Justified (6 page)

Chapter Fourteen

They say boredom can drive a person insane, and I seemed to be testing the theory. Saturday afternoon, I lay on the loveseat, twirling a ruffled throw pillow above my head and wishing for something to do other than homework.

I had worked at the feed store a few hours that morning, and every man who entered the place speculated to the owner about Friday's game. They all had an opinion about what went wrong. Of course, the Panthers won the game by a margin of thirty-five points, but the fact we hadn't routed the opposing team bothered the locals.

And it bothered me, too. But I chose not to think about it, and by the time I got home, I had pushed the game and the coach far into the back of my mind.

Rolling to my side, I sipped iced coffee through a straw, swishing the sweet mocha across my tongue while I wondered, yet again, what my life would be like if I hadn't gotten pregnant. Tyler and I had so much in common. Wealth, religion, status. The similarities in our families had brought us together, and high expectations had kept us that way. Now we had the baby, and being with Tyler seemed the only justification.

When I heard the rumble of a car approaching, I rose on one elbow and saw Coach Pickett's green step-side pickup rounding the bend in the road where it curved near the drop-off.

I met him on the front porch. “What brings you all the way up here?”

JohnScott lifted his ball cap and swiped his arm across his forehead, revealing a serious case of hat hair. “Dad wants you to have his old recliner.”

My gaze slid past him, and I noticed Ansel's brown La-Z-Boy wedged in the bed of the truck. “Doesn't he need it?”

“Mom talked him into getting a new one. Been after him for years.”

I hesitated, wondering if I had room for the huge chair, almost large enough for two people.

JohnScott's eyebrows shrugged. “It's a rocker.”

I nodded, suddenly excited about the worn piece of furniture and the possibility of rocking my baby. “Awesome, JohnScott. Tell your parents thanks.”

He frowned at a distant point to the side of the house. “While I'm here, I thought I'd clear some of this …” A sweep of his hand indicated my front yard.

“You mean the piles of brush?”

“And the lumber.” He nodded toward the far corner.

My face warmed. “It's practically a junkyard.”

“Not for long.” One side of his mouth lifted in an easy grin.

“JohnScott, you fixed the steps just last week. You don't need to spend another day working here.”

“I don't have practice on Saturdays.” He rubbed his flattened palm against his shoulder. “If I don't find something to do, I'll likely die of boredom.”

“Okay, but I'm helping you. Let me put on some boots.”

I stepped into the bedroom and tugged on my worn ropers. I knew exactly what the coach meant about boredom. Even though the idea of JohnScott cleaning up my yard humiliated me, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to busy myself.

Five minutes later, I came out of the bedroom to find the recliner neatly positioned in front of the window with the loveseat pushed along the side wall. I ran my hand across the velour and inhaled the comforting scent of Ansel and Velma Pickett's farmhouse. More than once I had seen the two of them sitting in the recliner together, Velma's legs draped over Ansel's knees as they watched television.

I had never seen married people act like that until I lived with the Picketts. They were so comfortable with each other. Not at all like my own parents.

My gaze drifted to the window, where I could see JohnScott pulling brush into a pile at the edge of the yard. He might have sat in this recliner with an old girlfriend.

My thumb fingered a worn spot on the headrest, and my face warmed for the second time in fifteen minutes. I should have been picturing myself rocking my baby in this chair. Instead, I imagined what it would be like to sit there with JohnScott, my legs draped over his knees.

I exhaled in disgust and jerked the door open, joining the coach outside as he picked up an armful of debris.

“You don't have to help me, Fawn.”

I forced a light tone that probably didn't sound natural. “You're saying you would get done quicker if I got out of your way.”

“No.” His eyes smiled, and his lips tried not to. “I reckon you're not used to this type of work.”

I pulled my curls into a wad at the nape of my neck and captured them with a tie. “I never helped Dad on the ranch, but I watched him. Does that count?”

“I just watched you put your hair up, but I wouldn't have any luck if I tried to do it myself.”

I fingered a curl that had already escaped from bondage. “Not the same.” I yanked a mesquite branch from a tangled mess, but when I tossed it onto the coach's pile, a thorn scratched my finger, and I winced.

“I see what you mean.” He lumbered to his truck and brought back a pair of men's leather work gloves. “These won't fit, but they're better than nothing.”

The gloves smelled of cattle feed and creosote, but I slipped them on, bending my elbows and holding my hands aloft so they wouldn't slip off. “Such a nice scent.”

The coach shook his head as he unrolled a garden hose, testing the water supply before he lit the brush on fire. He mumbled something about cheerleaders.

“What did you say?” I mustered a defensive tone. “I'll have you know I cheered for Trapp, and I'm proud of it. That's how I learned what I know about football.”

“Did you seriously just tell me that?” He transferred brush to the burn pile, the smoky scent of burning mesquite already filling the yard.

“Why shouldn't I?”

He adjusted his cap, apparently trying not to laugh. “I'm the head football coach, so I know you were a cheerleader. And I rest my case.”

“You weren't the head coach back then. Just an assistant.”

He only grunted.

“What did you mean anyway? About me being a cheerleader? I don't see what that has to do with anything.”

