Billy Bob Walker Got Married (29 page)

"I
wanted
to, because I thought you cared. I thought you needed me."

"Yeah, sure. I really needed to hear Pennington come down on you like a ton of bricks. I needed to know that you'd lost a home and your father over me. You know what the whole town's sayin', don't you? It was all over J.C.'s face, T-Tommy's face." He stood in furious memory, his voice no longer calm but cracking under emotion. " 'She married Billy Walker. Threw herself away on that worthless bastard. He's no good to anybody.' And you know what, Shiloh Pennington? They're right.
Right."

The words were catching, sobbing, hanging in his throat, and he reached out to shove the Bible off the table in one fierce sweep of his arm.

It slammed against the wall, then hit the floor before silence settled over the room.

"Billy."

"Don't touch me." He jerked away forcefully from her hand on his wrist, backing up against the table to get away from her. "Just leave me alone, Shiloh. You did all any man could ask today. I don't need anything more."

He never even looked at her, keeping his face turned away.

Shiloh stepped back as if she'd been slapped, aching so much she couldn't get her lips to speak.

"I don't understand you," she whispered at last, painfully. "I thought—"

"Maybe I thought the same once. Not anymore. Go on. Leave.
Now.
I want you to get out."

His words were so brutal she gasped, a hand going to her heart as if to protect it. He fumbled in one pocket, finally pulling out the car keys and shoving them at her. She backed away from him, eyes wide and wet. At the door, she hesitated.

"Just where am I supposed to go, Billy?"

"Home. Go to Sam." The words were clipped and jerky as he strained mentally away from her presence, unmoving against the wall. "I'll call somebody to come and get me."

"I trusted you. You said you wanted me." The accusation was unsteady.

"Maybe I meant it at the time. But I know better now. My God, Shiloh, what does it take to get you to leave?" He looked at her at last, and even in the twilight, his eyes looked blank. "Do I have to open the door for you?"

"You don't have to throw me out. I'll walk," she said raggedly.

Rain slapped her in the face as she slammed the door shut behind her, and it blew through the cotton blend of the dress she had on, as cutting as little cold needles against her hot skin and bruised heart.

She bit her lip against the pain, running to the Cadillac.

She wasn't going back to Sam in defeat, not now, not ever. Her face against the steering wheel, her eyes burning with emotions, she fought away tears. What was she going to do?

More than one woman had made a fool of herself over Billy, even Shiloh Pennington. Well, now Sweetwater had proof that she wasn't like Sam: She was human, capable of grief and pain and shame.

She tried to put the keys in the ignition.

Why did it feel so wrong to leave him here, by himself in this motel while the rain blew and beat all around?

He needed somebody. He shouldn't he alone.

The thoughts were so ridiculous Shiloh scoffed at them. He had hurt her.

Because he was hurting, too.

Billy's emotions ran deep; they always had, no matter what he pretended. He couldn't walk away from his mother or his past or his crippled grandfather or even a stray animal, not from anything that belonged to him.

And just last night, he had claimed her. She closed her eyes, remembering in agony- how his mouth had caressed her, letting her fingers touch the place.

Grief and pain and shame.
Especially shame. All of that was in him. Why hadn't she recognized it sooner?

Because Billy Bob Walker didn't want her to, probably wouldn't admit to it.

Her father alone had been bad enough. Billy had had his own father to deal with, too.

She climbed out of the car, making herself walk back to the motel, the rain drenching her.

She couldn't bear much more, but she would try one more time to reach him.

The room was nearly totally dark when she slipped into it, and the roar of the air-conditioning unit competed with the pounding rain to hide the sound of her entrance.

Breathing shallowly, shivering in her wet clothes, she leaned against the closed door until her eyes adjusted. He was lying on the far bed, his back to her. Not moving, but she knew he wasn't asleep.

Silently she moved toward the bed, stopping just behind him, hesitating, afraid to speak, afraid to touch. Why was he so still?

