Holding her chicken with a paper towel, she emptied her apron pockets on the table. It looked like a lot of money—cash always looked impressive. But there were as many ones as there were twenties, and when she counted it, she came up with just under $700 plus change. Added to what she had in the bank, she’d cover the mortgage payment, but there wouldn’t be much left. She stared at the neat piles of greenbacks as she nibbled on the chicken leg. She would need money to fix up the store and for inventory. She would rename the business and give it a fresh, new look. That all required working capital.
On Monday morning, she’d go to the bank to make the farm payment and talk to the loan officer about borrowing against this property.
Thank God she had been her uncle’s last living relative. He’d owned this building free and clear, and now, so did she. She could mortgage it if she had to. And if there was such a thing as an easy death, Uncle Joe had died one. He’d been a spry, eighty-year-old smart-ass until his final day on earth, when he’d dropped dead from a massive heart attack at Lupe’s Roadhouse last winter. One moment, he’d been of this earth; the next, he’d moved on to a place beyond its troubles. That sure beat suffering through a long illness like the one her father had endured.
Or suffering the agonizing torture of third-degree burns . . .
CHAPTER TWO
Darcy Tucker walked into the Captain Gas, his cowboy hat pushed low over his eyes and his T-shirt sleeves rolled up to show off his tattoos to their best advantage. Going to the back cooler, he pulled out a case of Lone Star longnecks. There were a few guys hanging around the counter for no obvious purpose—they weren’t gassing up or buying anything. Then he saw the reason. Cherry Claxton was running the cash register. Her loud, smoky laugh wasn’t exactly easy on the ears, but at least you knew she meant it.
She was a pistol-hot firecracker, with that waist-length, flame-red hair and nails to match. She drove a shiny black Camaro with rumbling dual exhaust that always drew men’s looks when she drove by. Some divorcing people fought over custody of the kids, or even the dog. She’d gone to the mat to get that car away from one or another husband. Her long legs gave the impression that she was a much taller woman, and she had a high-riding ass that begged a man to plant his hands on it. She liked tequila shooters and a good time, and although she could beat most of them at the pool table, she softened the blow to their egos by wearing tight, low-cut tops. It gave them something interesting to look at while she broke their balls, both with the cue stick and her sharp tongue. Nobody got anything from Cherry that she didn’t want to give, and she could switch moods as fast as a drop of water bounced across a hot skillet. Luckily, that good-time streak of hers often won out, and Darcy had been on the receiving end of it a few times.
He toted his case to the counter. Behind it was a wall secured with locked plastic doors that guarded cigarettes and other forms of tobacco, a variety of condoms—some in party colors, whatever the hell that meant—and assorted merchandise that was attractive to kids and sticky-fingered customers. “Hey, there, sweet thing.”
Cherry considered the brand of beer. “Special occasion, Darce? You usually look for the bargains.”
“We’ve been doing a little celebrating back at the old homestead.”
“Yeah? Did you find a job?” The other men standing around laughed.
Dull heat filled his face. Darcy Tucker never liked being the butt of anyone’s joke, and his expression apparently reminded them of that fact. “My used-car business is doing just fine, thanks.”
Cherry turned seductive, half-closed eyes on him. “Oh hell, Darcy, don’t get your whities all tighty. We’re just teasing you. What’s the good news?”
Appeased, he gave her a sly smile. “I’ve got a little surprise for you. If you meet me after your shift ends, I’ll tell you all about it.”
She somehow managed to punch the cash register keys with her red eagle’s claws. “Brother, at one time or another every joker around these parts has promised to show me a ‘little surprise’ after my shift ends.” She let her gaze drift over the idlers hanging around. “Well, they got the little part right.” She uttered that throaty laugh, and the guys leaning on the end of the counter chuckled again with less enthusiasm but couldn’t meet each other’s eyes.
Darcy dug into his back pocket for the wallet that had taken on the shape of his skinny butt. He threw a twenty on the counter. “Naw, I’m talking about something else.” He lowered his voice. “But when you hear about it, you might be so happy you’ll want to reconsider this old boy’s equipment.”
