Justified (5 page)

Chapter Eleven

Tyler couldn't stomach Ruthie Turner. She had latched onto Fawn like a tick and would undoubtedly suck every drop of common sense from her. But Fawn had always allowed her friends to do that, clinging to them as though she couldn't stand on her own.

He would set Fawn straight, though.

Tyler pulled to the side of the road and punched his phone. “Sure enough. I found her right where you said she'd be.”

Neil Blaylock's mutterings on the other end of the line brought a smile to Tyler's lips. Fawn's dad undoubtedly thought he had Tyler wrapped around his little finger.

“Did you talk sense into her?” Neil asked.

“It'll take me a few days to get her on the line, but I'm working on it.”

“My daughter's no good on her own. Never has been.”

Tyler looked across the street to where Neil and Susan Blaylock sat in their car. Fawn's mother fluttered her hands, and Tyler could hear her over the line, whining about love. He chuckled. “She won't be alone much longer.”

Neil raised a palm to silence his wife, and Tyler heard him mumble, “He loves her, all right? We've established that fact.”

“Tell your wife I love Fawn more than life itself.”

Neil squinted at him from across the street.

“I saw it in a movie one time.”

Neil lowered the phone to the steering wheel and turned to Susan. “He says he loves her more than life itself.”

The woman's shoulders melted. Lord, she was pitiful.

Neil put the phone back to his ear. “I don't care what words you use, but you've got to convince her. Fawn deserves the best, and you're it.”

Tyler questioned the man's intentions. Neil was a Christian, a husband, a father, but he was a rancher first, and Tyler knew he wanted more than a good match for his daughter. He wanted a solid connection with the power behind the Cruz name.

“I wouldn't have it any other way.” Tyler nodded, using Neil just as much, if not more, to get what he wanted.

Fawn couldn't stand to be in the same room with her parents, but she always tried to milk them for approval.
Good luck to her.
He'd tried the same thing with his own father, and a lot of good it did.

Neil started his car, and it settled into a dull purr. “She's refusing to take my money, even after all that complaining about me not helping her.” Tyler could see Neil's jaw clench, even from so far away. “But that could work to your advantage, I suppose. Without my help, she'll need you even sooner.”

Susan snapped at him, louder this time. “Not everyone marries for money, Neil.”

Tyler reached down and pulled a can of beer from the ice chest on the floorboard, hiding his smile. The Blaylocks could really get off on each other once they got going. Susan's eyes became slits, and she glared at her husband. Tyler found it humorous, but he knew once he was married, he would have to teach Fawn to show him respect.

“Oh, shut up.” Neil didn't look at his wife, only lifted his chin to Tyler. “Let me know if you need any help. I already put in a good word.”

“Don't worry, sir.” Tyler opted to use the formal title, continuing the charade. “I love your daughter, and I'm determined to win her back.”

“Well, you might want to hurry it up. She ought to be married before the baby comes.”

“I see what you mean.” Tyler had every intention of marrying Fawn before the baby came. That way there would be no doubt of his son carrying his name. He popped open the beer can. “Yes, sir. Before the baby comes. You can count on it.” He tossed the phone on the seat, then tilted his head back to let the liquid cool his throat.

He stretched the truth when he swore he loved Neil's daughter, but he figured he could work up to that eventually. Or maybe he loved her already. He wasn't sure what that felt like, but something burned inside him. Now he just needed to convince her, and the first thing on his list was to figure out where she was living.

He took another swig of beer, started the truck, and pulled confidently onto the highway leading up the Caprock.

Chapter Twelve

Friday night I went to the Panthers' first football game of the season, feeling old and pregnant. Cheerleaders a few years younger than me flipped head over heels down the track while I sat in the stands with Ansel and Velma and all the other parents. For once, I was grateful to see Lynda Turner climbing up the bleachers with a cardboard tray of nachos. Ruthie's mother didn't look a day over twenty-five, and when she sat down next to me, I felt the average age of our group drop dramatically.

“Is Ruthie coming?” I asked.

“No, she and Dodd went to a concert in Lubbock.”

She closed her mouth around a cheese-covered chip, and my stomach complained. So far my nose had alerted me to every morsel of food in our section of bleachers, including a bag of buttered popcorn, a hot dog topped with mustard and onions, and two dill pickles.

“You eat before the game, Fawn?” Velma adjusted her cushioned stadium seat and poked Ansel to do the same.