Some sixth sense alerted him to her presence. He rolled over just as her hand hovered over his shoulder, his eyes a strange, light shade in the darkness.

"I thought you—" He couldn't say more, his words strangled, torn, choked.

Her wavering fingers touched his face, and for an instant, he let them. Then he pushed her hand away and rolled back over on his side like a scolded child.

Her fingers were wet.

Billy Bob, rough and tough Billy Bob Walker, was crying.

"Will you get the hell out of here?" he pleaded with effort, covering his face with his hands, his whole body outraged.

She couldn't leave. He wouldn't let her near him again if she walked out after seeing him in this condition.

"I won't leave. You can't make me, short of dragging me out. Oh, Billy—" Her hands touched his stiff shoulders tentatively; he was warm under the shirt, alive and hurting.

"Please, Shiloh, leave me in peace," he groaned huskily. "I don't . . ."

But her whole body had come to vibrant life with the feel of him, with the sudden rush of understanding, and she slid both arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely to her, letting the side of her face touch his.

He fought her mentally for a moment, then something snapped inside him, and his body collapsed as he began to cry, great, tearing sobs that shook his whole frame and terrified her before she tightened her hold on him.

She had once heard Sam cry, but it had not been like this. Her father had never seemed as determinedly masculine as Billy, and his grief had been resigned. Billy's was desperate; it was wrenching him apart.

This was more than today's misery spilling out of him. This was the accumulated passion and anger and anguish of a lifetime, something tied up with Robert Sewell and with Billy's self-worth.

What poison had Sewell poured into him to exacerbate the wound?

Although she'd come to this isolated little motel with every intention of becoming Billy's wife and lover, she could be more. She could hold him, and soothe him, and whisper nonsense phrases of sympathy against his wet face, like a mother tenderly wrapping a child against the harsh world.

She could be his everything.

"He ... he offered me money," Billy got out at last, his breathing so hard, the tears so heavy she could barely understand him. "Just like you did. I hated him. I hated you. I didn't know I could make such a living, selling myself in Michael's place." His words were jerky, half laughter, half tears—all agonized.

"I'm sorry. So sorry." The whispers on his skin, the way her arms tightened around him. Could he feel her horror? her understanding?

"That's all he wanted to know. Could I be paid to take Michael's place. He said I'd been a mistake. I'd rained lives. He called my mother a gullible fool. He tried to get her to have an abortion. And she should have. She should have."

Shiloh's hands caught in his long hair, her voice cutting off his terrible words.
"No.
Your mother can't live without you. She loves you. She needs you."

"I always thought... he had some kind of feeling for me," Billy whispered jaggedly. "I kept thinkin' someday when I've made it, when I've done something big and right, he's gonna finally admit who I am. He'll stop me on the street, maybe, and—and—" Billy started to laugh again.

"Listen to me, Billy Walker. He's the fool, not you. Never you. He's got no feelings for anybody except himself and the people who make him look good. He's liable to turn his back on Michael if he doesn't straighten up, if he's too big a threat to the things the judge wants."

Shiloh let go of Billy's throat to rise to her knees on the bed behind him, tugging his shoulders insistently until he rolled over on his back, looking up at her.

"You're the only good thing he ever did, Billy." She let her hands soothe his cheeks, wiping away the wetness, let them stroke the hard jaw line, the warm neck, the smooth chest under the open shirt. A man and a boy both were here. Her words were for the boy; but her fingers offered an adult, sensual stroke. "You've got all the passion he's never had. Any man would be proud to have you for his son."

His chest heaved. "Don't lie, Shiloh," he whispered, his words more still. The worst of the storm had passed, at least here in this room. "Your own father knows what I am. And he's right. I can't—"

"You're going to stop feeling sorry for yourself," she said angrily, clutching at his open shirt.

"I'm exactly what he called me all those years ago, Shiloh, a hayseed plowboy. I can't do anything for you."