Obviously intrigued, she stared at him as if trying to decide whether he was telling the truth, and whether the truth was worth her time.
“Okay,” she agreed. “After 1 a.m.”
Darcy picked up his change and the case of beer, and gave the other guys a smug look. “Right. See you then, sweet thing.”
“My family has done business with this bank for forty years, Charlie. We’ve had hard times, but we’ve always paid.” Julianne sat across a desk from Charlie Sommers, the loan officer at Presidio Farmers Bank. “I’m not asking for more time or more money on the farm loan. Look”—she pushed a check across the surface to his blotter—“here’s the current payment. All I want to do is borrow on that property my uncle Joe left me.”
Yesterday she’d spent hours filling out the voluminous loan application that she’d picked up from the bank last week. She’d thought of little else but this Monday-morning appointment. She had dressed carefully in a slim denim skirt and a white knit top, and had curled her hair instead of letting it hang in its usual ponytail. She’d even shaved her legs, a task she sometimes let slide these days because she so often wore jeans. While a tiny voice in the back of her mind had whispered that she could be denied the loan, she really hadn’t expected that. The Boyces had a long relationship with Presidio Farmers, as their thick file implied. While Charlie shuffled papers and punched keys on his computer keyboard, Julianne was thinking ahead about paint, shelving, updated inventory, ordering a new sign for the front of the store. In her imagination, she had that money spent and was already ringing up sales.
Finally, he sat back and looked at her. “That’s a lot of money you’re asking for,” he said. “If it was just up to me, I’d say yes without thinking twice. But you know this bank was bought out by a bunch of big Eastern investors a couple of years ago. They’re calling the shots now and they have strict rules. The economy is circling the drain.”
She felt as if her stomach had fallen to the insoles of her shoes. “Do I qualify for anything?” she asked quietly, wishing for more privacy than that provided by the ratty philodendron next to her.
“A bit less than half.”
She sighed. Less than half. Chances were good that she’d have to make the next farm payment out of that money. That place just had to sell soon so she could be rid of the debt. And there were so many things she wanted to do with the dime store. Some of them would simply have to wait. She straightened her back and lifted her chin. “All right. Like my mother used to say, half a loaf is better than none. Where do I sign?”
Charlie reached into a side drawer and drew out a set of new, blank loan application forms. “You’ll have to start again.”
“What? Can’t I just cross out the old figure and write in the new one?” Though she tried, she couldn’t keep the note of harried exasperation out of her voice.
He pushed the papers across the desk and put a leaky bank pen on top of them. “Sorry, Julianne. The rules have changed.”
Mitchell Tucker walked some of the familiar streets of Gila Rock, looking at what had changed, and there wasn’t much. Norby’s Shoes had painted their storefront, but he couldn’t remember what color it had been before. The doughnut shop had a new awning and a list in the window that featured all sorts of coffee drinks, including something called a chipotle latte, which sounded like it would eat through a radiator.
Some people did double takes when they saw him and stared
until he passed. He’d expected it, but it still bugged him. He moved on and found himself at Gila Rock High School, where he slowed to a stop. He realized that this was where he’d been headed when he’d left the single-wide. Beyond the chain-link fence enclosing the property, the baseball diamond stood glaring in the sun, the baselines permanently etched by the bright caliche that kept grass from growing on it. He hooked his fingers in the fence and watched the kids playing there. The one at bat was struggling with a looping swing that was about to make him strike out. Mitchell glanced at the coach, someone he didn’t recognize, but the man wasn’t paying attention to his batter. By the time the guy looked up, the kid had hit a pop fly. He dropped the bat to run, but the second baseman caught the ball, and the boy trudged back to the bench. It wasn’t an unusual batting problem with younger players. He’d had trouble with his swing himself until his coach had solved it with some fence drills. It worked, if this coach knew what he was doing.
He thought back to a time so long ago, it could have happened in a dream. But the details were too sharp to be anything but real—the sun pounding down on him on the pitcher’s mound, the signals from the catcher, his left hand one with the glove, the ball an extension of his right . . .