“Frozen dinner.”

“That don't count, girl. You go get you something else.”

Once again, she read my mind. “I'll wait till halftime. I don't want to miss anything.” I loved the pigskin sport. I didn't understand the subtle details of every play, but I had a better-than-basic understanding of the strategy.

At the moment, the Panthers were leading one touchdown to zip, and Coach Pickett—
JohnScott
—sent in the second-string offensive line to rest the starters. I saw no real risk in that move, even this early in the game, because the second string played almost as tough as the first. Trapp High School hadn't had a team this strong in years, and I smiled thinking of how much fun JohnScott would have coaching his way through the play-offs.

He stood on the sideline with his arms crossed, silently concentrating on his boys and ignoring the hubbub of activity around him. The entire town showed up for home games, but JohnScott might as well have been alone with his team. His ability to block out the crowd was legendary, one reason he had become so good at his job.

Ansel leaned forward, picked up an empty Dr Pepper can, and spit tobacco juice into it. “That boy of yours could use a trim, Velma.”

The three of us immediately evaluated JohnScott's hair. He wore a Panther snapback pressed all the way down to his ears, but curls sneaked from beneath its edges.

“Sure enough, he could.” Velma dropped her palm to her knee. “That's one more thing I need to tend to.”

“It's about time you let that boy grow up.” Lynda tossed her empty nacho container under her seat. “He can go to Sophie over at the Style Station, like the rest of us.”

Ansel grunted.

“Now, Ansel, you be nice.” Velma leaned toward me and snickered. “Sophie cut Ansel's hair last year when I came down with the flu, and he hasn't gotten over it yet.”

“Almost talked my ears clean off.” He spit in the can again.

I smiled, unable to picture either Ansel or JohnScott trapped in Sophie's chair beneath a leopard-print cape. I glanced at the coach. He wore a red Trapp High School polo shirt, tight across his shoulders and arms, and gray coaching pants that were none too baggy. As he stood next to two of the assistant coaches, I compared them limb for limb and remembered why my sophomore friends giggled in class.

“Lord have mercy, here comes Grady.” Lynda scooted two inches to her right to shorten the gap between her and the aisle, but Dodd's brother headed toward Ansel, walking across benches as if they were stepping-stones in a stream.

The old man muttered Grady's name without looking at the boy. “You just getting here?”

“Yes, sir. I had to tend to a few things.” Grady leaned forward and attempted to make eye contact with Lynda, who pointedly ignored him.

Velma looked between the two of them suspiciously. “There something you're wanting to tell us, Grady?”

“Well, now … no.” He glanced at Lynda again. “I wouldn't want to bring something up if it weren't the right time.”

My head turned left then right as I watched the two of them, and Velma's did the same. Ansel, on the other hand, kept his eyes focused on the game, spitting into his can.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Lynda said. “I know about Dodd's plans.”

Grady grinned. “In that case, I might as well tell you Dodd's proposing to Ruthie tonight.”

Velma gasped. “You don't say! How's he going to do it?”

“Boring.” Grady shook his head. “Dinner at Red Lobster and a concert after. We'll be lucky if he even gets down on one knee.”

“Ruthie won't care,” Lynda said.

My silence embarrassed me, and I blurted, “I'm so happy for them!” The words came out high pitched and graceless, but nobody seemed to notice. Velma fired three more questions at Grady and Lynda while Ansel smiled so broadly he almost lost his wintergreen snuff.

Everyone seemed pleased. Except me.

But Dodd and Ruthie went together like tortilla chips and
picante
sauce. It was expected. And planned.

And perfect.

As jealousy invaded my heart, I shoved it back down, like stuffing a queen-size pillow into a shoebox. Just when I thought I had it under control, it would spring back up in my face.

Another Panther touchdown interrupted their glee, and we stood and cheered as the band played the fight song, the cheerleaders did backflips, and two air horns sounded from the top of the stadium. JohnScott remained oblivious to it all, still standing placidly on the sideline with his arms crossed.

The assistant coach to his left gave someone in the stands a thumbs-up, and my face warmed as I imagined JohnScott turning to look at me. Absurd.

“You'll be next,” Lynda said as we sat back down.

At first I thought I hadn't heard her right. Probably she was talking about Tyler, but I didn't want to get into another debate. “I don't know about that.”

She rested her feet on the bench in front of us, then leaned her elbows on her knees. “You know, Fawn, some things are worse than being alone.”

