The Loner (18 page)

“You’re taking an awful long time to answer,” she said. “Which suggests the answer is no.”

He reached for her hand to keep her from turning away. “The answer is I have to think about it. We’re not kids anymore, Summer. The things we choose to do have consequences.”

She placed her palm against his cheek and said, “What happened to the dangerous, risk-taking Billy I used to know?”

“He grew up. He became a father.”

“I liked the old Billy better,” she said, her lips pouting.

The old Billy wanted to suck one of those pouting lips into his mouth and taste the sweetness of it. The old Billy wanted to palm one of her lush breasts in his hand and work the nipple into a tight bud. The old Billy wanted to lay her flat and thrust the hard, bulging erection behind the fly of his jeans deep inside her.

The new Billy satisfied himself with a quick peck on her lips before he backed off, letting go of her hand. “Your brothers are heading this way.”

She turned and watched as her twin brothers Owen and Clay headed straight for them without pausing for the occasional handshake or amenity with anyone.

Billy steeled himself for the verbal—and maybe even physical—attack he figured was coming. Summer backed up against him, putting herself between him and her
brothers. He took her by the shoulders and, despite her resistance, moved her to his left, out of the way of harm, in case one of her brothers launched a blow in his direction.

“You lowdown, dirty—”

“Stop right there, Clay,” Summer said. “You’re talking about my husband.”

Even for Billy, it wasn’t hard to tell the twins apart. Owen was a Texas Ranger and had spent his life outdoors hunting down badmen. His features were weathered from the sun and his jeans and shirt were worn and soft from a thousand washings. A five-pointed silver star was pinned above his pocket and he had a Colt .45 strapped high on his hip.

Clay had been elected the youngest ever attorney general of the state of Texas and spent his days prosecuting criminals in the courtroom. He looked younger than Owen, but his gray eyes were no less piercing, and his over-six-foot body looked just as hard beneath the blended wool suit pants and white oxford-cloth shirt that had been unbuttoned at the neck, with the conservative striped tie pulled down to make his office uniform look more appropriate for the outdoor occasion.

“Well, well,” Clay drawled. “Bad Billy Coburn—”

“That’s enough, Clay,” Summer warned, stepping back in front of Billy.

He took her by the shoulders again, but she resisted his attempts to move her aside. He gave in and slid his arm around her waist and pulled her back against him, so they presented a united front. “Hello, Clay. Owen,” he said, nodding to his brothers-in-law. This was the first
time he’d come in contact with them since he’d learned they were also his half brothers.

He saw pieces of himself in them. The chin. The cheekbones. The hair. The nose. But he’d gotten his dark eyes from his mother, while they’d gotten theirs from Blackjack—the ruthless gray eyes of a predator.

“Welcome to the family,” Owen said, extending his hand.

Billy was both disconcerted by the friendly gesture and wary of it.

Summer was more direct. “If you have any intention of grabbing Billy and—”

“I just want to shake your husband’s hand,” Owen said. “I want to wish the two of you well and invite you to visit me and Bay and the kids next time you’re in Fredericksburg.”

“Where is Bay?” Summer asked.

“She’s at home with the twins. They’re just getting over the chicken pox.”

“Thank you, Owen,” Summer said. “We’ll try to make it.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Billy, and he knew she expected him to shake Owen’s hand, which was still extended. Owen, who’d arrested him once for driving drunk. Who’d more than once warned him away from Summer and made it clear he didn’t have much use for lowlifes like Bad Billy Coburn.

Billy reminded himself he wasn’t “Bad” Billy Coburn anymore. That he’d likely be spending the rest of his life in this sawed-off town. And that it wouldn’t hurt to have the goodwill of a respected man like Owen Blackthorne,
especially when his son would be growing up and making a place for himself here.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, as he extended his hand.

