Dangerous Lies (28 page)

I was shocked they’d arrested him and failed to mention it to Carmina and me.
I’d
pressed the charges. I wondered if they’d taken advantage of Carmina’s heart attack to slip this under the carpet while we weren’t looking.

“Makes you feel a little better, right, hon?” the woman nudged.

“I’d say they went lenient on him. Excuse me.” Not bothering to come up with an excuse, I walked away.
Simple assault.
Trigger’s feet and hands didn’t count as deadly weapons? And I suppose my bruises and cuts hadn’t been severe? Given that Trigger was seventeen and his case had likely been handled in the juvenile justice system, it didn’t surprise me that they’d gone easy on him, but five hours of community service and anger management? Where was his restitution? I would have preferred they make him apologize to my face. It would have hurt him more than picking up trash on the weekends.

I went to the table and poured myself a glass of lemonade. I felt shaken, and nearly dropped the pitcher. I had to pull myself together. I could feel the woman’s eyes sticking to me, carefully analyzing my reaction to her news. If I showed any sign of weakness, word would trickle back to Trigger. He’d won all right. But his victory wouldn’t feel half as sweet if I didn’t show any sign of defeat.

“You must be Stella.”

I set down the pitcher and looked up, recognizing a different woman from church. She sang in the choir and had the most ample arms I’d ever seen. Saddlebags hung from her elbows, which were nothing more than dimples lost in folds of soft flesh.

Apparently having no sense of personal space, she grasped my shoulders and held me at arm’s length, nearly causing my lemonade to slosh over the rim. “Aren’t you a pretty thing? Such prominent eyes, and hazel to boot. I bet you have to swat the boys away.” She had a hearty, rumbling laugh that grated on my nerves.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” I said, detaching myself from her grip.

“Mavis. Call me Mavis. Carmina and I have been friends for ages. Went to school together, graduated the same year. I never would have thought Carmina could pull a fast one on me, but lo and behold that woman has a few tricks up her sleeve. A foster child! Who would’ve seen it coming?”

I said nothing, hoping she would lose interest and leave me alone.

“I hear you’ve been running around with Chet Falconer,” she babbled on. “Now, there’s a boy who has turned his life around. Mark my words, I used to say, that Chet will turn out okay. No one believed me, but I have a way with people.” She tapped her head knowingly. “I can look past a rough exterior. I can see a heart of gold masked under teenage rebellion.” Another exuberant laugh.

I eyed the back door impatiently. “Yes, well—”

“Of course, it must be hard on Carmina, having you run around with Hannah Falconer’s boy. Old wounds.” She wagged her head with pity. “Never got a chance to heal, and here you are, reopening them. Not to say it’s your fault, dear. It’s just the way things are. Poor thing, Carmina.”

I stared at her, aggravated. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m sure by now you’ve heard how hard the death of Hannah Falconer, Chet’s mother, was on Carmina. They were best friends, you know. Childhood best friends. As I recall, Carmina liked Thomas Falconer first. I remember the two of them went to dances at the high school together. And then Hannah took a liking to Thomas, and for a while, it threatened to destroy Carmina and Hannah’s friendship. In the end, Carmina backed down and let Hannah have her way. Carmina was maid of honor at their wedding. Had to break her heart, seeing the two people she loved most dearly married to each other. To this day, I can’t help but think Carmina must feel short-sticked. I’m not saying she does—she’s a good Christian woman—but when she looks at Chet, who’s a spitting image of his father, mind you, I wonder if he stirs up old feelings of betrayal and the sting of unrequited love. No matter,” she said with an airy and dismissive gesture. “I’m sure that’s just the gossip in me rooting around for a story to tug the ol’ heartstrings. I do know Carmina and Hannah remained best friends until the day the Falconers died. And Carmina holds Chet personally responsible for his parents’ deaths.”

“Why would she blame Chet?” I asked, annoyed by the woman’s delivery of this story, and annoyed at myself for asking a question that would encourage her to go on telling it. But it was a lot of information to digest, and I’d asked without thinking.

