Justified (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

As Tyler pulled away from the house, I stared at the boxes scattered over my living room. Most expectant mothers would have been anxious to open them, to set up the gear, to play house, but I couldn't bear to look at them. Every box represented Tyler's attempt at control, and I considered piling them on the front porch. Or maybe throwing them over the cliff. But things wouldn't seem so dire once I got some rest.

Drifting into the darkened kitchen, I flipped on the light with trembling fingers and reached for the instant-coffee mix. One more glass of iced decaf might send me to the restroom in the middle of the night, but I didn't care. I turned on the faucet and trudged to the bedroom while I waited for the water to heat.

Tyler's accusations about JohnScott knifed through my heart, but in spite of the hatefulness, his behavior confused me. He had acted strange—manic—with all his spending and excessive energy. He once mentioned he took medication, but I always assumed it was for attention deficit or something like that. Now I wondered.

I slipped off my sandals and tugged my shirt over my head. Probably he was just stressed because of his dad's death, but his prediction about JohnScott sounded all too rational. I braided my hair down one side, then leaned through the doorway to peer toward the kitchen. Steam rose from the sink, so I reached for a cotton nightshirt and hurried into the kitchen in my bra and athletic shorts.

Filling a glass halfway with hot water, I added a spoonful of instant coffee and a spoonful of hot cocoa mix. Probably I was addicted to the stuff, but there were worse things. Plenty of things. When the powders dissolved, I added water and ice, then leaned against the counter and swallowed the pungency sip by sip.

No comfort food could erase the gnawing truth that JohnScott could have his choice of women in Trapp. Even in Garza County. Probably the surrounding counties.

I set my glass on the counter, unhooked my bra, and let it fall to the floor. As I slumped into the living room, I slipped my nightshirt over my head, wondering why I ever thought I could have JohnScott Pickett for myself. I fell into the recliner and pulled at the handle until the footrest lifted beneath my feet, then I turned on my side and buried my nose in the headrest. Even surrounded by boxes, that chair was safe. It smelled of Ansel and Velma's house, but the comfort melted as a memory niggled my brain. Something Tyler had said but I couldn't quite remember.

The wind rattled the beams in the attic, and something shifted on the porch. I ignored it and reached for a textbook, but Rowdy perked his ears.

“It's all right, boy. It's the wind.” When I dropped my hand over the armrest and snapped, he obediently came to me. “You'll probably leave me too.” I scratched behind his ears, and he laid his head on the armrest. Mentally I shunned the possibility of life without JohnScott, but the thought of losing Rowdy brought tears to my eyes. “You're a good friend, Rowdy.”

The dog growled low in his throat.

“What was that for?”

He snorted an apology and nuzzled my hand.

“Don't you get weird too.” I took his face between my hands and cuddled him.

He barked then, backing away from me and growling.

I stared at him in surprise. “Rowdy, stop it. Come here.”

His jowls were low to the floor, and he continued to growl, edging toward the front door. He sniffed once and then barked.

When I flipped on the porch light, a hollow buzz sounded from the gap beneath the door and echoed off the walls and ceiling as though it came from every corner of the room.

Rowdy inched backward with each deep-throated bark as though the effort released a strong wind that could annihilate the danger. Then he ran forward, growled, and pushed against my legs, trying to herd me deeper into the room.

Chills spiraled down my legs as I peeked out the window, but I couldn't see the snake. I pulled Rowdy by the collar, rubbing his neck. “It's all right, boy. We're safe in here.” My words didn't console me, and I searched beneath every piece of furniture and around every box. I considered going out the back door and around the house to my car, but darkness kept me rooted inside.

Fumbling for my cell phone, I dialed JohnScott's number.

“Sorry I haven't called. Practice ran late tonight, and I'm bushed.” He sounded as though he was lying in his own recliner, probably watching old football tapes, half asleep.

When I heard his voice, the emotions I had suppressed since Tyler pulled into my yard came seeping over the edge of my heart, and I sobbed once, then stifled the rest of it.

Rowdy barked again, growling at the door, and I pulled him back toward me like a barrier.

“What's wrong?” JohnScott sounded wide awake now, and I imagined him standing up, reaching for his boots, checking his watch. “Are you all right? Is it the baby?” I heard a thump over the phone and wondered if he had knocked something over.

I laughed and cried at the same time. “It's not the baby. It's a snake.” My last sentence came out in a desperate whine. “I'm sorry to bother you.”

“You're not bothering me.” A door slammed, and he panted slightly. “Where is it? By the woodpile again?” A car door slammed, and his truck started.

“It's on the front porch. Rowdy heard it or smelled it or something. I had just thought about going out …” My voice trailed as I considered what might have happened if I had put the boxes on the porch. “He's going nuts.”

