Billy Bob Walker Got Married (10 page)

"Nobody."

"I know the marks of a man's hand when I see them," he answered.

"Oh, those," she said, glancing down at them. "The policeman had me by the arm last night."

"And just what was his name?" Sam demanded dangerously.

Shiloh covered the marks with her own hand. "And if I tell you, you'll do what? Have his job?"

"Any man that roughs up a woman—"

"He didn't rough me up. He tried to catch me, that's all. And you know what's so funny? You're all up in the air about a cop who grabbed me, but I'm scared to death that you won't believe me when I tell you about Michael."

Sam stopped all movement, arrested. The bright morning sun was merciless as it streamed through the windows on him; Shiloh saw the deep lines around his eyes and mouth, the way the silver that had taken over his hair was encroaching now into his eyebrows. He was sixty-two—and he looked it. But she couldn't afford to be merciful now.

"Michael tried to rape me."

She just said it, then looked away, out the window on to the sunshiny front lawn.

Sam never showed a flicker of emotion.

"Because he lost his temper and tried to anticipate his wedding vows here at the house the night he tried to make you take his ring back?"

Her face paled. "He told you," she said breathlessly. "You knew all along, and you didn't do anything."

"Did you think he wouldn't tell me? He confessed it like a man the morning after it happened—Lord, was that just yesterday?—and he didn't like saying it. He said you ran, and he couldn't find you."

"I'm telling you—begging you to believe me. Michael didn't just try to anticipate—he attacked me like an animal. He . . ■. he
bit
me."

His face flushed a little. "Oh, come on, Shiloh. You're claiming that, then saying you got away?"

"He did—I did!"

"Do you really think if he'd been serious, you'd have escaped? As big as he is?" "You don't believe me."

"I do to a reasonable extent. I think he got mad, but he's sorry. And the fact is, he didn't—didn't—"

"No." Her voice was dull and colorless.

"And what do you expect men to think of you, anyway, the way you dress sometimes these days?"

"It wasn't my fault!"

"Nothing happened. How could I lay fault on anybody?" he asked patiently.

And then her temper broke. "I want out. I have to get away. From him, and mostly, from
you,
Sam Pennington."

He winced—actually winced. She'd scored a hit there, but it didn't matter anymore.

"I want you to calm down and quit acting like a hysterical teenager," he said at last.

"No name that you can call me will change the truth about what he did. I'm leaving both of you."

"Don't be a fool, Shiloh," Sam said in anger. "He'll come after you. And if he doesn't, I will. Every time."

The certainty of his words, the memory of the steely determination in Michael's hands, made Shiloh's stomach shake.

"Neither of you will find me."

"Try running, Shiloh. I'll cut you off at the bank. Without a car, without money, with me blocking you at every turn—you're not going anywhere."

She looked around the study blindly, then asked with deliberate cruelty, "Is this the way you tried to keep Caroline?"

He took a sharp breath, shock and pain spreading over his face. "How could you bring that up, after all this time?"

"I'm your daughter, I regret to say. And I've got a point to make. You couldn't hold her, no matter how many times you brought her back."

"I stopped trying, dammit."

"You loved her. You cried for her. I heard you the day after she left. And the next day, and the next. I hated her for what she did. I was nearly five years old, and I told myself I'd never make you cry."

A red line of blood was seeping up his cheeks as Sam returned, "So do as I ask. Marry Michael. You gave your word, Shiloh. Now I intend to see you keep it. Like it or not right now, you'll thank me someday, when Michael's a success and you've got the world at your feet. No mill life for you. And I won't let you be like—"

He broke off his impassioned words, but she knew already.

"Like who?" she demanded. "My mother? Isn't that it? I'm like Caroline?"

He flung up his head and his words were harsh. "I hope not, Shiloh. Because if you are, you're nothing but a whore."

It hit her like a slap in the face, the agony so old she recognized it, so new that it was a fresh bleeding wound. She didn't do anything dramatic, just stood looking at her father's shuttered eyes, at the set face with its distinct cheekbones, at the thin, implacable line of his mouth.

Then she twisted to walk away, barely able to breathe from the pain.

"Shiloh."