“When Hannah and Thomas were hit by that drunk driver, they were on their way to pick up Chet from the police station. He’d been caught doing some such nonsense, and was cooling his heels behind bars. Chet was a hellion, always looking for the next bout of trouble. Had he not gotten into trouble that particular evening, his parents never would have been on the road that fateful night. Course, that’s only half the story. Carmina’s grandson, Nathaniel, was Chet’s best friend. He was riding in the car with the Falconers that night, on the way to give his friend a much-needed talking to. He died with the rest of them. In one fell swoop, Carmina lost her first love, her best friend, and the grandson she’d raised from birth.”

I went very still. So this was why Carmina held Chet at a distance. Seeing him brought back memories of her grandson—She
had
a grandson? Was it his room I’d inherited?—that were painful. With Chet around, it was impossible not to remember Nathaniel. Nathaniel, Hannah, and Thomas.

I wished Mavis—was that her name?—hadn’t told me. I felt a strange heat flush through me. Resentment. I resented her for prying in other people’s business. Was this what the people of Thunder Basin went around doing—digging up the past and flinging it in each other’s faces?

“You’re wrong,” I told her, my voice shaking slightly with anger. “Carmina doesn’t blame Chet. She’s a better woman than that. She understands people make mistakes. And that’s exactly what Chet did—he made a mistake. One mistake that will haunt him the rest of his life, because people like you can’t seem to let him put it in the past, where it belongs!”

“Oh, dear,” Mavis said, covering her mouth, which had taken the shape of a fat, lipsticked oval. “Oh, my.”

“Really?
Now
you’re at a loss for words?”

“You’ve hardly had time to get to know Carmina,” she stammered. “I thought a little backstory might shed some—”

“I’ve had enough time to gauge Carmina’s character. It’s amazing how little people have to say for us to really know them.”

Her hand went to her lacy throat, and her shocked expression pinched with offense. “I dare say.”

“Oh, you’ve said enough,” I said, disgusted.

With another gasp at my rudeness, Mavis tilted her nose upward and waddled outside.

I stayed in the kitchen, fuming in silence. I felt sick. Absurdly, I also felt like crying. I wanted to find Chet, pull him aside, and hold him tightly. How could he stay in a town that was so decidedly against him? If I were him, I would have run at the first chance. Why hadn’t he bolted long ago? And then I remembered.

Dusty.

Chet was stuck here until his brother graduated. To his credit, I’d never heard him complain. He had compassion for Dusty, who’d given him every reason not to. He stayed in Thunder Basin because it was the right thing to do. His family meant more to him than the idle talk of nosy men and women.

Family
. I had a family, but unlike Chet, I’d turned my back on mine long ago. My mom was a mess and I couldn’t stand to be near her. I was better off without her. Those were the words I told myself, but Chet’s example caused me to pause and take a hard look at what I was doing.

Was I a horrible person? Would Chet still want to be with me if he knew the truth about me and my family?

Something unexpected happened then. My throat grew slippery and my hands turned clammy. As hard as it would be, I had to call my mom. Before it was too late, I had to swallow my pride, forget the deep sense of injustice I felt, and set things right.

If something happened to one of us, I wanted her to know I didn’t hate her. I hadn’t forgiven her, but I didn’t hate her either. It was a start.

While no one was looking, I scrolled through the caller list on Carmina’s phone. I wouldn’t call my mom today; I had to plan what I’d say, and I had to buy my own phone. I couldn’t let Carmina know I was making the call. If I lost my temper with my mom, I didn’t want Carmina to be disappointed or, worse, think less of me.

The only number in the call list that didn’t have Thunder Basin’s area code was an 800 number. It had to be the clinic’s. I scribbled the digits on a Post-it note and shoved it in my pocket. My hand shook as I did, and I was even more grateful Carmina wasn’t there to see it.

