Justified (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Tyler gripped the binoculars resting in his lap as he eased his truck into the scenic overlook on a curve a mile from Fawn's shoddy house. The field glasses were powerful enough to see for miles, and Tyler needed to see far and clear because he had determined to set things straight with Fawn, get her to love him again. Even if it meant sitting on a cement picnic table day and night, he'd keep an eye on her.

He let the pickup door shut behind him with a soft click.

Tyler loved his truck—the one thing his father had given him before he died, and the only thing that didn't come with strings attached. Tyler leaned against the bumper and crossed his arms. The morning air chilled his skin, but the warmth of the engine penetrated the back side of his Levi's.

Fawn liked him in jeans. She said he filled them out like a man ought to. The girl had always been a pain in the neck, but she still had a way of getting him roused.

He peered across the ravine as a light popped on at Fawn's place. Right on time. Up before six. He'd gotten used to seeing that light every morning, and he'd enjoyed watching her, studying her, following her.

But she'd better not hook up with JohnScott Pickett again. Tyler had wanted to shake her by the shoulders when he saw her driving that man's truck. Her pale fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, and Tyler could only imagine her slender thighs pressed against the seat cushion. She would smell like
him
. Like cheap cologne and sweat. Like the coach.

Tyler shoved away from the truck and raised the binoculars. The house lay in darkness except for two windows, the kitchen and living room. He hated going in that junk of a house. The old place might topple at any minute, and it disgusted him—the lengths to which she would go to claim her independence. He didn't blame her for putting distance between herself and her parents, but turning her back on Tyler irked him something fierce.

He lowered the glasses to fiddle with the dials. Something was off, too blurry. When he brought them back to his eyes, he smiled. Fawn stood at the kitchen sink, the window positioned for a perfect view. She looked like she might be filling up a pitcher. Not surprising. Iced coffee, with all those fancy ingredients she added. He used to hate the way it made his truck smell. Girly and weak.

And Tyler wasn't weak. His father had seen to that. Work. Work. Work. “That's how a man makes something of himself, Son.” The phrase had been drilled into Tyler's brain, always with the token sign of affection tacked on to the end.

But his father had gone and left him alone.

Tyler gripped the fiberglass, fouling the adjustments, but then he calmed and corrected the focus to bring Fawn back into view.

His dad's last will and testament left everything to Tyler. Sort of. The house, the property, the business, all the money would be his, but even in death, his dad was forcing Tyler to work for the inheritance when rightfully it belonged to him already. There was nobody else. His mother had long since abandoned him in death. No brothers or sisters, thank God. No grandparents.

But some things never changed.

Like the twenty-two rifle on Christmas morning his freshman year of high school. Dad told Tyler not to come home until he bagged a duck. Took two days.

Merry Christmas, Son.

Fawn waddled past the living-room window and out the front door, and Tyler's pulse quickened.
Lord, she's pretty.
A lot of good it did her, though. She looked like a fattened hog in that outfit. He examined her clothing and appreciated the quality of the binoculars. She wore denim shorts and a huge T-shirt, and Tyler questioned why she hadn't put on one of the maternity outfits he had bought her, if only to maintain a sliver of dignity. Instead, she looked as if she'd walked straight out of the Goodwill on the wrong end of Lubbock. She made him look bad.

He would have to talk to her about that.

She stomped across the weeds, and Tyler noticed the Gypsy Soule flip-flops she loved so much. He smiled. She hadn't lost all her style.

As she left the glow of the porch light, the binoculars proved useless in the blackness, but in a few minutes, when the sun came up, he would be able to see her again. Sitting on the hood of that old Chevrolet.

If it had been Tyler, he would have relaxed with a beer, but he knew Fawn turned her nose up to alcohol. Sure, she shared a few bottles with him over the years, but Tyler always knew she looked down her nose at him because of it. Rebellion drove her to drink, but piety prevented her from enjoying it.

He lowered the binoculars and crossed his arms as the sun peeked over the horizon. He scoffed. Fawn and his father would have made quite a pair, because both were driven to do the right thing—at least in appearance—and his father knew it. His blasted will stated Tyler could claim his inheritance once he married and secured an heir. Not only did his father expect him to work for the money, but he wanted him to take Fawn back. Even Tyler's lawyer deemed it unusually old-fashioned, but the overpaid legal beagle couldn't come up with a way around the addendum.

But no matter.

