Justified (13 page)

Chapter Thirty

Saturday morning JohnScott sped toward Lubbock, intending to purchase supplies for Fawn's place, but all the while questioning if he had any right to court her. He glanced in his rearview mirror. Other than another pickup half a mile back, he had the road to himself.

He attached his cell phone to his car stereo and fumbled with it until Josh Turner's deep bass filtered through the speakers, and he wondered if Fawn liked country music. He had never asked her. Probably she liked pop, or rap, or something crazy like classical. He scratched his ear. Probably he couldn't stand whatever music she listened to.

He made a mental list of the supplies he would need to fashion a removable cover for the crawl space. Plywood, two-by-fours, nails, maybe some paint. But the whole house needed to be painted, and he hadn't signed on for that. So maybe no paint.

He frowned, wondering for the hundredth time if there might be more snakes. Clyde had told him the best way to rid a property of snakes was to eliminate the food source—in this case, mice—and he had done what he could. He'd also removed piles of debris that created nifty hiding spots, and he had cut back tall grass in the corners of the yard. A pile of rocks still remained out back, and of course, the woodpile. If a snake came within a twenty-mile radius, it would gravitate to that rotted wood.

He pulled into the Home Depot parking lot, grateful the store wasn't busy so early in the morning. He could fetch the supplies and get out to Fawn's house before the sun rose too high. He entered the store, thinking how she would have iced coffee waiting when he took a break. He'd rather have sweet tea, but he would never tell her that.

After loading lumber onto a flat cart, he pushed the cumbersome load toward the aisle where the nails were found. As he rounded the corner, he almost ran into another customer, and he swerved to avoid hitting him. “Sorry about that.”

“Well, hey there,
Coach
.”

JohnScott looked up, instantly on guard. “Tyler.” He yanked the cart to the side of the aisle. “What brings you all the way to Lubbock on a Saturday morning?”

Tyler's gaze traveled slowly across the wood. “Looks like you got yourself some lumber.”

“Sure enough.” JohnScott ran his palm along the rough board. “Now all I need is nails. How 'bout you?” He opted to ask his original question once more before abandoning it.

“Picking up some gear for the ranch. Always needing something.”

“I see.” But JohnScott didn't see. If Tyler needed supplies for the ranch, he'd have a cart, or at least a basket, or an inventory list to place an order. “Same with our place. Always needing something.”

Tyler's lips curled away from his teeth, and JohnScott wondered how he got them so unnaturally white. “Now,
Coach
, your family has what? A couple hundred acres? It's hardly the same.” His grin lessened. “Is it?”

JohnScott began to comprehend Tyler's intent, but they weren't going to debate whose ranch was bigger. He might as well be back in second grade, arguing about Transformers or bicycles or lunch boxes. “No, our ranches are quite different.” He gripped the handles of the cart, signaling his exit. “I'd better get going.”

“I'll mosey along with you while you find your nails.” Tyler walked next to his cart.

The kid wasn't drunk this time, but he was up to something.

Tyler motioned to the nail display. “You need a box? Or just a handful?” He reached into a drawer and withdrew two four-inches nails. “What kind of project are you working on?”

Apparently Tyler knew JohnScott had been working on Fawn's house, so he decided to get it out in the open. “Today I'm covering a crawl space on Fawn's rent house. She had a rattler under there a couple weeks back.”

“She told me about that snake. Set her off pretty fierce.”

The fact Tyler didn't mention the second snake proved Fawn hadn't talked to him. “Yep.”

Tyler shoved the nails back in the drawer. “You seem awful bold, tending another man's woman. Asking her to church with you.”

JohnScott tensed, surprised Tyler had already heard she went to church with him. It had only been three days. He decided to ignore the comment and focused on something else that bothered him. “She's not your woman.”

“You've seen her lately. I think I've left my mark on her, or have you not noticed …”—his boots gritted against the cement floor as he repositioned himself—“her body?”