“Why do you dislike Tyler so much?”

She sighed. “I don't want to see you turn out like Susan.”

Lynda never spoke of my mother, and the sound of her name coming from Lynda's lips tugged at memories locked deep inside me. Memories of my girlhood when Ruthie and I had been playmates, and our mothers had tolerated each other for the sake of our friendship.

But that was years ago. “You hate my mother.”

“No,” Lynda said sharply. “I hate your father.”

I thought she would deny her feelings or soften the wording, and her ready admission sent a chill down my spine. Ever since my dad stepped down as elder at the church, I'd known about the friction between my parents and Lynda—the whole town did—but there were a lot of things I didn't know. I would have to fish.

“I don't blame you. Mom told me what he did to you.”

She turned and looked at me then, peering into my eyes as though she were looking for an explanation. She shook her head. “No, she didn't.”

“Um … yes, she did.” I frowned uncertainly. “She said my dad broke up with you so he could date her.”

She snickered. “Susan's too much of a coward to tell you the whole truth. And way too proud.”

“Well, if you're so brave, you tell me what happened.”

I expected her to lash out or stalk away in anger. Or maybe, just maybe, get riled enough to accidentally let something slip.

She turned to me with sadness in her eyes—the last thing I expected.

“Oh, Fawn.” She sighed heavily. “It's not mine to tell. If it was, I would've told you years ago.”

Chapter Thirteen

At halftime I leaned against the chain-link fence at the end of the field, nibbling a hot dog. I could have taken my second dinner back into the stands, but my frazzled nerves needed a break, and I chewed slowly to prolong the peaceful lull I found away from the crowd.

Junior high girls walked the track in front of me, little boys played tag behind me, and old men leaned on the fence ten yards down, undoubtedly hashing and rehashing the first two quarters of the game. But I felt removed from them all. Even as the Panther band marched across the field, their brassy tones seemed muted and distant.

I put the last bite in my mouth and chuckled. Only a few days ago, I missed my sorority lifestyle, but now I found myself hiding in the end zone, in plain sight, mind you, yet separated from all the excitement. I began to wonder if I should go back to the stands with Ansel and Velma or hide awhile longer or slip to the parking lot and go home.

“Hey, babe. You shouldn't be down here all by your lonesome.”

I jerked slightly as Tyler leaned against the metal railing next to me.

“Sorry if I scared you. I got here late and noticed you standing over here. Everything all right?”

Define all right.
“I was eating. I'm hungry all the time.” My stomach grazed the chain-link fencing, reminding me of my distorted figure.

“No big deal. You're pregnant.” His voice, encouraging and kind, renewed my self-esteem, and I straightened slightly.

I bumped his shoulder with my own. “Someone from Snyder is bound to find out you showed up to support the Trapp Panthers.”

He smiled as though he'd been caught in a petty crime. “I'm not sure anyone in Snyder cares. Or to be more accurate, I'm not sure I care if they care.”

“Good for you.” My fingers almost curved into Ruthie's
Who cares?
symbol, but I stopped myself. Even with Tyler in a generous mood, he would never appreciate cheesy humor.

As the two teams huddled outside the field house, we leaned with our elbows on the fence, side by side, not looking at each other. Tyler had lost the cocky desperation of the Laundromat and now seemed more like himself. Relaxed. But he had always been more appealing with no one else around.

The Panthers ran past us with their cleats slapping the pavement as they chanted a threat to intimidate the opposing team. They needn't have bothered. The write-up in the county newspaper left every team in the district quaking.

The coaches half walked, half jogged with the boys, and as they passed by, JohnScott looked at me. I smiled and lifted my hand to wave, but he kept running and showed no sign of recognition. Probably he hadn't seen me.

“You look tired, Fawn.” The fence clinked as Tyler shifted his weight. He had been watching me, and I didn't notice.

“The baby wakes me up at night.” My hand fell to my abdomen. “But once I'm awake, I start tossing and turning, and he gets still again.”

Tyler's eyes softened. “Sounds like he wants you to rock him back to sleep.”

I laughed softly, feeling his familiarity settle over me. This was the Tyler I used to know. Who cried at his mother's bedside when she got sick and showed so much tenderness, I hadn't wanted to hold back any part of myself.

I missed that Tyler.

“He's awake right now. Do you want to feel?”

“I'd like that.” He turned toward me and hesitated, so I took his hand between my own and pressed his palm against the firmness of my side, where I had last felt the baby's movements.

