Deployed (7 page)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you trying to make yourself out to be some kind of hero, Bekah Ann?”

“No, but I’m in trouble with the law, and I’m in that trouble because of you.”

“I didn’t ask you for no help.”

“You weren’t exactly able to, as I recall.” Bekah wanted to scream, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good.

“I got my nose broke and stitches in my cheek trying to help you get your child support.”

“Fine. Then tell it that way. But tell it.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you stood up to Billy Roy. I was only doing what you’re too afraid to do.”

“That’s insane.” Bekah couldn’t believe it. “I stood up to Buck Miller, and he had a knife.”

“I got hurt because you wouldn’t take care of your own business. Now you want to blame this all on me? You want me to stick my neck out where Buck Miller and his thugs will snap it off? And you know he’s running with some of those methheads now. You’re not a very good friend, Bekah. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to figure that out.”

The phone clicked dead in Bekah’s ear.

Angry and frustrated, Bekah looked at the phone and thought about calling back. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Connie had already chosen her path through the current mess. There was nothing she could do to change her mind. Feeling down and whipped, Bekah retreated back into McDonald’s.

7

THE NEXT DAY,
Bekah parked her twenty-year-old Chevy pickup out behind Hollister’s Fine Dining. The day’s heat had already started to kick in, but the Chevy’s air-conditioning had played out a couple years ago and she hadn’t wanted to replace it because it was so expensive. She drove the pickup with the windows down, but that didn’t help much except to give her a driver’s tan, left arm darker than the right.

She listened to the last bit of one of her favorite Kellie Pickler songs, then shut off the radio and picked up the brown waitress apron with
Hollister’s Fine Dining
in gold thread across the bottom. At least Hollister’s allowed casual wear while waiting tables. She wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a kelly-green blouse. As she walked around the restaurant, smelling the burgers and fried onions, she tied the apron around her waist.

Hollister’s wasn’t “fine dining,” but the small brick
restaurant was the place in Callum’s Creek where all the locals came to eat when they were tired of eating at home. Or Sundays after church. The church crowd was always good, but the servers had to dress up a little better then. It was not a hardship to Bekah. She liked the energy that filled the restaurant on those days. Things just seemed more positive.

She’d worked there since high school. Her grandpa, though she hadn’t known it at the time, had arranged her job through Mr. Evan Hollister, the original owner. Grandpa had always looked out for her, and it was embarrassing when Bekah found out a couple years later. But Grandpa had meant well, and Mr. Hollister had been a good boss, training her on everything.

The present Mr. Hollister—the original had died a few years before Grandpa—wasn’t so good. Dwight Hollister was in his forties and tight with a penny, and he made sure every employee he had worked hard for their wages. He could call the shots on that because there weren’t too many places in town where high school kids—and single moms—could work flexible schedules.

The jobs at the Beep ’N’ Buy got handed down by the Morton family, and they were picky about whom they hired. The rest of the work around Callum’s Creek was all ranch and farm related. Nobody wanted to work at Fancher’s pig farm. The smell lingered even miles away. The only other choice for work was Murchison, which was a seventeen-mile drive, one way. The cost of gasoline would eat into whatever check she brought home.

The bond money, which she had insisted on paying back to her granny, had cut deeply into Bekah’s savings, and finding a lawyer to represent her at trial was going to be even more costly. She’d gone to bed with that in her mind last night, and it had been the first thing she’d thought of this morning.

Things were bad enough that she was beginning to hope her unit might get activated again. The increase in pay would be awesome, but she would have to be away from Travis again for God only knew how long.

Who are you kidding? God doesn’t see you. You’re invisible on that particular radar screen.

Drawing a final breath, looking forward to the air-conditioning inside, Bekah pushed the door open and walked in. The restaurant was casual—tables and chairs that mostly went together, checked curtains that were faded but regularly cleaned. The concrete floor had wear patterns between the tables and booths, but the restaurant still smelled like home cooking: chili and cornbread and fried chicken.

She inhaled, remembering those cold nights in Afghanistan when all she’d had to eat was an MRE that certainly didn’t fit the description printed on the package. Outside of her granny’s kitchen, Hollister’s was the place that smelled most like home.

It was a quarter to seven and a dozen or so regulars, most of them seniors who spent most of the morning gossiping, sat in the dining area. Conversation stopped for a moment as they all looked at her.

Glad to see the local grapevine is still in effect.
Bekah nodded
and focused her attention on the door to the kitchen. She needed to punch in and get started. She was pulling a double today.

Once she was through the back door, Dwight Hollister called her name. He sat in the small office off the kitchen, a squat little man with too-perfect hair, a short-sleeved shirt, and bland brown eyes behind thick-lensed glasses.

“Can you come in here for a minute?” Dwight rested his hands over his paunch and leaned back in his chair.

Bekah had a bad feeling. Dwight was being polite. The man was
never
polite. Uneasily, she took the chair he waved her toward. She sat and waited.

“Bekah, there’s no good way to put this to you, but I’m going to have to let you go.” Dwight looked sour.

“Let me go?” At first the words didn’t make any sense to Bekah.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it has to be.”

“Why?”

Dwight waved a hand. “Cutbacks. It’s this recession we’re in. Gotta make some adjustments. Nothing personal.”

“I work on tips, Mr. Hollister. And you don’t provide benefits. It’s not like the restaurant is out a lot of money having me at this job.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just the way it has to be.” Dwight looked down and wouldn’t meet her eyes. He reached into a drawer and came out with an envelope. “I’ve got your final check here. I added an extra week’s pay.”

Numbly, Bekah took the envelope because she didn’t know what else she was supposed to do.