Fire shot through JohnScott's rib cage, and he had the urge to hit Tyler. To pound his face over and over until that stupid grin fractured. Until his teeth were no longer unnaturally white, until his mouth stopped talking.

But more than anything, he wanted to get out from under Tyler's scrutiny, because JohnScott felt his face flush at the mention of Fawn's body. He was appalled not only by the degree to which he had noticed her but that Tyler had guessed it as well.

He lowered his head. “I'm just helping her get the place fit to live in.”

“I can take care of her on my own,
Coach
. I don't mind if you repair the stinking crawl-space cover. It'll save me the trouble of hiring it out, but after that, stay away from her.” He grinned like a demon. “She's my property.”

For weeks JohnScott had been questioning his own intentions, his propriety, his Christianity, but Tyler had pushed him too far. “Actually, no.”

“What?”

“You haven't been taking care of her. I have. But I'm not doing it because I want something from her. I'm doing it because it's the decent thing to do. So no, she's not your property. And I don't think she needs you at all.”

Tyler clenched his fists and took a step toward him.

“Surely you're not going to fight me in the middle of the Home Depot.” JohnScott laughed even though he wanted nothing more than to hit him. “Tyler, I've got no beef if Fawn wants to be with you. I'm not standing in her way, but if you need to fight someone, fight yourself. Fight
for
her. Show her you want to be what she needs.”

Tyler smirked. “I thought you said she doesn't need me.”

“She needs a lot, but it doesn't necessarily have to come from you.”

“So you're saying you and your dinky job can provide for her as well as my family's millions.”

JohnScott shook his head. “You don't get it. She doesn't need millions. She may think she does, but she doesn't. She needs a man.”

The fury on Tyler's face didn't dampen JohnScott's determination. On the contrary, it convinced him he hadn't been wrong to discourage Fawn's relationship with the guy. And Tyler's threats didn't lessen JohnScott's growing feelings for her, as Tyler undoubtedly intended. Instead, the instinct to protect her clamped onto his heart like a vise, driving him to defend her with the intensity of an offensive lineman protecting the quarterback.

He pushed the cart toward the registers, half expecting Tyler to tackle him from behind, but when he got to the end of the aisle, he glanced over his shoulder, and Tyler had gone.

He took a deep breath, then paid for his items and pushed the cart out the door in time to see Tyler's truck speeding out of the parking lot.

JohnScott frowned. Tyler hadn't purchased anything. As far as JohnScott could tell, he hadn't even looked around. Tyler's truck stopped at a red light at the corner, and JohnScott remembered the vehicle behind him on the way to town. It could have been Tyler's—the color was right—but surely not. That didn't make sense.

He loaded the lumber in the truck and pushed the cart back into the store with a sinking feeling he had made things worse for Fawn. He supposed he would have to explain it to her, but that would be the easy part. Figuring out what to do with the protective instinct exploding in his brain? That would be something entirely different.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Figured you'd be out here, Fawn. Watching the sunrise.”

JohnScott had come by my house first thing in the morning, and I could still hear the drawl of his voice. He measured the crawl space and asked if I'd like to ride into Lubbock with him, but I said no. I had too much homework.

But it wasn't true.

I wanted to spend time with him, ride with him in his old, beat-up pickup, and inhale his masculine, outdoorsy scent. I wanted to follow him through the store and trust his judgment on the purchases for my house. I wanted to touch him.

So obviously, I couldn't accept his invitation.

Examining myself in the bathroom mirror, I tugged on my hair, which had lost its highlights, then ran both hands across my abdomen. I slumped against the tile wall, cool in the warmth of the house, and wished I could turn off my thoughts. Thoughts of JohnScott Pickett.

Sliding to the floor, I rested my head on my knees, but only for a second. My body didn't have room to be folded in such a way, and the baby kicked, prompting me to lower my legs and sit cross-legged.

Rowdy, watching me from the doorway, whined softly.