Everything had changed. Leaning against the chain-link made Mitch feel like he was always on the wrong side of a fence, trapped inside, stuck outside. He should be used to it, but he hated it.
Behind him, he heard a car pull up. It was so close he could feel the heat from the engine. He turned and saw Sheriff Dale Gunter at the wheel of his cruiser. Shit.
“Reliving your glory days? I heard you were in town, Tucker. I’m surprised you came back. Gila Rock doesn’t need your kind. Or want it.”
“It’s still a free country, isn’t it? Texas didn’t secede while I was gone. Besides, I’ve got family here.” He wasn’t about to volunteer his true reason for coming home.
“Yeah, well, you’re on my radar—you and the rest of your clan,” he replied. “A wrong step or even a ticket for jaywalking could get your parole revoked. And don’t think I wouldn’t make sure to help that along.”
Mitchell worked to keep a lid on his anger. Dale Gunter was a typical small-town lawman with big-city fantasies. “Your radar must need an adjustment, Gunter. I’m not on parole. I served my whole sentence.”
He gave Mitch a sly look. “So, parole denied. I should have known.”
Mitch breathed an irritated sigh. There was no point in getting into a tangle with this man. It would just make life harder than it was already. “Anything else?” he asked, as if closing an interview.
“Not right now. Later, who knows?” The cruiser pulled away.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, and turned to head back up the street.
Four long and frustrating hours after she first met with Charlie Sommers, Julianne emerged from Presidio Farmers Bank with a receipt for the loan money that had been deposited in her checking account. At least she hadn’t had to wait days, which Charlie had originally thought she might. He’d pushed everything through as top priority. She knew she should feel some sense of triumph and gratitude, but mostly, she felt whipped. She had to make it this time—she just had to. If she didn’t, the bank would take the farm and the store for sure.
But even more than that, she had to prove to herself that she could stand on her own two feet and succeed. For as long as she could remember, someone had been arranging her life and trying to shelter her from a world that she knew she was smart enough to live in. Even after Wes had died, she’d been held prisoner by the precarious business of the hog farm. The store was her chance.
Standing there on the pavement, readjusting her purse strap on her shoulder, she spotted a figure coming toward her along the edge of the sidewalk. He seemed familiar to her. It was probably James Tucker, the least evil of the Tuckers, and that wasn’t much of a compliment. He looked so much like a younger version of—
Then she realized who it really was. For a horrible, stunned moment her heart froze in her chest; then it took off at a furious rate, pounding so hard she swore she could feel it trying to knock through her breastbone. Her mouth and throat turned as dry as sand.
Mitchell Tucker. Oh dear God in heaven, Mitchell was in Gila Rock. It couldn’t be—he’d come back from prison. Feeling dizzy and breathless, she doubled her pace, meaning to keep her eyes fixed on a spot down the street. But at the last moment, she glanced up, and their gazes locked. She felt those green eyes on hers, searching for something, but she couldn’t imagine what. Just when it seemed that he might actually stop and speak to her, she hurried past him. Practically running, she headed for Diller’s Pharmacy on Alamo Drive, three blocks over. Fragmented memories, like single frames of different movies, washed over her in waves. At last she reached the drugstore and ducked into its coolness. She took a seat at the fountain, out of breath and shaken. There were a few people sitting on the red vinyl stools, having a late lunch.
“Hey, Julianne.” Mary Diller greeted her from behind the counter. Against the quilted stainless steel back wall, there stood a green milk shake mixer, glass jars, and all the other trappings of an old-fashioned soda fountain, just as they always had. The comforting aromas of ice cream, coffee, and grilling burgers surrounded her. Overhead, ancient ceiling fans turned slowly.
“A Diet Big Red, Mary—please.” She slipped her purse off her shoulder and let it drop to the floor beside her. A couple of stools down, Victor Cabrera, the new foreman at Benavente Hog Farm and a newcomer to Gila Rock, sat wolfing down a hotdog and cheese fries. He nodded at Julianne, and she nodded back. She had talked to him a couple of weeks earlier about buying her last two sows.
