lifted a hand and let it fall against her knee. “So the growth would be exponential.”

JohnScott thought he saw her shiver as she considered the numbers behind it.

She massaged her lower back. “You said there were a couple things to think about. Do I even want to know the other?”

“I reckon not.” Clyde paused, watching the frolicking on the baseball field for a few minutes before speaking softly. “When diamondbacks give birth, it ain't just one.”

“How many do they have?”

“Anywhere from three or four up to …”—he scratched behind his ear—“ten. Maybe twenty.”

“Oh my God.” Fawn slipped off the tailgate and turned to face him.

“Now, like I said, you don't need to be scared.” Clyde spoke quickly. “Even if they're out there, they don't want a fuss any more than you do. Just give them some space.”

She stared, speechless, and JohnScott wanted to wrap his arms around her and tell her she didn't have to stay in that mess of a house.

“JohnScott brought the dog out there, right? Dogs can smell 'em.”

“But Rowdy is like … nine hundred years old,” Fawn protested.

“That doesn't matter,” JohnScott said. “He can still bark.”

Clyde smiled, and then sobered again. “If you come up on a critter, do what you did the other day. Freeze, get your bearings, and then back off slow. Odds are, the snake will want away from you, and then it'd be a footrace to catch him.”

She sat back down, rubbing her palms up and down her arms as though she were cold.

Clyde peered across the makeshift softball diamond. “You don't have to stay out there, sweetie. Ansel and Velma would take you back in a heartbeat.”

JohnScott cut his eyes toward Fawn. Two weeks ago, Clyde Felton referring to her as
sweetie
would have elicited a violent scowl, but now she only frowned in concentration.

“I need to prove I can take care of myself.”

JohnScott's insides filled with clay.
Surely she wasn't talking about him.

Clyde grunted. “Your mom and dad?”

“Yep.”
Now she was mocking him. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I bet I do.” Clyde chuckled. “I bet I do.”