The Promise of Forgiveness (4 page)

J
oe sidled up to the bar at the Possum Belly Saloon—the only place in town whose name was connected to the oil and gas business. A possum belly is a receiving tank found at the end of a mud return line, and the roughnecks who frequented the bar looked like they'd spent the day in a sludgy cistern.

The owner, Stonewall Davis—called Stony by the regulars—ignored Joe. What the retired oil worker lacked in height he made up for in muscle and tattoos. His short-cropped hair, neatly trimmed goatee, and clean, well-manicured fingernails contradicted the mishmash of multicolored skulls and fire-breathing dragons that wrapped his arms from wrist to shoulder.

Joe wasn't a regular at the bar—too much alcohol ripped the scabs off old wounds. But Ruby and her daughter showing up out of nowhere today had reminded him of the wife and child he'd lost, and he needed a drink to settle his nerves.

Davis made his way toward him, and Joe pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Whiskey. Make it a double.”

Stony measured the liquor, then banged the shot glass on the bar, splattering Joe's T-shirt with drops of amber liquid. He'd run into Davis's kind before—bullies who enjoyed intimidating people if for no other reason than they could. Not in the mood for the man's games, Joe carried his drink to a table in the corner. His back to the wall, he fixated on his Johnnie Walker, fingers clenching the jigger as if he could choke off the memories that always followed the first sip.

It had been seven years since the night he'd drunk enough whiskey to quiet his spirit for eternity. Death would have been a blessing, but a sadistic voice in his head had coaxed him to put the bottle down before he'd smothered the pain for good. He hadn't understood why he'd survived the drinking binge until days later, when the alcohol fog had lifted and his conscience revealed his sentence—a lifetime of guilt. But unlike Jesus Christ, the cross Joe carried held his son's lifeless body. Hand trembling, he raised the glass to his lips. The alcohol seared his throat, but he savored the sting.

The saloon door burst open, smacking the wall. A handful of roustabouts shuffled inside, the sheriff's deputy bringing up the rear. When Randall spotted Joe, he changed direction. Joe tossed the remainder of the whiskey down his gullet.

“Invite me to sit, Dawson.”

Using the heel of his boot, Joe pushed the chair out on the opposite side of the table.

Randall straddled the seat, then caught the bartender's eye and pointed to the empty shot glass. Stony came over with a whiskey bottle and refilled Joe's drink and left a glass of water in front of Randall.

“Thanks.” The deputy waited for Stony to walk off before he spoke. “Heard you drove Ruby Baxter and her daughter out to the Devil's Wind earlier today.”

The ride to the ranch with Ruby and Mia had been uncomfortable but in a good way. Their presence had brought back memories of a life Joe had been trying to forget for years. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed hearing a woman's voice. He liked Ruby's matter-of-fact tone and that she didn't mince her words.

“What does Ruby want from Hank?”

“She didn't say.” Although their conversation had been only a handful of sentences, Joe hadn't stopped thinking about Ruby. She looked nothing like his ex-wife. Melanie had short dark hair and big brown eyes. They'd had a good marriage up to the end. But not even a good marriage had been enough to overcome their personal tragedy.

“Is Ruby planning to stay?”

“I don't know.” The length of her visit wasn't any of his business.

“How's Hank feeling?”

Like Randall gave a crap. “He's got no complaints.” A few weeks ago Hank had suffered chest pains after he'd learned that a section of fence bordering the Bar T had been opened up with bolt cutters and five steer had gone missing. Joe had asked Roy Sandoval to check his herd for the Devil's Wind brand—666—but the rancher had balked. When Hank reported the missing cattle to the law, the sheriff had put Randall on the case and the investigation had gone nowhere.

“Hank's daughter might be a gold digger, looking to cash in after his ticker stops”—Randall smirked—“ticking.”

Hank's heart had better hold out. Joe needed his job. Needed to feel exhausted at the end of the day. Needed some kind of purpose in his life—a reason to get up in the morning. The Devil's Wind was the first place he'd felt a sense of peace. A glimmer of hope.

“Excuse me.” A man stopped at their table and removed his ball cap, revealing a farmer's tan forehead. Joe had run into the guy and his two sons outside the mercantile after he'd hired on with Hank. He remembered the young boys had looked as if they hadn't had a decent bath in months.

“How are the twins?” Randall asked.

“Good.” Pete nodded over his shoulder. “They're waiting outside for me right now.” He rubbed his finger back and forth over the edge of the ball cap. “I wanted to thank you for picking up the tab for their Little League fee this summer.”

“Glad to do it. Any luck finding a new job?”

Pete's gaze dropped to the floor. “Not yet.”

“You tell Chris to keep his eye on the ball when he's in right field, and Craig needs to choke up on the bat before he swings.”

“Will do.”

“When's their next game?”

“Saturday morning.”

“I'll drop by the field and watch,” Randall said.

Pete put his cap on, then glanced at Joe. “Sorry for the interruption.”

“Are the oil fields laying off?” Joe asked once the father left.

“No. Pete can't keep his hands off the bottle. He got fired for drinking on his shift.”

“Does his wife have a job?”

“She works for one of those maid services in Guymon.”

Randall didn't seem like the kind of guy who cared about other people's misfortunes. “Didn't know you were a Little League fan. Did you play when you were a kid?”

“No.” The deputy shoved his chair back and stood. “Tell Hank I'll stop by the ranch tomorrow and update him on his missing cattle.”

Joe suspected there was no update on the investigation—Randall needed an excuse to grill Ruby. An image of Hank's daughter flashed before his eyes, and he drained the half inch of whiskey left in the shot glass. Ruby was an attractive woman, if a little rough around the edges. The few times they'd glanced at each other, he'd recognized the guarded look in her blue eyes. Those same shadows greeted him in the mirror each morning. As if his thoughts had summoned her to the saloon, Ruby walked through the door and a hush fell over the crowd.

