ROYAL'S CHILD

by Sharon Sala

  Almost six feet tall and as thin and rangy as an old muley cow, the woman lifted a long arm in a friendly wave and hefted a box from the seat beside her. She started talking before the truck door was shut.

  "Hello, there," she yelled. "I'm Myra Waycoff. Hell of a way to meet, isn't it, girl? Dan says you all were real lucky last night. We got side winds but nothing direct. Loosened a few shingles on the roof and rained in around the chimney, but shoot, I been tellin' that Dan for almost three years to fix it, and he hasn't done it yet. Do you like fried chicken?" She laughed and continued her spiel before Angel could answer. "Hell, what am I asking? Everyone likes fried chicken. Brought some potato salad and biscuits, too. And a pie. Royal likes my pies."

  She was on the porch and walking through the door Angel held open. She set the box on the table with a thump, stood back and dusted her hands on the seat of her faded jeans.

  Angel couldn't stop smiling. Never in her life had she met a woman as lacking in subterfuge as this one.

  "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Waycoff. My name is Angel Rojas."

  "Have mercy, child. Call me Myra."

  She enveloped Angel in a smothering hug, which Angel found strangely comforting. A combination of scents clung to her old plaid shirt. Angel recognized hay and sweet feed and, if she wasn't mistaken, ginger and cinnamon. Her grin widened as Myra launched into a barrage of questions she didn't seem to want answered.

  "Angel, is it?" Myra said as she turned Angel loose. "Is that your real name? Lord have mercy, I'd never be able to live up to such a name. Dan says I'm hell on wheels." She threw back her head and laughed, making the short gray curls on her head bounce with vigor. "But when you get my age, if you're still kicking, I figure you ought to be able to be any damned thing you want. Know what I mean?"

  The question wasn't anything more than punctuation, a way for Myra to catch her breath. She launched into another subject without batting an eye.

  "You got hit hard," she said. "But not as hard as the Deevers down the road. Their whole house is gone."

  Angel's heart went out to those people. Even if she didn't know them, last night they'd shared a terror no one should know.

  "Oh, my," Angel said softly. "If they were as afraid as I was, then bless their hearts."

  Myra beamed. "I knew before I met you that we were going to get along," she said.

  "Why?" Angel asked.

  "Because Dan came home laughing about how you put Royal in his place."

  A slow flush spread up Angel's neck and face as she remembered. I'll quit calling you sir when you quit telling me what to do.

  "I shouldn't have lost my temper like that," Angel said. "Royal is my boss."

  "Pooh," Myra said. "He's still a man, isn't he?"

  Definitely. But Angel kept the thought to herself.

  Myra slapped Angel on the back. It was a comforting thud. The grin on Angel's face spread wider.

  "Men are like range steers. They need boundaries or they'll run wild all over the place. Give 'em plenty of rope. Don't want 'em to feel like you've got 'em tied down. But for God's sake, make sure that rope is tied to something solid."

  Myra Waycoff's analogies were priceless. Angel knew she shouldn't be discussing her boss like this, but she couldn't help herself. "Why?"

  Myra grinned. "Because eventually they're gonna run out of rope, and when they do, they'll buck like hell before they realize they like being roped and they like being tied."

  Angel was still laughing when Royal came in the back door. He liked Myra Waycoff, but he was aware of her verbal tendencies. He shuddered to think what she'd been telling Angel.

  "What's so funny?" he asked.

  Myra gave him a hug similar to the one Angel had received.

  "You, boy. Just you."

  Royal rolled his eyes and gave Angel a nervous look, wondering what family secrets the old woman had revealed. But Angel wasn't talking. In fact, she wouldn't even look Royal in the face. That was enough to make him worry, but he wasn't deterred for long. When he frowned at Myra, she slapped his rear. He grinned and kissed her soundly on the cheek before dancing her around the kitchen floor.