A muscle twitched across Tyler's jawbone. Fawn Blaylock with her curly hair and long legs and cynical smile occupied his thoughts twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and he wanted her worse than he ever wanted anything in his life. More than alcohol or money or sex. He wanted her to be his for life.

Because he loved her.

He cackled at his father's ignorance. Dear old Dad tried to force Tyler to take Fawn back, when actually, Tyler had planned to have her all along. His dad only added icing to the cake, causing Fawn to serve a dual purpose in his life.

Now his woman would not only feed his craving, but she and that baby in her gut would be his ticket to a life of ease.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The earthy scent of the feed store, along with constant thumps and bangs of merchandise being loaded into farm trucks, distracted me from my work in the dusty office. I stared at the screen of the company laptop while I nibbled a granola bar and tried to keep my mind focused on invoices instead of JohnScott.

What a strange conversation we'd had. I left his double-wide not knowing where we stood, but not worrying about it either. In the end, I think we agreed we were mutually attracted to each other, but that neither of us needed a relationship. Especially me.

I suppose I felt relieved, in a way, to have broken things off with Tyler and temporarily put JohnScott out of my mind. I rested my forehead in my hands as a preterm contraction tightened across my midsection. Give me a break. JohnScott was
not
out of my mind.

Please God. Help me. Forgive me. I'm so sorry. I'll try harder.

A knock on the open door caused me to jerk my head up.

“Are you sick?” My father stood in the doorway, gazing at me with a blank expression, my mother a few feet behind him.

“No.” I blinked away moisture in my eyes, surprised they would be at the feed store. Dad usually sent his foreman. “I'm fine.”

“How's the child?” he asked.

I straightened a stack of papers on the desk. My father had never made reference to the baby, only my state of pregnancy, and his question put me on the defensive. “He's fine.”

“Good.” He stood with his hands on his hips, a cement wall for me to pound my fists against, but then his gaze dropped to the floor for a split second. “And how's the job?”

He wanted something, and I knew it had nothing to do with my health or my job. “I enjoy organizing.”

His fingers toyed with the buttons of his polo shirt. “I ran into Tyler yesterday.”

Well, that explained it. “You ran into him.” A more accurate statement would have been that Tyler tattled on me—because I'd been misbehaving, driving the coach's truck, breaking up with Tyler.

“He stopped by the ranch,” Mother mumbled, and when I looked at her closer, I noticed she'd been crying.

My father waved away her comment. “He's worried about you.”

“I'm all right.”

“Of course you're all right.” His voice rose. “But you've been talking nonsense.”

I stared at a printed advertisement of a rodeo cowboy tying up a calf. Caught halfway standing, the leathery man extended his arms as the calf struggled against tight ropes. I didn't answer.

“Look at me, Fawn.”

I begrudgingly looked his way. Like I did in seventh grade when he lectured me about disrupting my Sunday school class with too much giggling.

“I understand if it takes you and Tyler a while to work out the kinks. He's had an enormous weight on his shoulders since his dad passed.”

I gazed at his forehead. We had perfected this routine until neither of us had to stop and think how to push the other's buttons, but as always, he remained the domineering father and I his rebellious child.

He exhaled, and a string of words tumbled from his lips. “Your mother wants you at the house. Won't shut up about it being your home, and she's probably right for once. It's time you came back.”

“Please come home,” my mother whined.

I stood slowly, tired of being beneath my father and tired of him manipulating my mother. Years ago the two of them had urged me to date Tyler, and now they were urging me to get back with him. My father had kicked me out of his house, and now he had changed his mind. I may have been worthless in his eyes—and in my own—but I had to break free from his control.

“No, Dad.”

He studied my crossed arms, my jutting chin, my defiant eye contact that he craved so much. Then his face darkened. “You can't keep living up on the Caprock. Especially after …” He gestured toward my stomach.

“I can survive on what I make at the feed store.”

He glanced at the sales floor before moving in front of my desk. “You're not being fair to Tyler. Come stay at the house until the two of you smooth things over. Your mother has your room made up and a few outfits picked out.”

“No.” My knees trembled, and I eased myself down to the chair. I wanted to stand firm, stare him down, tell him off, but I didn't have it in me. “I'm a better person on my own.”

“Right now, you need guidance and support, and your mother and I can give it to you.”