“It’s not like you really needed this job, Bekah. Your grandma looks out for you and your son.”

That brought some anger back to Bekah and she tried to rein it in. “I make my own way, Mr. Hollister. I work hard to make my own way.”

“Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

“Why does it have to be difficult? What has changed?”

“Bekah.” Dwight looked at her calmly, and she saw that there was maybe a little shame in his gaze, but it wasn’t going to affect his decision. “You’ve worked at this restaurant for nine years, off and on. Since you were a girl. The Hollister family has taken care of you.”

“And I’ve worked hard, Mr. Hollister. I’ve worked every shift that was asked, and I’ve picked up slack when there was some. The only time I’ve ever missed is when I was having Travis.”

“You missed while you were off with the Marines too. I took care of you then, and I made sure you had a job when you came back.”

Bekah wanted to point out again how hard she worked, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good.

“I just can’t do that anymore. I’m sorry.”

“This is about Buck Miller, isn’t it?”

Dwight hesitated, then gave her a short nod. “Yes. It is. I can’t afford to have him or his friends come in here and bust the place up. Darlton’s was lucky to get by with just a little damage the other night. Those people Buck is running with these days?” He shook his head. “Some of those folks are dangerous. I can’t risk anybody getting hurt. Buck’s gonna get back on his feet again, and he might just come looking
for you. I can’t take that chance.” He paused. “I’ll be happy to give you a recommendation for somewhere else. Anywhere else you want to go.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“They got restaurants in Murchison, secretarial jobs, other things. You can find something. I know you can.”

Bekah had already thought about those options a long time ago. The truth of the matter was that she was a blue-collar girl with little training. The Marines hadn’t expanded her knowledge base like she’d hoped. She’d learned to shoot and to guard and to march wherever she’d been ordered, just to do more of the same.

“Let me know if I can help you.”

Knowing that was her cue to leave, Bekah stood. “Thank you.”

Dwight nodded.

Head high, ignoring the emotions sloshing around inside her, Bekah walked out of the restaurant and back into the heat of the day. She paused at the front of the building and dug in her pants pocket for change, then bought copies of the
Oklahoman
and the
Murchison Gazette
.

When she returned to her truck, she went down to the Beep ’N’ Buy to fill up the gas tank. As the pump cycled, draining her bank account of more money, she leafed through the classified ads and circled jobs that looked like something she could do.

She wasn’t going to give up. She had too much of her grandparents in her for that. But it felt like every direction she faced was uphill, like she was climbing out of a well.

Then she remembered something her grandpa had always
told her.
“No matter how tough the way looks, little girl, all it takes is that first step to get you going. Just take that step.”

She took out her phone and started calling the numbers she’d circled in the
Gazette
. She’d start there, see how far she got.

The truck hesitated a few times on the old country road that led back to the Shaw farm. The engine coughed and sputtered and wheezed like an asthmatic.

Tired and frustrated, spent from a day relentlessly pounding pavement and talking to strangers about jobs that didn’t exist or required more experience than she had, Bekah stomped the accelerator. “C’mon. Don’t quit on me now.”

She gazed at the fuel gauge and saw that she had used just under half a tank. The heat gauge was well within range as well.

With a final spastic cough, the engine died completely and the power steering went out. Thankfully the brakes were manual. She stomped hard on the brake pedal and muscled the truck to the side of the road.

Resisting the urge to cry or curse, Bekah popped the hood and got out the small toolbox she carried behind the seat. Walking around to the front of the truck, she smelled gasoline and guessed at the problem she was going to find.

She loved the truck for two reasons: because her grandpa had given it to her and because she could work on it. They had rebuilt the engine together, and it had run like a top.

Until today.

The spark plugs and coil wires had been changed right
before she’d headed to Afghanistan for her last tour, so they should still be in fine shape. That left the carburetor or the fuel pump. Both of which were expensive. All the local auto shops and salvage yards would be closed up tonight, and tomorrow was Saturday. Most of them closed at noon, even in Murchison.

Disheartened, Bekah closed the hood and put her tools back behind the seat. She guessed she was still four miles from home. She did the only thing she knew to do: she called home.

“She give out on you, did she?” Clyde Walters, as big and affable as ever, climbed out from behind the steering wheel of his tow truck. He was tall and broad, and he looked like a wild-maned Santa Claus in overalls. A Texas Rangers ball cap held his white hair in place. The truck’s bright lights carved holes in the darkness that had settled over the deserted road.

“Yes.” Bekah tried to put on a smile, but she really wasn’t feeling it. She’d placed road flares around the truck, and the glow left spots dancing in her vision.

“Well, don’t you worry, little missy. We’ll get you and your truck home tonight. We ain’t gonna leave either one of you stranded out here.” Clyde started hauling chains from the back end of the tow truck. “Do you know what’s wrong with her? Got plenty of gas?”

“Half a tank. I think it’s the fuel pump or the carburetor.”

“You know how to fix those, right?” Clyde crawled under the back of her truck and started attaching the chains. “Big Travis, he was right proud of the way you took to mechanicking and hunting and fishing.”

After Travis was born, everyone started calling her grandpa Big Travis.

“I know how.”

“You’re lucky you got a model you can work on. Most cars these days, you gotta be a computer technician to climb up under the hood.”

“I know. That’s why Grandpa insisted on this truck and why he helped me rebuild it.”

“Your granddaddy was a smart man.”

“He was.”

Clyde grabbed hold of the truck’s bumper and levered himself up. He wiped his hands clean on a red rag. “I miss talking to him.”

“Me too.” Bekah swallowed an unexpected lump in her throat. “I appreciate you coming out here to get me, Mr. Walters.”