“I know, buddy. I'm on the bathroom floor again.”

Dropping my hands to my sides, my fingers touched a clear plastic ring I'd pulled from a can of shaving cream earlier in the week, and I glanced at the trash can, out of reach. Tyler would hate that my house wasn't neat and tidy. I set the ring on the edge of the bathtub and wondered how JohnScott felt about messes. And babies. And me.

I shook my head. Sometimes I imagined long and hard what it would be like if I hadn't gotten pregnant, but I never went so far as to wish it were so. Until now.

When I heard his truck in the yard and the squeak and thud of its door, I hauled myself up from the floor. “Your old owner is back from the store, Rowdy.” It took me a while to find my favorite flip-flops, but I finally located them in the closet. Pregnancy must have affected my memory, because I didn't even remember putting them away. I habitually left them against the wall by the bedroom door. Pausing, I gazed around the room, wondering what else I had forgotten.

The dog and I walked out the back door and around to the side of the house, where JohnScott had two sawhorses set up near the crawl space.

“Good game last night? I'm sorry I missed it.”

“Stomped 'em. And we had a pretty good show of support for an out-of-town game.”

“Did you try the new play?”

“Worked like a charm.” He powered on the saw, and it rang through the morning breeze.

When he shut it off, the air snapped with silence. “Thanks again for everything you've done out here.”

“I've enjoyed helping.” A smiled played at his lips, and he picked up his metal tape measure, checking his work against figures scribbled on a notepad he pulled from his back pocket. “I ran into Tyler at Home Depot.”

“That's strange.”

“A little too strange, if you ask me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm probably being paranoid, but I can't figure the kid in Lubbock on a Saturday morning.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Sure did.”

“And?” Sometimes getting JohnScott to talk was like coaxing honey from an onion.

“He didn't seem to like the idea of me working out here.”

“Too bad.” I sipped my drink, crunching a piece of ice.

“So you really broke it off with him?” JohnScott had his back to me, so I couldn't see his expression.

The wind blew my hair out of my face, and I closed my eyes, wishing I had never known Tyler and imagining the air cleansing my conscience of familial expectations, religious propriety, class distinctions.

“I know my parents want me with him, and the church, maybe even God. But I'm done.” I opened my eyes and found him watching me, and when he went back to work, peace settled over me like sunshine, instilling me with a sudden jolt of confidence. “I want someone else.”

He was halfway straightened, as though he had frozen while in the process of standing up. He held a pencil in his hand, and his eyes focused on my left shoulder as if he couldn't bring himself to make eye contact, as though my words might be a spell in jeopardy of being broken.

I said nothing else, just looked at him, waiting. If I knew the coach at all, he would ponder my words for a few seconds.

He shook his head briskly, either in acknowledgment of my statement or to clear his thoughts. His attention fell rigidly on his project as he fitted the door to the opening, screwing in the hinges, fashioning a brace to keep it tight against the wall of the house. He didn't say anything, but two more times he shook his head.

When he began packing his gear, my confidence dissolved into a puddle. On trembling legs, I slipped through the back door to lean against the refrigerator until I stopped shaking.

I fixed two iced coffees, then watched from the front window as he made trips to his truck. This morning he would finish the work on my house, so we wouldn't necessarily be seeing each other often. If I avoided him in town, things might not be awkward between us.

My gaze drifted past his truck, and far in the distance, Flat Top Mountain rose boldly above the plains, reminding me of a time my father and his ranch hands had ridden horses to its base. He let me tag along, and since he didn't often do things just for fun, the venture stuck out in my mind. I loved this country. Sweeping views and rocky terrain gave it a wild, sometimes dangerous feel, and my life seemed intertwined with its fierceness.

The back door opened and closed, and I watched mutely as JohnScott's gaze bounced around the kitchen before he located me in the living room. He blinked slowly as though steeling himself for an undesirable task.

“Listen, JohnScott.” I picked up his coffee. “Don't worry about what I said.”