  Angel was stunned. She'd never seen Royal so playful. A part of her rejoiced in the sight and a part of her felt guilty that she'd done nothing to make him happy. Even if he was her boss, their relationship should be comfortable. They should not constantly be at each other's throats.

  "Quit, you damned fool," Myra finally cried, and thumped Royal on the ann. "I'm too old for such carrying on."

  She grabbed Angel by the wrist and yanked her forward. Before either Royal or Angel knew it, they'd been thrust into each other's arms.

  "Dance with her, boy. I'm going home. Nice to meet you, Angel, girl. I'll be back in a couple of days to pick up my dishes."

  She was driving away before they had the good sense to move. Royal looked at Angel. Her eyes had the look of a doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. As much as he might like to explore the softness of her skin and the textures of the hair brushing across the backs of his hands, he knew it was time to let her go.

  "She's something, isn't she?"

  Angel swallowed, trying to find words in her brain that would make any sense. But coherence was lost to her. The feel of Royal's hands at the middle of her back and the solid length of his body pressed too intimately against her own was making her weak.

  Then suddenly she was free and Royal was at the sink, washing his hands and whistling beneath his breath. Bereft by the abrupt abandonment, she turned and began taking out the food that Myra had brought. She didn't know Royal was standing at the sink and shaking or that the water he was using was deep-well cold to keep his mind off dragging her down the hall and taking her to bed. All she knew was that he'd let her go.

  "Smells good," Royal said, as she began to take covers from bowls.

  "Yes. If she cooks as well as she talks, it will be wonderful," Angel said.

  Royal laughed, and the tension between them was broken. But all the way through their meal, she kept glancing outside to the ever-growing darkness.

  Night.

  What would it bring?

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  The house was quiet. Only the sounds of running water from the adjoining bathroom could be heard. Angel sat on the edge of the cot Royal had set up. There were no words for the relief she felt when she walked into the room and saw it there, waiting to be made up. She'd done so quickly, claiming it as hers before Royal emerged.

  She'd bathed while Royal had been on the phone. She stared at the closed door between them, then the few yards of space separating her cot from his bed and knew it would never be enough. Something was happening between them. Something she wasn't ready to face. Something she didn't know how to stop.

  The water stopped. Her pulse skipped a beat and then accelerated. He would come out and she didn't know what to say. Too much had gone on between them to ignore. After the way Royal had decked that man on the street, people would obviously talk. She sighed. The only thing she had to her name was a good reputation. She didn't want to lose it. Not even for Royal. He'd hired her as a housekeeper, not a whore. She wouldn't be any man's whore, but dear God, she would be Royal's love.

  Afraid to face him, she laid down on the cot, pulled the covers over her breasts and pretended to be asleep. The bathroom door opened. Willing herself to a calm she didn't feel, she heard him pause, then sigh. Her heart went out to him, but she didn't move.

  Royal knew she wasn't asleep. And she was in the wrong bed. He hung his wet towel on the doorknob and turned back the covers on his bed. Without raising his voice, he calmly announced his intentions.

  "I'm going into the living room to watch the evening news and weather. When I come back, you'd better be in this bed or I'll put you in it myself."

  Angel's eyes flew open in sudden shock, but it was too late to argue with him. He was already gone. She heard the muted voice of a local newsman. She
threw back the covers and sat on the side of the cot, contemplating his threat. His voice had been too calm, too matter-of-fact to ignore.

  She stared at the wide, inviting surface of the bed on the other side of the room, then at the cot, and shook her head. He was too tall for the cot. He would be miserable.

  "Fine," she muttered, and traded beds. She slid beneath his sheets with trepidation, but soon began to relax.

  Her eyelids fluttered as she drifted in and out of reality. One arm slipped off the side of the bed as she rolled onto her stomach. She'd braided her hair to keep it from tangling in her sleep, and it was wrapped around the arm on which she pillowed her head. The room was quiet, so quiet. And she was so very, very tired. There was a light under the crack in the door, and every now and then she heard a phrase or two from the newscaster.