Tyler's other hand found its way to the small of my back, and we stood motionless for several seconds, him staring into space as he concentrated on what he felt, and me watching him closely so I wouldn't miss any sign of acceptance that might flitter across his face.

Suddenly the baby kicked hard against his daddy's hand, and Tyler smiled. “He's got my attitude.” He laughed out loud, and his fingers rubbed my back, above the waistline of my jeans. But then his smiled eased, and his hands dropped to his sides. “I'm sorry about everything, Fawn.”

I gripped the metal pipe running along the top of the fence, ignoring the junior high girls who were ogling us. Tyler had said those words to me on the street in front of the diner, but now he actually meant them. I could see his regret and feel his pain, and I had the overwhelming urge to comfort him. Neither of us had asked for this new life. Neither of us knew what to make of it.

A touchdown took our attention back to the game, and we peered over the fence at the players knocking against each other in celebration. As they lined up for the extra point, my gaze drifted to the sideline. The cheerleaders had quieted for the kick, and Coach Pickett stood as rigidly as ever, arms crossed. But just as the ball sailed through the upright posts, I thought he turned his head to look toward the fence. At me.

I did a double take, but he had already started yelling directions to an assistant coach.

“I was serious about taking you to your doctor's appointment.” Tyler's shoulder brushed mine. “It would mean a lot to me.”

I pictured my doctor's office and the other pregnant women with men by their sides—holding hands, fetching cups of water, giving support—and a missing link in the chain of my confidence snapped into place. “It would mean a lot to me, too.”

Tyler released a long, slow breath. “I'd like to spend time with you away from the doctor's office too. I miss you.”

His words didn't affect me as much as his body language. His posture cried out in desperation, and his eyes begged me not to abandon him. He looked exactly this way at his mother's funeral back in junior high, and more recently, at his father's. My parents weren't dead, but they had all but abandoned me, and Tyler's expression of helplessness instilled in me a sense of unity.

“I miss you, too.” My resolve melted. I knew what I could expect from him, and even though it didn't compare with the perfect life laid out in front of Ruthie, it might be close enough to perfect. At least my baby would have a father.

Tyler's sad eyes turned up at the corners, but not enough to transform into happiness. “Why do we do this to each other?”

As the band played a drum roll for the kickoff, he gently slipped his arm around my back. “Old habits, I guess.”

“Fawn?” His voice broke. “I promise I won't hurt you again.”

I'd heard that before, but this time it sounded different. Either he meant it more or I wanted more desperately for it to be true. The baby kicked again, seeming to remind me, as though I could ever forget.

My mind and body were weary from months of anxiety, but Tyler's gentle promise felt good against my soul, ringing with the clear tone of good intentions.

I believed him.

But I had to draw the line in the sand. “This is the last time. If you get drunk again, if you make a scene, if you hurt me … it's over for good.”

“That won't happen.” When he kissed the top of my head, the junior high girls giggled, but I didn't pay any attention.
Who cares?
I smiled, enjoying the familiar scent of his cologne, the secure feel of his muscular arm behind me, and the soft whisper of his breath against my hair.

I could have stood like that at the fence all night, but after a few minutes, he pulled away and intertwined his fingers with mine.

Just then, the opposing team's fans cheered enthusiastically, drawing my attention back to the game as I wondered what could have happened so soon after our last touchdown.

I scanned the field, and my mouth fell open.

They had scored against us.

The wire of the fence pressed my skin as I gripped it with my fingers. Since the Panthers were slated for state, the area papers had speculated we might go all year without being scored on. Yet here we were—our first game of the season—giving up six points already.

The other team's band, cheerleaders, and fans—good grief,
their entire team—
went berserk. The noise level rose obnoxiously while our fans watched in stunned silence. As the ball sailed through the goalposts for the extra point, every face in the stadium—whether from glee or from mourning—studied the opposite end zone.

My heart hurt for our team, but I had the most compassion for JohnScott, who would undoubtedly be criticized by half the town. And they wouldn't be kind about it. I scanned the sideline until I located him, but then a chill raced down my spine.

He stood with his feet planted shoulder width apart, fists on his hips, but instead of being turned toward the other end of the field, he looked straight at Tyler and me.

He jerked his head away quickly, and I told myself it probably hadn't been what it seemed.

But when he glanced back a second time, I knew it wasn't my imagination.