“What's wrong? Haven't you seen a woman in town before?” Ruby leered at the oil workers. When the men turned their backs to her and resumed drinking, she marched up to the bar. “I like your dragon tattoos.” She nodded to the bartender's muscular arms.

“You must be Ruby.”

She wasn't surprised that the news of her and Mia's arrival had spread from the diner to the mercantile and now the saloon.

“Stonewall.” He held out his hand. “Everyone calls me Stony.”

“Nice to meet you. I'll have an iced tea, please.”

“A Long Island tea?”

“Regular, no alcohol.” She'd borrowed Hank's rust-bucket pickup and had driven into town for a cold drink with Elvis, but a C
LOSED
sign hung on the Airstream's door. “Thanks,” she said after Stony filled her drink order. She'd taken only two sips of tea when her neck began to itch. She glanced over her shoulder.
Joe
. She weaved through the male bodies and stopped by his table. “You couldn't sleep, either?”

He inclined his head toward the empty chair and she sat. “It's hotter than hell on that porch. I don't know how you survived out there with no air conditioning.”

“You get used to it.”

She studied him. Mia was right—he had sad eyes. “I went outside to catch a breeze and got a nose full of flying grit.” She'd sat in the dark on the porch step, listening to the cry of a coyote. The lonely howl had reminded her of Hank, who'd asked Mia to help him groom the horses after supper rather than answer Ruby's questions about why she'd been given up for adoption. She brushed at the thin layer of silt covering the back of her hand. “How do you stay clean in this place?”

“I like to think of it as an all-year-round tan.”

She laughed. “Next you'll tell me wearing dirt is better than sunscreen.” A light flashed through his eyes and the brown orbs warmed to dark chocolate. Ruby hardly knew Joe, but his calm demeanor put her at ease. “I feel bad that you have to sleep in the barn.”

“I've slept in a lot worse places.” He shrugged. “There's a cot in the storage room. It's comfortable enough.”

“What else do you do for Hank besides look after the cows?”

“Run errands and repair things.”

“Mind if I add something to your to-do list?” she asked.

“What's that?”

“Tear the house down.”

He chuckled. “I offered to paint it when Hank hired me, but he wasn't interested.”

“Did you know there's a nursery on the second floor?”

He shook his head. “The only room I've been in up there is the bathroom.”

“You and Hank don't say a whole lot to each other.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Not that Hank cares to converse with anyone. Is he always so blunt with people?”

“The boss man doesn't engage in meaningless chatter.”

Is that what Hank thought—that the circumstance of her adoption was babble? “What about you?”

“What about me what?”

Joe had said more to her in the past few minutes than he had in the past ten hours. Her gaze dropped to the empty shot glass rolling between his fingers. Maybe his talkativeness was a result of alcohol consumption. “You don't seem to mind talking. Where are you from?”

“Born and raised in Tulsa.”

“Mia and I are from Pineville, Missouri.” She studied his face while she took another sip of her tea. Like her, the lines around his eyes remained visible when he wasn't smiling. The strands of gray hair at his temples, his prominent cheekbones, and his angular face hinted that he was in his mid – to late forties. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight.”

More than toiling in the hot sun and wind had aged Joe Dawson.

“How old is your daughter?” he asked.

Ruby expected him to ask her age, not Mia's. “Fourteen. Why?” He'd better not be a pervert who preferred young girls to mature women.

“I thought she might be close to my son's age if he'd . . .” His voice trailed off, following his gaze into space.

He couldn't drop a bomb like that and expect her not to ask . . . “If your son what?”

His eyelids lowered and his chest shuddered. “Aaron passed away seven years ago.”

A nauseating knot formed in Ruby's stomach. No wonder there were shadows in the man's eyes. “I'm sorry.” She chewed her lip, debating whether or not to prod him for details. As a mother, she couldn't imagine coping with the pain of losing a child. It certainly put her relationship troubles with Mia into perspective.

“It was an accident.” Joe curled his fingers into his palm.

Ruby caught Stony's eye and motioned for drink refills. He brought her another iced tea, then set a half bottle of whiskey on the table before walking off.

Joe tossed back two shots—one right after the other.

“You don't have to talk about it,” she said.

“I talk about it every day in my head.”

“His name was Aaron?”

He nodded. “After his sixth birthday I was promoted to supervisor at Axis Exploration in Tulsa County.”

So Joe Dawson hadn't always been a ranch hand.

He traced the label on the liquor bottle. “It happened on a Saturday. Melanie took off with her girlfriends and left Aaron at the house with me. There was a problem at one of the company sites, and I told Aaron that he had to go with me to check on a well. He wanted to stay home and play with a friend who'd gotten a new video game.” Joe shook his head. “I knew the parents wouldn't mind watching Aaron that afternoon, but I'd been on the road all week and I wanted to spend time with my son.” He rubbed his brow, his fingers leaving deep dents in the skin. “I went into the bedroom to change clothes, and a few minutes later someone rang the bell and shouted my name.”

Ruby couldn't take her eyes off the front of Joe's T-shirt, where his heart was pounding so hard it moved the cotton material.

“Aaron had taken off on his bike.” Joe swallowed twice before he spoke again. “The neighbor lady said he came out of the driveway so fast she had no time to stop.”

Aaron had been hit by a car.

“Melanie and I were adamant about him wearing a helmet. He knew the rules.” Joe's tortured gaze begged Ruby to explain why his son hadn't worn the protective headgear.