“I'm just saying … you're a girlie girl.”

I clamped my hands around a two-by-four and dragged it across the yard. “If you're trying to insult me, you'll have to try harder.”

“Simply stating facts.” He took the board from me. “You really could let me do this.”

I sighed, tired of his teasing. “I want to help,” I said firmly. “Just because I never worked physical labor, doesn't mean I didn't want to.” A flame edged away from the burn pile, and I stomped it with my boot. “Mother hardly even let me work around the house.”

The coach sing-songed, “Cheerleader …”

“But I did learn to cook a few things in Family and Consumer Science class. Ms. Fuentes could dish out a mean enchilada plate.”

He paused in his work. “You cook enchiladas?”

“When I'm provoked, yes.”

“Huh.”

He thought I couldn't cook. “What did that
huh
mean?”

“I'm wondering how I might I provoke you.”

“I owe you a lot more than an enchilada.”

“You don't owe me a thing.” He retrieved a shovel from the back of his truck and stirred the fire. “Seen any rattlers?”

I wrapped a ponytail holder around the wrist of one of my gloves to keep the blasted thing in place, and then rolled a deteriorated log toward the fire. “No, and I'm not going to talk about snakes or we'll jinx it.”

“Girl, this place is already jinxed. Clyde said boys from the Sweetwater Rattlesnake Round-Up used to come out here every year, trying to find the den, but they never could.”

I turned around, intending to stomp away from him, but pain radiated from the side of my foot. I yelled, plopped down to the ground, and tossed my boot all at the same time.

JohnScott watched me for a second, then bent to retrieve the boot and held it upside down, giving it a little shake until a scorpion fell to the ground.

“Kill it,” I screamed as I rubbed my foot. “Kill it dead!”

He ground his heel into the brown, crusty shell, then handed me my footwear. “You okay?”

“I hate those things.” I removed my sock and blew on my foot. “Did it crawl up my boot?”

“Could've been in there the whole time. Come on. I'll get you an ice cube.”

I clambered to my feet and limped to the front steps, where I held the coldness to the sting.

Coach Pickett chuckled.

“What are you laughing at?” I didn't look up.

“Kill it? Kill it dead?”

His teasing irritated and soothed me at the same time. “A reflex reaction.”

He sat on the porch, stretching his legs down the steps, and suddenly I reverted to a ditsy teenager who couldn't handle a bug bite. But it was more than the scorpion. It was my life. It was Tyler and the baby. My parents. It was Ruthie and Lynda Turner and the upside-down position of my life.

He cocked his head to the side. “You stopped smiling.”

Across the yard, the fire crackled away from the burn pile, gobbled up a few blades of grass, then scurried back. Just like my parents. They showed up in town, devoured my confidence, and went back home. I squinted at the cloudless sky. “I saw my parents a few days ago. My father wants to give me money.”

“Hmm.”

“It's guilt money, of course.”

I didn't look at JohnScott, but I could tell he studied me. “Explain.”

I brushed away a layer of dust on the gray boards beneath me. “He's trying to buy me off.”

“How do you know he's not sincere?”

“He always throws money at problems.” I frowned. “And usually they go away, but not this time. If he wants to ease his guilt for the way he treated me, he can apologize.”

The coach scratched his hairline. “Does he do that?”

“There's always a first time.”

“But you could use the money.”

“It's not enough to make a difference anyway. Might buy a week's worth of groceries.” I huffed. “Apparently I'm not worth a substantial investment.”

He removed his hat and did that arm-across-the-forehead thing. “Maybe that's the best your dad can do right now.”

I didn't like his attitude, so I changed the subject. “I go for another checkup Monday, and Tyler's going with me this time.”

He responded with a low hum in his throat, but it felt like an accusation.

“It's not like we're getting back together for sure,” I rattled. “But I owe him a chance.”

“Do you?”

“For the baby, at least.”

He shrugged. “Dad said you would have a hard time quitting Tyler.”

“Ansel said that?”

“Yep. I swear there's a therapist inside those overalls.”

I pulled the holder from my ponytail, letting my hair fall down my back so I could rebundle it and tie it more securely. “My dad never dreamed I would
quit
Tyler. He said we were bad for each other in all the best ways.”

JohnScott bent his legs and rested his elbows on his knees. “Strange concept for a dad.”

I rose, balancing on my good foot and wondering why I had confided all this to him. “Put that cap back on your head. Your hair looks like a scoop of chocolate ice cream.” The top lay matted with sweat, but the sides fluffed in uncontrolled curls. “In fact, you might want a haircut soon.”

“You sound like my mother.”

I smiled, thinking of Ansel and Velma's discussion about Sophie. And then I looked up at JohnScott. For a reason I couldn't figure, I felt a juvenile need for his approval. Some sign that he didn't find me absurd, and that he could possibly deem my shattered life acceptable.

But he only turned away and walked back to the fire.

Chapter Fifteen

Tyler and I sat side by side in the Lysol-scented waiting room of the obstetrician's office. He had picked me up in his spotless truck, made small talk on the hour-long drive to Lubbock, and ushered me into the office as though he owned the place. Now we stared at the large-screen TV, watching two sea horses mate.