Her name on Sam's lips stopped her before she was halfway across the room; she never turned to face him.

"Make up your mind to it. You're going to marry the judge's son if I have to drag you up the aisle kicking and screaming. You'll make something of your life no matter what—or who—Caroline was, or where I came from. I swear it."

She didn't go to work: Laura and Sam won that round.

But she refused to go to the doctor, so she figured she broke even in the battle.

There was no time to contemplate wins or losses, however; Shiloh shut herself in her silent, shadowy room and licked her wounds, trying to stop herself from bleeding to death.

There'd been so much misery, so much dislike in her father when he talked of her mother, Shiloh's flesh and blood. How could he love the daughter when he despised Caroline, the other half of her, so much?

She thought about the net that was closing around her. She'd been right, and Sam's heart was set on the marriage to Michael.

She was trapped.

She should have hated Michael; instead, she was so angry with her father that the memory of him held little or no sting anymore.

Sam had been telling the truth about one thing: Running was no way out. Besides, she didn't want to run. Her temper was up now. Sweetwater was her place in the world, where she belonged. She wanted life here, on her terms. Sam couldn't shove her out any more than he could shove her around. She wouldn't let him. She was as tough as he was. She would stand right here and fight.

But how?

There had to be some way to block Michael, to stop Sam, to give herself breathing space.

Something that would leave her safe, but make her independence clear.

If she hurt Sam, he'd just have to be hurt. She had to show no more concern for his wants than he'd shown for hers.

What had he said, his voice as hard as a diamond? "You're going to marry the judge's son if I have to drag you down the aisle. . . ."

Shiloh thought about that for a long time, sitting on the high four-poster bed and staring out the French doors at the red ball of the sun as it sank that afternoon behind Pine Ridge, the dark, high line of trees that lay to the northwest of Sweetwater.

And by the time it set and the last pink lights had faded into dusk, she knew exactly what to do. Then she went to the telephone to see if Randy Tate was still at the garage.

Sweetwater had a weekly newspaper that was churned out every Friday; a copy was delivered to the jail at noon. By the time it made the rounds and got to Billy Bob, it was crumpled and out of order. But it was reading, and it was from the real world, so he took it when it was offered along toward suppertime.

He'd picked it back up a third time, deciding he could stand to read even the obituaries, when the door opened to the outside office and T-Tommy ushered in Shiloh.

Billy lowered the bare foot he had propped up on the bed and let the newspaper fall, surprise written on his face.

"Don't tell me she's wrecked another car," he said to T-Tommy.

The sheriff s face was dark. "She claims she came to see you. Now I don't know what's goin' on here, but I don't like it."

"I just wanted to thank him for being kind night before last," Shiloh said casually- Today she looked like a rising young executive in her red suit.

"So thank him," T-Tommy snapped.

"I want to talk to him
alone,"
Shiloh said pointedly.

"Sam won't like you coming to the jail to talk to somebody as wild as Billy Walker, and I—"

"He'll never know if you don't tell him," she interrupted.

T-Tommy hesitated, then threw up both hands. "Okay. Okay. What can happen with him behind bars?"

Neither Shiloh nor Billy Bob answered that provocative question. But when he was gone, Billy rose slowly to his feet.

Shiloh didn't remember, even two nights ago, that he'd been this tall.

"You—you need a shave," she offered unnecessarily.

He ran a hand down the side of his face, almost in surprise. "I didn't know I was havin' such particular company this Friday night. Came back to gloat over less fortunate convicts, did you?"

"I told T-Tommy—"

"I heard what you told him. So, now you can tell me the truth. But if this is for another talk about your—your boyfriend—"

"No, it's not that."

"Then what?" He braced his palms against the bars, leaning his shoulders in toward her.

There was a lot of Billy Walker, Shiloh thought, a little panicky now that she was here. Tonight he had on just a white T-shirt with the tight jeans, and despite his tall, lanky build, there were muscles visible in all the right places, especially in his arms and shoulders. He looked dangerous, but then, there had always been a wild, half-tamed air about him. Maybe it was the comparison to Billy that had always made Michael seem civilized and too smooth.