  "…under an overpass in some weeds. The body has been identified as Darcy Petrie, a waitress at an Amarillo truck stop. Authorities have linked it to…"

  Angel should have been listening, but she'd fallen asleep.

  * * *

  Royal came in and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. A slight smile broke the seriousness of his expression as he saw the way she was sleeping. Like Maddie, she was half in and half out of the bed. Carefully, he unwound her from the covers. His voice was just above a whisper as he leaned down.

  "Angel, sweetheart, roll over."

  Without waking, she sighed and did as he'd asked. As soon as she was in the middle of the bed, Royal straightened her covers.

  Never in his life had he wanted anything as badly as he wanted to lie down beside her. Not to make love, just to hold and be held. He turned toward the cot, and seconds later was shifting the pillow beneath his neck to a more comfortable position.

  A faint glow from the security light illuminated the room in shades of black and gray. He kicked at the sheet, trying in vain to lengthen the covers on his legs, but gave it up as a lost cause. He was too tall for the cot. But the code of honor with which he'd been raised had precluded him from taking the bed. He wouldn't have slept a wink if he had. Angel Rojas was tough, but only in spirit. There was a fragility to her stature that sometimes scared him. And then he remembered the way she'd stood by him through the storm and how she'd sheltered Maddie when he could not. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the images of dark eyes watching him … of her soft hands touching him … of her mouth and the way it looked when she smiled. A knot came in his gut as he admitted that his housekeeper meant more to him than she should.

  When he heard her roll over, he turned until he was facing the bed, then lay watching her sleep. He stared so long his eyes began to burn and he told himself he'd close them. Just for a minute. Just to let them rest.

  And then it was morning.

  * * *

  Tommy Boy Watson had been on the road too long. He was sick of getting lost and taking wrong turns. These days, the only face he recognized was his own when he looked in the mirror. He was tired of being a stranger in a strange place. It had been over a week since he'd performed a cleansing, and the voices were quiet inside his head. He hadn't dreamed about his daddy since that night in Amarillo. That had been a very close call. His first. He intended it to be his last. Tommy Boy was through with his mission and on his way home. He was satisfied his father would have approved of his final act of retribution.

  The waitress who called herself Darcy had been all her reputation had promised. She'd taken his order and his measure at the same time. Between bites of his burger, he'd asked if she liked to party. She'd winked and she'd smiled and she'd named her price. He hadn't counted on the fact that she would tell anyone where she was going.

  He was waiting for her in the parking lot under the broken security light when she got off at eleven. He watched the front door with interest, wondering if she would scream as the last one had or if she'd go mute with terror as he put the knife to her throat. His fingers curled around the steering wheel in anticipation. He would soon find out.

  He saw her emerge from the café. To his dismay, she wasn't alone. Another woman was walking with her, and they were chattering away as if they hadn't a care in the world.

  His first instinct was to leave. He was reaching for the keys to start the ignition when the two women veered away from each other. One went toward a small brown car parked a few yards from his. Darcy continued toward where he was parked. He sighed with relief. They'd taken the decision out of his hands.

  A few sprinkles of rain were dotting the windshield of his truck as she opened the door.

  "Still in the mood, honey?" she asked.

  "Get in and find out," Tommy Boy said.

  She giggled as they drove away.

  He'd been wrong about her. She hadn't screamed and she hadn't frozen in fright. She'd fought him, and fiercely. His groin was still sore where she'd kicked. And when he pulled out the knife, she'd pulled out a gun. It was only by sheer luck that he'd slit her throat before she could pull the trigger.

  Here he was, looking for a road that would take him north. He was heading home. Someone in a BMW whipped past him as if he was sitting still. But he didn't take it personally. Some people got high on fast cars. Tommy Boy preferred good music. He reached toward the dash and upped the volume on his stereo. The mournful wail of a sad country song filled the interior of his truck. He stroked his beard in thoughtful fashion and leaned back in the seat, uplifted by the music and the words.