As if he understood my words, Rowdy set off into a new round of barking, and I could barely hear JohnScott.

“Keep him between you and the snake.”

“Believe me, I will.” I pulled my feet up and held the dog's collar. “Don't drive too fast.”

“Are you all right if I let you go? I'll be safer with two hands.”

“Sure, I need to go to the bathroom anyway.”

He sighed heavily. “Take the dog with you.”

I had to drag Rowdy to the bathroom, because his instincts told him not to turn his back on danger, and when I finally got him in the bathroom, I shut the door—a habit I had gotten out of—in order to keep him with me. He waited, conveying his impatience by whining periodically and giving me the proverbial puppy-dog eyes. I washed my hands and opened the door quickly, releasing him with a frenzy of claws against tile. As he leaped toward the living room, I heard a noise behind me.

A hollow scratching. Only for a brief second, and then it stopped. My heart raced, but I froze like Clyde had told me to do. Through the hallway, I could see Rowdy crouched on his haunches by the door. I snapped my fingers softly, trying to get his attention, trying to get him to come back, but he wouldn't budge.

Slowly I turned, expecting to see a snake in the corner of the room or in the bathtub. Nothing. I heard JohnScott's truck approach with its blessed squeaking, and nothing had ever sounded so good. Rowdy ran into the bathroom, turned around, and barked at me once, wagging his tail. When he rushed in, the piece of plastic I'd pulled off the shaving cream tumbled across the floor, and the hollow sound repeated. I rolled my eyes and let out a deep breath.

Returning to the living room, Rowdy and I looked out the front window as JohnScott lifted a J-hook out of the back of his truck. He raised his hand toward me, then scanned the ground. The porch light didn't reach all the way out there, so he fumbled in his truck for a flashlight, which he swept back and forth as he approached the house. Soon he stood on the steps, studying the boards in front of the door. I couldn't see the snake from the window, but JohnScott held up one finger.

I supposed I should have been glad there was only one, but I worried there were more. And for the first time since I called him, I worried about JohnScott. I didn't even know what would happen if a person got struck by a rattler.

By the time I decided JohnScott could handle things, he had handled them. The diamondback was safely stuffed in a burlap bag, which JohnScott tied and placed in a box in the back of the truck.

When JohnScott opened the front door, I wanted to rush into his arms, but I didn't. “You're all right.”

“Me?” He removed his cap and scratched his head. “I was worried about you.”

“I had just been thinking about going outside. I would've gotten bit.”

“Naw, Rowdy would have.” The coach crouched in front of the dog, rubbing his neck and shoulders. “Good boy. You did good.”

The possibility of Rowdy getting struck made me shudder. “What would have happened to him?”

JohnScott tilted his head as he rubbed the dog's ears. “Aw, Fawn.” He shrugged. “Clyde says the bites cause swelling.”

“What else?”

“Well … a couple of things.”

“Like …”

“Okay.” He stood. “The venom circulates through the body and prevents blood from clotting. So any bleeding can't be stopped. Then the venom sort of … digests the body from the inside out.” He looked past me to the boxes, and his eyebrows lifted. “What's all this?”

His description of venom poisoning turned my stomach, but his casual question spurred another rush of the same panic I'd felt moments before. What would JohnScott think about Tyler coming by? If I backed away slowly, maybe fate wouldn't strike. Maybe the coach wouldn't get the wrong impression. Maybe he wouldn't scurry away from me.

“Fawn?”

I returned to my perch on the edge of the recliner. “Tyler brought it.”

“Oh.” He scanned each box. “Looks like you've got everything an eight-pound human could possibly need.” He rubbed his chin and frowned.

“I don't know what to think,” I said cautiously. “Tyler seemed strange tonight, agitated, and when I mentioned you, he got upset.”

“I bet.” He bent slightly as though he were going to ask me a question, but instead he turned away again, his head swiveling from one side of the room to the other.

I dropped my head into my hands with my elbows on my knees, and the baby protested at the tight squeeze by kicking against my ribs. I ignored it. I watched JohnScott's boots, the only part of him visible without lifting my head. His feet were planted shoulder width apart, facing toward me, and I imagined his face contorted in disgust. Or anger. When he still didn't move after a few moments, I lifted my gaze.

He looked at least ten years older. His eyes drooped at the edges, weary and overwhelmed. “Do you want to be with him?”

“No, JohnScott, that's not what I want.”

“Then tell me.”

A tear ran down my cheek. “No good Christian man should want me. Tyler says so. My dad says so. You shouldn't even be here.” I sobbed once, feeling small.

Small and insignificant.