He grunted.

I considered frowning at him, but a middle-aged, pregnant woman sitting across the room lowered her parenting magazine and did it for me.

“Sorry.” He laid his arm across the back of my chair.

But I didn't really mind Tyler's crass behavior. I was just glad I wasn't alone.

“What do you think the baby will look like?” I rubbed a hand across my inverted belly button.

“I don't know. Us?”

“But will he look more like me, or you, or one of our parents?”

“He can't go wrong either way.” Tyler's eyes drifted to the television, where hundreds of tiny, fully-developed sea horses shot from the male's swollen belly.

Tyler shook his head.

I snatched a magazine from the coffee table and buried my nose in it, but then a door at the side of the room opened, and a nurse called my name.

She led us to a pink-and-blue exam room that smelled like rubbing alcohol and felt like a walk-in refrigerator. Then she weighed me, took my temperature, and checked my pulse. As always, the speed with which the woman marshaled me through the office made me feel like a cow being driven through a chute at the livestock auction. “It means a lot that you're here, Tyler.”

“Sure.” He pulled a metal chair forward and sat near my knee, which caused him to look up at me at an angle. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”

I pretended to study a poster showing the monthly stages of pregnancy, and I wished we had the type of relationship where I felt comfortable sitting in silence.

Tyler pressed a warm palm against my calf to stop the nervous jitters that tapped my flip-flops against the footrest. “The street dance is this Saturday, Fawn. Can I pick you up?”

I opened my mouth to answer but heard my file slide from its resting place on the other side of the wall, and then Dr. Tubbs entered, along with a breeze of cold air and the aroma of onions.

“Hello, young lady. You're looking well.” He held his hand toward Tyler. “I don't believe we've met. I'm Harrison Tubbs.”

“Tyler Cruz.”

“Cruz …” The doctor squinted. “Are you any relation to the rancher?”

“My father.” Tyler lifted his chin, and on the inside, I did the same.

“Sorry to hear of his passing.” The doctor's eyes softened earnestly—a facial sympathy card—then he nodded. “Glad you could come today.” He turned his attention to me while Tyler resumed his seat beneath us both. “Any problems this month, Fawn?”

“I'm not sure. The other day I had a few pains.”

“Did they feel like monthly cramps?”

I glanced at Tyler and nodded.

“Ah yes. Those are Braxton-Hicks contractions. Nothing to worry about. Now that you're in your third trimester, it's your body's way of getting ready for labor.” He smiled. “Any other concerns?”

“Nothing besides being hungry all the time. And really, really tired.”

The doctor grinned. “Both are perfectly normal effects of a healthy pregnancy.” He put a chubby hand on my shoulder. “Lie back on the pillow, and let's hear the heartbeat.”

When I lifted my shirt to expose my abdomen, Tyler looked on with silent interest. I felt my neck flush when I remembered the small stretch marks rippling across my skin. I had found some lotion to make them invisible, but after two weeks of use, I couldn't tell a difference.

The doctor swiped a handheld probe across my midsection, and I shivered.

“Sorry. I know it's cold.” He cut his eyes to the side and listened to the sounds coming from the plastic monitor.

But they weren't the right sounds. Usually the persistent whoosh of my baby's heartbeat filled the small room, but today I heard only an occasional thump along with the amplified movements of the device itself.

My fingers found the edge of the paper tablecloth, and I poked my thumbnail through it. “Something's wrong.”

Instead of answering, the doctor shifted his attention to my other side, and he stared into the corner of the room, giving all his attention to the small device in his hand.

My ears became sensitive radar, searching for my baby's heartbeat but only finding other muffled sounds. A droning voice down the hall, the clank of the scale, water running. My heart seemed to struggle to pump blood through my veins, and I stared at the ceiling in frozen shock. And still the sounds coming from my body were wrong.

Dr. Tubbs finally spoke. “I'm getting an irregular heartbeat, Fawn, but before we panic, let's get Regina in here for a quick ultrasound.” He stepped into the hallway, leaving the door open.

I lay on the table, my face turned toward the wall while three tears dripped sideways to puddle on the paper pillowcase. My eyelids squeezed shut, pushing the doctor and his machinery out of my thoughts, and I wished I were back home in my shack, lying in Ansel Pickett's recliner, where I could see my view.

My hand gripped the paper until it tore away from my grasp. I hadn't talked to God much lately. Or read my Bible enough. Or volunteered to teach Sunday school. But I dressed modestly now, and I stopped drinking and using bad words, and I wanted to be a good mother.

Fingers of guilt strangled me, barely allowing air in and out of my lungs as I choked on silent sobs. I cried for my baby, but I longed to be held like a baby myself. To have someone who could make this go away. To be rocked and cuddled and comforted. And saved.

Tyler cleared his throat. “Come on, Fawn. The doctor said not to panic.”

I opened my eyes and focused on the sonogram machine by the side of the bed. I had forgotten Tyler was even in the room.

I turned my head to see him casually scrolling through his phone messages, and I realized if I stayed with Tyler Cruz … I would always be alone.