The pharmacist’s wife studied her for a moment. “Sure, honey.” She filled a soda glass with the crimson soft drink and set it in front of her. “Julianne, are you all right? You look like someone who’s seen the bottom of her own grave.”
She took a straw from the dispenser on the counter and discovered that her icy hands were trembling. “Worse than that. I just saw Mitchell Tucker.”
The woman poured more lemonade for the man eating his cheese fries. “Uh-oh. He’s been back for a few days now. I figured you’d have heard about that already. He’s living with his brothers and his father down there by the arroyo.”
She stared at Mary, that light-headed, breathless feeling coming over her again. She had been so caught up with her own concerns and worries, she’d paid little attention to anything going on around town. “N-no, I didn’t hear.”
“I gave him a job yesterday,” Victor Cabrera announced between bites of hotdog. “He told me he spent time in prison, you know, but he seems polite and able enough.”
“Oh God . . .”
The other customers looked down the counter at Julianne, then at Cabrera.
The man shrugged. “What? He paid his debt to society and I figure a man deserves a second chance.”
Mary gave the foreman a sharp look that told him to hush. “We don’t see it that way around here.”
“Excuse me.” Julianne snatched up her purse and dug out some money, leaving her drink unfinished. She had to get out of here, she had to get away from the curious stares.
“Julianne, honey, wait . . . ,” she heard Mary call as she hurried to the door. Then in a lower voice, Mary asked Cabrera, “Did Mitch tell you he went to prison for killing Wes Emerson? Wes was that girl’s hus—”
The door slammed behind her, and she fled to the refuge of her rundown store, two blocks over. Cade’s truck was parked out front. Oh, damn it, she’d forgotten that he was coming in. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone right now. The insides of the windows were hazed over with an opaque coating of Glass Wax from an old can she’d found in the storeroom. Maybe she could sneak in unseen. Hurrying around to the back, she unlocked the door quietly and slipped into the storeroom, hoping he wouldn’t hear her.
She sank down to a folding chair hidden amid stacks of boxed merchandise, most of which she hadn’t
yet had time to investigate. Her breath was short, and sweat had begun to pop out on her scalp. How was she going to stay in Gila Rock with Mitchell Tucker on the streets? How could she bear to see him and be forced to remember . . . everything?
When he’d left the courthouse in handcuffs and was put into a sheriff’s car, headed for the state prison in Amarillo, she’d hoped to never lay eyes on him again. Now that he was back, she was bound to run into him over and over. Gila Rock was a small town. There were few secrets here, and fewer places to hide. At least the farm had given her some distance and privacy. Then she remembered that creepy phone call she’d gotten over the weekend.
Now the farm seemed isolated and more vulnerable to intruders. Living in town, though . . . her plans for a new start did not include the Tuckers, or the pointless, disastrous feud that had lain mostly dormant all these years and could very well spring back to life with Mitchell’s return. Darcy Tucker, that mean-boned do-nothing, had thrown a few rude remarks at her after his brother went off to begin his sentence, but otherwise, she’d had peace for years. She wanted no part of that dumb feud, and never had. But it seemed to have acquired a life of its own many years earlier.
Some mornings she or Wes would open the front door to find that the porch had been drenched with rotten eggs. There were no shells—that would have made a noise and woke them as the eggs pelted the floorboards and walls. No, someone had gone to the trouble of cracking the whole stinking mess into a container, maybe a bucket, and hurled it at the house. Other times, the shed or barn got spray-painted with profanity that the vandal probably considered to be quite clever: FU-Q EMERSONS. On another occasion, the hogs were let loose to roam. It had taken three full days to round them up.
Julianne never had a doubt as to who was behind the pranks, and neither had Sheriff Gunter. But without an eyewitness, he’d said he couldn’t do much about it. He couldn’t arrest a man on a flimsy suspicion. She hadn’t been alone back then, though.
After You Were Gone Page 3