But JohnScott knelt in front of me, and one callused hand pushed my hair away from my face. “No, no, no.” His soft touch diminished my doubts and kindled my hope, but still I shook my head in protest.

Exhaustion—both physical and mental—drained me of energy, and I wanted to curl up in Ansel's chair until all my problems evaporated.

His fingertips nestled behind my neck, and he wiped my tears with his thumbs. “I want you to be happy, and I'm going to help you get there.”

I sniffled. “You … what?”

“Happy.” He pulled a cloth handkerchief out of his jeans pocket and wiped my eyes.

“Tyler said you'll get tired of me.”

“When did we start listening to Tyler?”

“He and I are just alike.”

“You have a lot in common, I'll give you that much. But you have more things that aren't.”

“Like what?”

He pulled me to my feet, wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and led me into the kitchen. “Well, you were both raised by parents who were somewhat controlling, but you're trying to break into independence.” He found my half-empty glass of coffee, handed it to me, and watched while I sipped it. “And you're both hung up on material possessions, but you're breaking free from that, too. And you both grew up with strict religion, but you're starting to believe God likes you.”

I took a deep breath and set my glass on the counter. “You must think I'm an emotional wreck.”

“No, I think you're a hormonal wreck.” When I looked at him in surprise, he continued. “I've got older sisters. I've seen the havoc pregnancy can wreak on a woman's mental balance, and it ain't purty.”

I popped him on the shoulder and tried to smile.

He took my hand in his then, holding it against his lips for a few seconds. “I'm not going anywhere, Fawn.” Leaning his hip against the counter next to mine, he looked down at me. “I'm right where I want to be …” He let his left hand rest lightly on the baby. “And I'm staying.”

My heart did a somersault.

He leaned closer, his face inches from mine, then slid his other arm around my shoulders. “I want to kiss you again. Badly. But if you don't want me to, say so.”

In response, I reached my hand to his cheek, rubbing the backs of my fingers across the rough stubble on his jawline. I slid his cap off his head, letting it fall to the floor behind his back. “I'm not going to say so.”

His eyes shifted, and I recognized determination and confidence before his lips touched mine.

Then every ounce of tension drained from my muscles, and I relaxed against him, running my fingers through his hair. He responded by gripping my shoulders more firmly, supporting my weight, and for the first time in months, I felt carefree, as though JohnScott's arms were strong enough to carry my burdens.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Tyler hadn't been gone from Fawn's house five minutes, and he already missed her. She hadn't reacted to his gifts as he expected, but she could be difficult at times. He cut his headlights half a mile from the scenic overlook so he wouldn't run the risk of Fawn noticing. Lucky for him the full moon illuminated the outline of the white-rock road.

She had turned into some sort of nature girl, fanatical about living in the middle of nowhere, but she didn't even like being outside where she could experience the land. She only wanted to look at it, sitting on the porch, feeling the wind. Whatever. He'd buy her a set of cushioned lawn furniture, or a chaise lounge, or a hammock. Anything she wanted.

He sat on a cement picnic table and rested one foot on the bench, then unbuttoned his shirt and threw it on the table behind him. He stretched his arms over his head and flexed his muscles, remembering how she liked him in jeans and a wife-beater. She always griped about the nickname for his undershirt, though.

He grunted. Tyler slapped her around a bit, but he would never really hit her. He got the impression Fawn's dad might have taken a few punches at her mom—her parents were messed up that way—so no wonder she preferred the term muscle shirt. But that didn't bother him in the slightest because he spent a lot of time and money on his muscles. He rubbed a thumb over his left bicep, gingerly inspecting his healing wounds. One more letter, and he'd have the tattoo finished.

But before that, he'd check on Fawn. She'd been in a tizzy when he left her place, practically pushing him out the door. But if he knew her, she'd be soaking in a bubble bath by now.

He raised the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the controls. No movement at all in the kitchen. When he scanned the living-room windows, where all the boxes were piled, he cursed. The baby crap partially obstructed his view. He should have thought about that, but at least he could still see the recliner.

Then he saw her, and his hands tightened on the binoculars. She had come into the kitchen to mix herself a glass of coffee. Tyler increased the magnification, inspecting her undergarments and swollen belly. Good Lord, she was beautiful. But she acted like a tramp, undressing in front of the windows, even if the nearest house was miles away. She ought to know better. She ought to save herself for him.

He stroked the binoculars as he watched her drink her coffee, and when she removed her bra, he increased the magnification again. He was addicted to her—physically, emotionally, mentally—but he didn't care. It had gone beyond a claim to his inheritance, and he had to have her.

She curled up on the recliner, and the dog came to her.

Stupid dog. Stupid coach.