"I don't know what you are, Billy. Neither do you.

You've spent your whole life being Sewell's bastard. Me, I'm the same. I've been Sam's good little girl. But that's over now. I know there's more. Now we're free to find out who we are, and what we can be, all on our own, together."

She bent over him, her heavy brown hair falling to brush his face, her hands on the heavy muscles in his upper arms. She needed the man in him.

"Do you know who I am today, Billy?"

He stared up at her, his throat working, his eyes puzzled. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Shiloh. That's all I know."

"I'm your wife. My name is Walker, just like yours. Not Pennington, not Sewell. Shiloh Walker." She'd never said it out loud before; it had an odd taste on her tongue.

Then she followed each of his arms out to his palms, entwining her fingers with his in a warm, intricate lock, pulling his hands up above his head as she hovered over his lips. "You said you couldn't do anything for me, Billy. But you can."

She closed her eyes, her heart pounding too hard for her to look into his face, and laid her lips on his in a searing kiss, opening his mouth, pouring her soul into him. Burning away the memories of the hurt, offering him passion and love.

He was gasping for breath, nearly blind and dumb when she pulled away, his chest under her heaving.

She slid her hands from his despite his belated effort to hold her, then her fingers went to the big, bright, turquoise blue buttons that matched the dress she'd put on this morning with such big plans. One by one the buttons slid through the loops and she peeled the wet dress away until it fell open.

He watched, mesmerized, as she shrugged out of it and it puddled around her waist, a bright sea of color. Then she reached behind herself to unclip the delicate lace and satin that wrapped her breasts, catching it as it fell forward, one strap off one graceful shoulder.

Her fingers touched the mark he'd left last night.

"The man who put this here ought to have the courage to finish what he's started," she whispered. "I waited four long years for the right man, to give him the one thing that's always been mine, and I swear, Billy, if you don't take it tonight, I won't wait anymore. Forget our fathers. I'm here. Think of me. Do the one thing for me nobody but you can—"

He made a lunge upward for her, pulling her down against him, rolling her over on her back, imprisoning her under him.

"I hope to God this is really what you want," he panted, "because this is forever. No going back."

He kissed her throat, her face, her breasts, as he pulled the clothes from her.

"Billy, I-—"

"No, don't say any more." He caught her face in his hands, holding her still for his touch. "That mouth of yours is goin' to kill me."

So she told him without words, her hands yanking and pulling at the shirt, pushing it off his shoulders and down to his wrists where he impatiently shook it loose to let it fall on the floor, along with her dress that he dropped.

His hands skimmed her body in the darkness, touching, caressing, feeling.

"I knew you'd be like this," he whispered brokenly. "So many years dreamin' it. Maybe I'm dreamin' now."

Struggling against the pleasure of his fingers, she bit his shoulder a little, loving the salty taste of his skin; she kissed him, a long line of caresses across his chest. Her hands fell to his blue jeans, to the belt, and hesitated before they fumbled with the loops.

Then his own hands came down to unfasten the belt, and his lips returned to hers as he kicked the jeans away.

Shiloh was nearly delirious with sensation when he came down on her, his legs forcing hers apart. Then she began to shiver under the command and the power of his long, strong limbs. What had she done?

"You're afraid," he whispered, tenderly against her face. "Well, I am, too, baby. Scared of touching you, of ruining your life, of the way I'm hurting inside. It's like trying to keep on talking, but it's over a loud noise that won't go away. All I know is that I want you, Shiloh. I'm certain of that. That, and I love you. Oh, God, I love you."

She'd been waiting for the words for weeks, trying to get up the courage to say them herself. But here, tonight, she'd forgotten her need to hear them in her need to help him.

"I love you," he'd said. Given when she'd least expected them. Maybe given out of other emotions.

But he'd said them, nevertheless.

"Billy," she whispered the word against his face, tangling her fingers in his hair to pull him down to her. "I know it will hurt. It doesn't matter. Because I love you, too."