Owen’s grip was firm, but not so tight as to turn the handshake into a contest. When Billy would have let go, Owen held on and said, “I wish I’d known sooner that we’re kin. I’d have lent you a helping hand—”

Billy yanked his hand free and said, “Keep your charity to yourself, Blackthorne.”

“See what I mean, Owe?” Clay said. “An
ungrateful
yellow-bellied cur. Bad to the bone.”

“Say that again when your sister isn’t standing between us,” Billy taunted, using his hold on Summer’s waist to throw her out of the range of the two men’s fists.

“Whoa there, boys,” Owen said, playing peacemaker. “Shake hands and be friends.”

Billy didn’t feel like being friendly. He narrowed his eyes at Clay and said, “Takes a yellow-bellied cur to know one.”

“Billy, please don’t fight,” Summer begged.

“If you weren’t Summer’s husband I’d give you a lesson you wouldn’t forget,” Clay threatened.

All the unfairness of his situation, all his antagonism toward Blackjack for taking away his livelihood, toward Debbie Sue for blackmailing him, toward his mother for getting sick and his sister for getting pregnant, and the sexual frustration of lying night after night beside a woman he wanted but couldn’t have, needed an outlet.

Clay had given it to him.

But he wasn’t going to strike first. Billy didn’t want Owen-the-lawman to be able to say he’d started it. He
needed Clay to make the first move. The smug sonofabitch was just standing there, certain he was safe so long as he had his brother to protect him and his sister to keep Billy in check.

“Go stand over there, Summer,” Billy said, gesturing toward Clay. “Your big brother wants to hide behind your skirt.”

It wasn’t much as insults go. Billy had said worse. But it was enough. Clay swung without warning.

Clay’s fist seemed to move in slow motion, and Billy parried the blow long before it reached his chin, countering with a quick punch to Clay’s stomach. Surprisingly solid muscle gave way under the force of his jab, and Clay doubled over. Billy followed with a driving upper-cut that straightened Clay up and threw him backward onto the ground.

Owen stepped in front of him. “That’s enough, you bastard.”

It was a poor choice of words, and even though Billy could see Owen had realized his mistake, he didn’t give him a chance to take it back. “No, not nearly enough,” Billy said, his fist driving toward Owen’s chin.

Owen’s reflexes were better, and he dipped his head aside so Billy’s knuckles only grazed his cheek.

“Goddammit. Cut it out,” Owen said as Billy’s other fist caught him on the ear.

“What the hell’s going on here?” a bellowing voice demanded.

Billy was like a wounded animal besieged by predators, knowing only that he had to keep fighting or be lost. Still, he wouldn’t have hit an older man, or a weaker one,
if it could have been helped. The problem was, Blackjack stepped between Owen and Billy’s fist at a point when it was too late to pull his punch.

His bare knuckles smashed into Blackjack’s jaw, causing him to grunt with pain and stumble backward into both Owen and Clay, who was rejoining the fray. The two men kept Blackjack upright, but the enormity of what he’d done struck Billy in an instant.

He turned to locate Summer, who stared at him with horror. He looked around and saw a crowd had gathered, all of them with condemnation in their eyes and contempt on their faces.

He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anyone.

He started to back away, but he wasn’t given a chance to escape before attack came from another direction.

“This is all your fault,” a shrill female voice cried.

Billy turned toward the accusing voice, but the well-manicured, pointing finger wasn’t aimed at him.

It was aimed at Blackjack.

Billy took a halting half-step backward and turned to stare—along with everyone else—at the expensively dressed and elegantly coiffed woman whose gaze pinned Jackson Blackthorne like a hog-tied bull calf she planned to castrate.

“What do you expect when you invite your bastard son to a party where the rest of your family is gathered?” Eve Blackthorne said in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone there.

“We can talk about this later, Eve,” Blackjack said, eyeing the crowd.

“We’ll talk about it now,” she said, taking another step toward him.