His words rubbed a blister on my heart. The two of them didn't know the first thing about support, and if he interpreted guidance as coming to my workplace for a father-daughter talk, he had a lot to learn. “No.”

He stiffened. “Dusty barely pays you minimum wage. How will you manage?”

I ran my finger over a swirl in the wood of the desk. “The owner of my house is giving me a break on the rent.” I didn't go into detail.

My mother gasped and clutched the doorframe, and my father clenched his fists so hard, his entire body shook. You would have thought I had told them I sold cocaine door to door for extra cash.

“What?” I lifted my hands, then let them fall to the desk. “Tell me what I've done this time.”

My father's anger burned so violently, the whites of his eyes turned pink. “You shouldn't even be in that house.” He slammed something down on my desk, then turned and pushed past my mother, who had the back of her hand pressed over her mouth as though she might be sick.

Funny.
Their behavior didn't have the usual effect on me because I didn't understand what motivated it. I counted to ten, and Mother still hadn't moved a centimeter.

A flash of blue caught my eye near the laptop, and I reached down to pick up the object my father had thrown down. I fingered it, clinking it between my fingers.

My key chain with its blue-and-gold Tri Delta fob reminded me of my past interests, my past life, my past self. Attached to it were all my old keys, right where I had left them. House key. Barn key. Car key. I held my right-side-up life in the palm of my hand.

“Mom?”

A farmer on the sales floor peeked at us, and I felt exposed once again, for the entire town to see my failures and to judge whatever just happened with my parents.

“He'll calm down after a while.” She stepped toward me, but she didn't sound overly confident in her assessment.

“What's wrong with him?”

“It's nothing. He's upset because I've been nagging him to help you.”

“That's not what that was about. Why doesn't he want me to live in the house on the Cap?”

She tightened her lips, as though an honest explanation might escape her mouth if she didn't hold on tight. “I used to know the owner. But I don't anymore.”

“You mean there's a different owner?”

She shook her head, and her dangle earrings jiggled against her neck. “It doesn't matter. It happened a long time ago.”

I began to realize my mother's past might be even more scandalous than my own, and I pleaded with her. “Tell me what happened. Lynda Turner said you were treated for depression.”

A long honk sounded from the parking lot, and Mother's body went rigid. But then her face took on a determination I didn't often see, and her shoulders relaxed. “It was before you were born.” Her lips turned up in a smile, and she squeezed my hand. “I have to go now, but know that I love you.”

“What did he do to you?” I whispered.

She shook her head. “He didn't do it, Fawn. I did it all by myself.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“I'll go to church with you if you go to church with me.”

JohnScott's challenge seemed innocent enough when we were talking on the phone, but as I left the adult Bible class at the Slaton church, I decided I should have viewed it as less of an invitation and more of a dare.

Even in Slaton, twenty-five miles from Trapp, the baptized believers had heard about the Cruz boy knocking Coach Pickett to the ground. The high school football teams in the two towns were hard-core rivals, but the Slaton congregation still claimed JohnScott as an adopted orphan all their own.

And they were none too sure what to think when I showed up Wednesday evening, sitting between him and Clyde, and looking up scriptures in my well-worn NIV. They politely introduced themselves, welcomed me to their fellowship, and made appropriate small talk. Then they buried their noses in their study guides and scratched their perplexed little heads.

“You should smile more,” JohnScott said as we stood on the lawn after the service.

“She's been smiling,” Clyde said. “Sort of.”

“Those aren't real smiles.” JohnScott clasped his hands in front of him and curled his lips tightly—absurdly—showing no teeth and no smile lines. “She's got her shield back up, Clyde. Safety first.”

I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous expression on his face. “Oh, shut up, Coach.”

“That's much better, thank you.”

Clusters of people stood on and around the porch, laughing and talking, and the minister stepped toward us, greeting JohnScott and Clyde, then extending his hand to me. “It's good to have you with us tonight, Fawn.”

“Thank you.” My gaze darted to Clyde briefly. The two men looked to be about the same age, and I wondered if they had known each other before Clyde's prison stay.

“Your dad and I go way back,” he said.

My dad?

“We used to attend lectures together years ago. I was sorry to hear he stepped down as elder over there in Trapp, but I understand he had personal issues to work through.” He scratched the side of his neck and lowered his voice. “He's in my prayers, Fawn, and I trust he'll come back to the church when the time's right.”

My insides twisted into a knot, and I felt my lips curving into a tight smile exactly like the one JohnScott had mimicked. “Thank you.”