I WAS RIDING SHOTGUN IN
the Scout, and Chet refused to tell me where he was taking me. We’d left town a few miles back and were picking up speed on a wide open stretch of highway. We passed lone mailboxes on the side of the road, and when I squinted into the distance, I could just see the houses they belonged to, and the blinding glint of sunlight on aluminum barn roofs. We passed windmills, too, and low rolling hills speckled with grazing cattle. The wheat-white of prairie grass whizzed by.

At last Chet slowed, turned off the highway, and drove through a tall gate constructed of timber posts that flanked a narrow dirt road. An iron sign hung down from the highest post and clued me in to our destination.
MILTON SWOPE’S RANCH
.

“You brought me to work?” I asked, trying to figure out what I was missing. It was evident by the smirk on his face that he was up to something. “On a Saturday?”

“Work barbeque. Boss said to bring a friend. Plucked a random name from my Rolodex, and you’re the lucky winner.”

I rolled the window down and stuck my head out to catch the breeze. It whipped my hair around my face and whisked the sweat off my neck.

I wrinkled my nose. “What’s that smell?”

Chet grinned. “Money.”

“I’m serious. It stinks.”

“Cattle have to do their business too.”

“We’re eating barbeque with that pleasant aroma in the background?”

“Hold your horses. We’ve still got a ways to drive. The ranch’s entrance gate we passed through back there? Marks another five-mile drive to the house. You won’t smell cattle by the time we get there.”

The next five miles gave me a view of some of the prettiest countryside I’d seen in Nebraska. The land was rolling hills slashed by narrow and winding creeks, and low golden bluffs loomed on the horizon. When we pulled up to the ranch house, the driveway was already filled with cars and trucks. Chet was right; the only thing I smelled now was meat sizzling on the grill.

“Eat all the burgers and potato salad you want,” Chet said, “but you might want to lay off the Rocky Mountain oysters.”

“I like oysters. I’ve never had freshwater, but I’m up for trying anything.”

He thumbed his nose. “You might not be up for these.” He was hiding a smile, and that was my first clue.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Rocky Mountain oysters aren’t oysters. They’re bull calf testes.”

I just stared at him.

Grinning, he said, “Still up for sampling?”

I lowered myself out of the Scout slowly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Ranchers have to castrate all but a few select bulls with superior genes. Most bulls are inferior, and you don’t want them breeding. If you leave them intact, they turn mean. They’ll break down gates, barn doors, loading chutes, and any other pen you put them in to get to a cow in heat. I’m not joking. I’ve seen them destroy trucks, water tanks—”

“That doesn’t mean you have to eat their . . . their you-know-what!”

“Waste not, want not,” he said dryly. “Here—I picked you up a little gift.” Reaching over the backseat, he produced a straw cowgirl hat with a thin chocolate-colored ribbon. “Come here.”

When I leaned forward, he set the hat gently in place. His eyes met mine, and I felt a little whirl of dizziness.

“Do I look like a local?” I asked, modeling for him.

“Get you atop a horse, and nobody would suspect otherwise.”

“I went to horse camp once, just outside Philadelphia. My grandparents paid—” I stopped abruptly, horrified by my mistake. I couldn’t believe I’d almost rattled off the truth—that my mother’s parents had paid for horseback riding camp the summer before I turned sixteen. I’d almost told him about Philadelphia. About Estella.

Quickly amending my story, I said, “My grandparents paid for me to spend two weeks learning to ride horses. They died shortly after. My mom followed them, and that’s when I went into foster care.”

“Wish you hadn’t had to go through that,” he said solemnly. “Do you mind if I ask what happened to your dad?”

“Oh, he’s dead too.”

“You’ve had a lot of deaths in your family. Must be hard.”

“Yeah, well, you get over it. Let’s go get burgers and potato salad, okay?”

The look in his eyes told me he wasn’t fooled, but to my great relief, he let me have my way. He wouldn’t push for answers. At least not yet.

*  *  *

After lunch, Chet and I strolled behind the ranch house to a cement pad with two basketball hoops at either end. There was a ball on the ground, and Chet picked it up, spinning it skillfully on his finger.