Billy saw Owen and Clay move toward their mother, as though to intercept her, but she either sensed or saw them, because she turned to them and said, “I’m sorry you boys have to witness this, but I’ve taken all of your father’s bad behavior I can stomach. I’m surprised he didn’t invite his lover—that Creed woman—here this evening.”

Billy heard a gasp from the crowd, but it was Blackjack’s face he found riveting. His teeth were clenched and his jaw muscle worked and his eyes had narrowed in fury.

“I excused your fling, even though it bore fruit,” Eve continued, sliding a glance in Billy’s direction. “But I won’t tolerate flagrant adultery. I deserve more respect than that.”

He felt Summer’s hands grip his arm, her fingernails biting into his skin. He turned to free himself and saw her face was parchment pale, her lips pressed flat. He gathered both her hands in one of his and turned back to the train wreck that was happening before his eyes.

“This is not the time or place—” Blackjack said.

“When is the time?” Eve interrupted. “When you’re lying in bed with that woman? When you’re fucking her?”

The obscene word was shocking, coming from a mouth as delicate as Eve Blackthorne’s. But it had the desired result. Blackjack started toward her with his hands outstretched as though to strangle her, and it was only the intervention of his two sons, each of whom grabbed one of his arms, that kept him from doing it.

“You foul bitch,” he spat. “I should have gotten rid of you years ago.”

Eve suddenly looked frightened, the way a little girl looks when she realizes she’s lost, surrounded by a dark and dangerous forest, with no idea which way to go.

She faltered backward, and several women rushed to surround her, leading her away.

Blackjack shook off his sons like a big buffalo bull shaking off a few irritating rat terriers. “Get the hell away from me,” he said. “Show’s over, folks,” he said to the crowd that lingered, ghoulishly hoping to see more carnage. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”

The crowd agreed heartily with that suggestion, and Blackjack headed toward the keg of beer and the buckets of champagne and the jars of iced tea that had been set up for his guests.

“What a fiasco,” Clay said.

“It’s been coming a long time,” Owen said. He put his arm around Clay’s shoulder, shot Billy a “Stay where you are!” look, and said, “Let’s go get a drink.”

Clay looked one last time in Billy’s direction, but at Owen’s urging, followed the rest of the crowd toward the makeshift bar.

Billy let his arm drop from Summer’s waist and stood waiting to be condemned for his part in the disaster they’d all just witnessed.

“How could you, Billy?” she said in a soft, agonized voice.

He kept his eyes focused on the retreating crowd as he said, “I didn’t have any choice, Summer.”

“You baited Clay. You caused that fight.”

He turned to her and said, “You knew who I was when you married me. Bad Billy Coburn, the meanest junkyard dog in town. Always was and always will be.”

“What does that make me, Billy?”

His throat ached just looking at the hurt in her eyes. “A fool, I guess, for marrying me.”

He wanted her to contradict him. He wanted her to fight.

But without a word, she turned her back on him and walked away.

B
ILLY LAY IN BED, THE LIGHTS OUT, THINKING
about the mess he’d made of his life since he’d come back to Bitter Creek. He felt sick inside, hurting as though he’d been punched hard in the gut and then kicked in the teeth, and finally stomped while he was down. Things were about as bad as they could get.

He’d followed Summer when she walked away from him at the barbecue, terrified that she was leaving him for good. To his surprise, she headed straight for his pickup and got in.

“Take me home,” she said.

He gave an inward sigh that she wasn’t leaving him. Or maybe she was but just didn’t want to make any more of a scene than he and her family already had.

Their trip home was nothing like the drive over. Then she’d been bubbly and excited and smiling and playful. And concerned because he’d been so tense and quiet. She’d asked him whether he was anxious about spending an evening with her family. He’d told her he wasn’t used to crowds.

Lying here in bed after the silent drive home, he wished he’d admitted what had really been preying on
his mind. That wouldn’t have excused his behavior toward her brothers. But maybe it would have explained it.