“And give Dodd Cunningham my best wishes when you see him next.” He patted my arm and then called over his shoulder as he walked away, “He's an excellent preacher.”

Three people turned to look our way before returning to their own conversations.

“Look at that, Clyde,” JohnScott mumbled to his friend. “Poof. Her smile's gone again.”

Clyde nodded. “It's that shield you were talking about.”

My heel tapped silently against the grassy soil. “What do you expect me to say to that?”

“Aw, Fawn,” Clyde said. “Buster didn't mean anything. That's just his way of saying he's real sorry for what happened last spring and all. I know for a fact he prays for your daddy all the time.”

I studied the minister, now bending down to listen intently as a child spoke. He seemed kind enough. In fact, everyone at the church had been nice to me. Yet I still felt an unspoken condemnation, and my gut reaction blamed them for my own guilt.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, and when I opened them, Clyde and JohnScott were both watching me and grinning. “You're right,” I admitted. “It's a shield. I don't know why I do that.”

“I do it too.” Clyde chuckled. “Uh-oh. I'd better get out of here before JohnScott asks me to share my feelings.” He lifted a hand in a parting gesture.

“Hey,” called JohnScott. “You want to ride with me to Lubbock Saturday morning? I've got to get supplies to repair the crawl space out at Fawn's house.”

“I wouldn't mind helping,” Clyde said, “but I'm scheduled to work at the DQ.”

We watched as Clyde loped to his car, leaving us alone.

Only a handful of churchgoers remained, and JohnScott and I wandered toward the parking lot. “I'm sorry if Buster upset you.”

Buster's comments hadn't bothered me nearly as much as the whispers I imagined behind my back.
But maybe those weren't real.
I ran my teeth across my bottom lip. “I guess he just surprised me. Hardly anyone mentions my dad, especially at church.”

“Must be awkward.”

“Yep.”

Smile lines spread across his cheeks, and I found myself wanting to trace them with my fingertip, but when we rounded the corner of the building, he stopped and his eyes widened. “You got your Mustang back.”

“My parents brought it by the feed store.”

He studied me, lifting his eyebrows as though he knew I had left something out.

“And they offered me money again.” I sighed. “Dad even said I could move back home.”

JohnScott didn't answer right away, so I opened the car door, wanting to escape the conversation without escaping him.

“Fawn, that's big.”

My right foot lifted to the floorboard, but I remained standing. “I'm not moving in with them, and I shouldn't take his money.”

He rolled his head back, staring at the sky, but then snapped his eyes back to me. “You've been praying?”

“Of course.” I slid into the role of rebellious student.

“Well, what have you been praying for?”

Looking down at my Tri Delta key chain, I mumbled, “For a way to support my baby.”

When he didn't reply, I raised my head.

His palms were lifted in the air, and he gave me a
you're-such-a-dufus
look. “You asked for it.” He leaned against the hood of my car with such force, my foot slipped from the floorboard.

The whole ordeal made me want to move to Alaska. It made me weary. “He could be trying to bribe me.”

JohnScott took a deep breath that calmed me as much as if I had taken one of my own. “Fawn, you prayed and God answered. Just because you take your parents' car, or their money, or eventually move back into their house—”

“I won't.”

“Okay, probably not. But you can let them help you.”

“I can't trust them.”

“You don't have to. Just respect each other.”

“Respect.” My veins slowly filled with lead. “They don't respect me.”

“But you can respect yourself.”

I rested my elbows on the top of the door and covered my face with my hands, wishing I could cover my entire body. “But I feel so ashamed. So guilty.”

“Fawn?” He waited until I met his gaze, then he held my eyes with his until the lead in my veins began to lighten. “You shouldn't feel guilty.”

“Guilt is the emotion all my decisions are based on.”

He stepped to the other side of the door, placing his hands around my elbows. “Guilt isn't an emotion, Fawn. It's a state of being, and you're not in it.”

“I am.” I shrugged. “I'm guilty of fornication, of dishonoring my parents, of selfishness.”

“Last time I checked, you asked all concerned parties for forgiveness. Including God.”

“Well, I sure don't feel forgiven.”

“Just because you can't forgive yourself doesn't mean God hasn't forgiven you. He washed your sins away long ago.”

I looked into his eyes, I felt his touch on my skin, I heard his words … and I almost believed it could be true.