She looked away, hoping she could do this.

"I went back to work today," she offered. "I'm driving one of Sam's cars. At least the trooper didn't pull my license. That's the reason I'm here so late. Because of work, I mean. The bank doesn't close until six on Fridays." Stop rambling, Shiloh, she told herself—even if you are nervous.

Billy Bob eyed her quizzically. "You can visit me anytime, honey," he answered humorously. "I don't have a real full social life these days."

"Yes, well, this is not exactly a social visit," Shiloh answered, and her cheeks flushed a little.

"Then what is it?" he asked, interested despite himself.

In answer, she unzipped the little alligator bag that hung over her shoulder and pulled out a sealed envelope, which she held out to him.

Billy looked down at it, then at her. "I think you're supposed to put the saw in a cake you've baked," he advised with a glint of laughter.

"Would you stop being funny and open it?" Shiloh snapped, exasperated.

So he pulled it from her hand, obligingly tore one end open, arid let the contents spill out into his hand.

"My God," he breathed at last, staring down at the green bills that covered his palm.

"You can count it if you want to. But I can tell you, there's thirty-five hundred dollars there," Shiloh said, offhandedly.

His eyes, nearly black with shock, lifted to stare at her. "What's this for?"

"You said you needed this much to pay your fine—and get out. Wasn't it thirty-five hundred?" she asked anxiously.

His face darkened, and he frowned as he crumpled up the bills by closing his hand over them, and crammed them, helter-skelter, back down into the envelope. Then he shoved it at her. "I'm not your charity case," he said fiercely. "I don't need your money."

But Shiloh backed away from his reaching hand and the envelope he held.

"It's not charity. I want you to—to earn it."

"Earn it?" he repeated slowly. "What do I have to do? Murder somebody? Your old man, maybe?"

"No. I just want you to sell—" No, that was the wrong approach. So what in the world was the right one? she wondered. "I want to buy something."

He frowned, puzzled. "I know this can't be about my horse, so I don't—"

She snapped her teeth together and said sharply, "I want to buy
you,
Billy Bob."

As he stared, she flushed a brilliant red. That had not come out right at all.

"It's just for a little while. Nothing permanent. A few months, that's all. Then we can divorce. And I'm not asking for anything but your name. That's all. It's in name only, see?"

He stopped her rambling words. "Are you asking me to—to
marry
you?" His voice rose higher in surprise with every syllable.

"Not exactly. I mean, not asking. I do need you to marry me, but I'm asking to buy it—you—" she stumbled to a halt.

His face had gone unexpectedly white and stem.

"And just why," he demanded harshly, "are you in need of a husband so fast?" Unwillingly, his eyes traveled down her body, lingering on her abdomen.

When she caught his meaning, she jumped back even farther from him. "I'm not pregnant!"

"Then why?" he asked persistently.

"I told you, I can't marry Michael. And if I don't do something, Sam's going to push me into it. This way"— she flung up her head—"I get what I want—no marriage—and he gets what he wants."

"I don't see how Pennington—"

"He wants me to many 'the judge's son.' His exact words," Shiloh answered defiantly.

She had his attention now. He stared again, then began to laugh, but it was not the laughter of amusement.

"This is no joke," she said heatedly. "I mean it."

"You kill me," he said at last. "You want a husband— why, I don't know, you've turned down two—so you just calmly go shopping for one. You're burned up at your father, but this is just like him."

"My money's as good as his, too," she retorted, both angry and embarrassed. "I figured this
was
his."

"I got it by selling the Porsche to Randy Tate. What's wrong with it? It's the amount you needed, isn't it?"

He pulled the crumpled envelope back in toward him, and there was a flash of blue fire in his gaze.

"You're awful sure of me, seems like," he said with an edge of distaste.

"No, I'm not," she denied, letting out a long breath. "But I know what I need, and I knew what you needed, and this way, it works for both of us." In her mind she heard Sam's words, and she repeated them now, wryly, "It's good business." Maybe she
was
like him; maybe she could beat him at his own game.

"Good business." Billy Bob repeated the words, too. "So, let me get this straight. I get the money free and clear—mine for good—if I marry you."

"That's right."