  About an hour later, he pulled off the highway to get some fuel and something to eat. By his best estimation, he was about seventy-five miles from the western edge of the Oklahoma border. The cloudless sky was a white-hot blue, and he reached for his cap before he got out of his truck. A stiff breeze lifted the edges of his untrimmed beard as he started toward the small café. As he crossed the parking lot, he heard a car pulling up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure he would be out of the way.

  His heart skipped a beat. Texas highway patrol. He pulled the brim of his cap down and kept on walking.

  Stay cool. Stay cool. It's no big deal. They have to eat, too.

  A door slammed behind him. He could hear the crunch of gravel beneath the officer's boots. Tommy Boy hunched his shoulders and kept on going. Inside the café, Tommy Boy chose a seat at the counter. The officer sat in a booth. Tommy Boy reached for a menu, quickly gave his order, then downed the glass of water the waitress had given him. On the wall to his left, the noise from a small black and white television added to the busy hum of voices. He glanced up. A local anchorman was updating the latest reports on the aftermath of the tornado that had swept across the northern portion of the state, ending near Dallas. He remembered the night all too well. He'd been holed up in that Amarillo motel and had experienced moments when he'd believed the roof would go.

  The waitress slid his order in front of him.

  "Be needin' anything else?" she asked.

  "Bring me a Coke. A large one," he added.

  It appeared, along with a bottle of steak sauce and a bottle of ketchup.

  Tommy Boy grabbed his fork and dug into his food like a starving man. Only after he'd taken a few bites did he think to slow down. He reached for a knife to butter his roll, listening absently to the broadcast still in progress. They flashed a picture onto the screen, and he didn't have to hear what the newsman was saying to know who she was. It was Darcy Petrie, and her body had been found. The knife slipped from his fingers and fell onto the plate with a clatter. The bite of food was still in his mouth, forgotten in his need to hear. There was a terrible fear in the pit of his stomach that hadn't been there before. But there had never been a witness before.

  Calm down, Tommy Boy.

  The voice came out of nowhere, and he gasped, then choked on his food. He took a big swallow of his drink and made himself relax.

  I hear you, Daddy. I'm being calm.

  But he couldn't help looking over his shoulder to the booth on the other side of the room. Just to make sure the patrolman was where
he'd seen him last. Just to make sure this wasn't a trap. The officer was cutting into a piece of pie with relish, completely oblivious to Tommy Boy's anxieties. Tommy Boy sighed and turned to the broadcast.

  "Last seen getting into a late model black pickup on the night of…"

  "Son of a—"

  The blood drained from Tommy Boy's face. It was just as he'd feared. Although they hadn't seen his face, they knew what he drove. The skin on the back of his neck began to crawl. Any minute now he'd feel the cold, hard press of a gun barrel. He stared at his plate, at the way the pea juice was running into his mashed potatoes and gravy. He wished he'd ordered a hamburger. He didn't like his food to touch.

  He sat for a good two minutes without moving, without taking a bite.

  "Somethin' wrong with your food, mister?"

  He jumped, then looked up. The waitress was standing before him with a half-empty coffeepot in her hands.

  "No," he muttered, and picked up his fork, trying without success to stop the tremble in his fingers.

  She shrugged and walked away, leaving Tommy Boy with a sick, sinking feeling. He laid down his fork and turned, staring past the customers, past the booths lining the walls where the patrolman was seated, then through the windows to the parking lot.

  His gaze went straight to his truck. A shiny black Dodge extend-a-cab with chrome running boards. His pride and joy. And it had been Darcy Petrie's last ride. His gaze shifted to the next row of cars, to a dusty black truck with a trailer. And then to his right, to a small black Nissan with a camper. And then to a large black four-by-four pulling a horse trailer.

  See, Tommy Boy. I told you to relax.

  "Yeah, Daddy, I see. I see," Tommy Boy muttered.

  The man on the stool beside him looked up and stared.

  "You say something to me, mister?" he asked.

  Tommy Boy grinned and shook his head. "Nope. Just talking to myself."