He clenched his teeth and lowered the glasses. He should've taken care of JohnScott Pickett at the street dance, and he would have, if the stinking team hadn't interfered. But he'd have another opportunity to set the coach straight. He would see to that.

Pulling the razor blade out of his back pocket, he rubbed his thumb across the smooth surface. He had never worked on the tattoo at night, but he could use the glowing light from his cell phone and finish the job. He'd come to enjoy the release he experienced when he cut himself. As much tension as that woman caused him lately, he might have to carve her last name in his arm too. He'd have half the alphabet running all the way down to his wrist.

He held the phone between his teeth and surveyed his work. No last name needed.
FAWN
.
Carved neatly in block letters across the bulge of his bicep. She had kissed him there once, and she would kiss him there again.

He clenched his teeth as the blade sliced into his skin, then cut twice more, almost dropping the phone. She'd like this. And for once, she would realize how much she meant to him. The blood ran down his arm, dripping from his elbow to the cement table, but he let it flow unhindered. Every drop that trickled out of her name relaxed him that much more.

He needed a beer. A beer and Fawn through his field glasses. He stuffed the blade back in his pocket and stepped to the truck. Taking a can from the cooler, he guzzled the liquid, then resumed his position on the table, lifting the glasses to his eyes. The bathroom light glowed, but he couldn't see in that room much at all.

The woman used the toilet every five minutes. Even back when they used to drink together, she had a small bladder. She'd nurse a wine cooler for fifteen minutes and then have to take a leak.

She had always been a pain in the neck. The wine coolers, for one thing. Who drinks wine coolers? Tyler took a swig of beer, then crushed the empty can before tossing it to the ground. It clanked against a growing pile, and he considered Fawn. She used to toss her empty bottles into a concrete drainage ditch as they drove by, making him slow down so she could hear the glass shatter against the concrete.

In the darkness he turned his head toward the cliff, wondering what shattering glass would sound like as it bounced down the hill. He might have to bring bottles next time.

Headlights approaching Fawn's house caused him to raise the binoculars again. The idiot drove too fast, slamming on the brakes at the curve where the road hugged the cliff, then hurrying to the house to stop outside the swell of Fawn's porch light.

The coach.

Tyler would have to do something about that guy. One way or another, he'd get that message across to the farm boy. Tyler leaned back and rested his elbow on his bent knee, watching the coach get out of his truck. To have been in such a god-awful hurry a second before, he sure moved slowly now. And peered all around the truck like a fool.

JohnScott reached into the back of his beat-up truck for some sort of pole and then crept toward the house. Maybe Fawn didn't know he was out there. Usually when she heard cars approaching, she opened the front door. The coach stepped carefully onto the porch and swept the pole toward the doormat, then jerked it and took a step back.

Holy cow, a snake. On the
front porch
.

Tyler stood and gripped the binoculars with both hands as the coach deposited the snake in a bag.
What a wuss.
If it'd been Tyler, he would have shot a bullet through the blasted demon's eyes. The only good diamondback was a dead one, and he had a collection of rattles to prove it.

But a nerve twitched in his jaw. How did JohnScott Pickett know how to catch rattlesnakes?

Fawn opened the door then, and the dog leaped toward the coach.

Don't go in that house.
Tyler gritted his teeth.

But he did. JohnScott went right in as though he owned the place.

Tyler lowered the glasses and rubbed his eyes, still not believing the rattler on Fawn's front porch. He had just been over there and could have stepped on the thing. He hadn't even been thinking about snakes. Hadn't even been looking for them. He opened his second can of beer and downed it quickly, then reached for a third. He'd have to be more careful, that's all.

He bumped the binoculars against his forehead as Fawn and the coach moved into the kitchen. He wished the coach were out of the picture, but he'd take what he could get. Fawn's slender fingers pushed a stray curl toward her braid, and she turned around, leaning against the sink. Even pregnant, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever been with. He flexed his bicep, thinking of her kisses.

But what he saw next made his back stiffen. The coach was touching her. Not just hugging her this time. He stood close, talking, leaning into her. Tyler rose to his feet and took three steps toward them, then readjusted the glasses. The wuss pulled her toward him, kissed her, devoured her with his mouth. And Fawn—the two-timing slut—kissed him back. She had hold of his neck, and Tyler could see the muscles in her arm flexing as she drew him closer.

He lowered the binoculars as every muscle in his body tightened. A low rumble started in the base of his lungs, then erupted out of his throat in a raspy scream that drifted over the rim of the Caprock. He gripped the binoculars in both hands, wrenching them back and forth, wanting to feel the fiberglass break beneath the grasp of his muscles, but they frustrated him by not budging. He growled and hurled them powerfully over the edge of the rock face, and after a few seconds, he heard the field glasses break into pieces as they hit the rocks below.