I held the glass toward him, an icy peace offering, but he didn't take it. Didn't look at it. Maybe he didn't even see it.

“Fawn?” His voice caught. “You know that day at the holding tank?”

My heart collapsed.

I could imagine his next words, but I had to answer him anyway, follow this conversation to the end, take my medicine. “Yes.”

“I've been thinking about that day. Because that's sort of when this started.”

I nodded but said nothing as I set his glass on the coffee table and cradled my own between my palms.

“I know we've already hashed through it, but something's been gnawing at me.” His voice drawled more than usual. “I was dishonest. I didn't tell you what I really thought that day.”

My hand settled on the back of the recliner, steadying me, grounding me, keeping me from running out the door.

He laughed in a nervous way, as though he didn't want to talk to me either. “I said we were simply caught unaware, and there was nothing wrong in either of our reactions. But, Fawn?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I lied. I noticed you that day. Even before you bumped into me.”

I turned my face away.

“Every time I came over here to work, I noticed you. Every time you brought me an iced coffee. Every time you tied my gloves around your wrists with ponytail holders.”

What?

“And I know what you're thinking, because I've heard you say it enough times.” He shook his head. “I didn't notice you because you did anything inappropriate.
You didn't.
I noticed you because you're kind and you want to be a good mother. You're helpful and giving.” His eyes closed briefly. “Do you remember what you and Ruthie were talking about right before you bumped into me?”

All I could remember from that entire day was the expression on JohnScott's face when I came out of the water, and the expression on his face moments later, when he wouldn't look me in the eye.

“No.” My mouth formed the word, but no sound came out. I cleared my throat. “I don't remember what we were talking about.”

“You had gone to see your obstetrician. And you were saying the baby had an irregular heartbeat.” He rubbed a palm across his face. “And, Fawn, right then, I was so scared for you.” He clenched his jaw. “And so darn jealous of Tyler Cruz. I wanted to be the one at the doctor, helping you. You probably didn't even think about it at the time, but I turned around and stared at the cattle like an idiot …” He shook his head. “I couldn't even look at you.”

A tear threatened to slip down my cheek. “And then Grady pulled you in the water.”

His eyes held mine. “That day in the holding tank, your physical beauty caught me by surprise. I had forgotten how attractive you are on the outside because I had become so taken with the real you.”

His eyebrows sloped down toward his cheekbones, and I wanted to run my hands across his forehead to ease his tension, but I didn't. I wouldn't.

“So when we had that long discussion on my porch about how I slipped and kissed you accidentally? I lied a big fat send-me-straight-to-hell lie, because I had been wanting to kiss you all along.” His gaze darted from one of my eyes to the other, and his tone changed, becoming desperate. “Say something.”

I flinched.

My life bore scars from vanity and selfishness, scars that might never heal. Yet one by one, tears trickled down my cheeks, and my scarred heart dared to believe him. “I don't deserve those words, JohnScott.” His name stuck in my throat with a small sob.

He took two hurried steps toward me, leaned over, and kissed my cheek. The softest, lightest kiss. And when he pulled away, a question lay in his eyes.

His face hovered inches from mine, imploring me to respond. The sincerity in his eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead, the droop of his cheeks all asked the same question, but my insecurity paralyzed me, and when I didn't move, he took a hesitant step away.

Then the inches between us became a chasm as wide as the Caprock itself, and panic snapped my nerve endings like a leather horsewhip. I stepped toward him quickly, wanting to convey the feelings bursting in my heart. Feelings I couldn't voice.

His stiffness melted, and he slowly, gently, cautiously slid one arm around my shoulders and the other around my waist. He bent down, burying his face in my neck, and relief swept over me like a warm summer breeze. The tension in the room, in the town, in the whole world blew away in an insignificant puff of smoke.

I nestled my head against his shoulder and let him hold me—a cold glass of coffee and a big, round baby between us.