“Tate knows what’s what. I’m fine with Sheriff Tate.”
Fire sparked in her eyes. “Because the sheriff’s not an idiot, but it pisses me off. It pisses me off, and Clintok’s getting an earful next time I see him.”
“Just let it go.”
“Let it go?” Shocked, outraged, she shifted in the saddle. “I don’t let things go with liars and bullies. With people who say I said what I didn’t. With people who ambush my brother and his friend, and have that friend held down so he can try to beat the shit out of him.”
Callen pulled Sundown to a stop. “Where’d you hear about that?”
“Chase told us today, and he should’ve—”
“He broke a spit oath.” With the look of a man disillusioned, Callen shook his head, walked on.
“I’ll say he was riled to boiling at the time—as I know spit oaths are sacred. To twelve-year-old boys.”
“Age doesn’t have a thing to do with it. An oath’s an oath. And the past is the past.”
Men, Bodine thought. How could she have grown up surrounded by them and still have them irritate the living crap out of her?
“You can skin Chase for sticking up for you, for providing evidence of what a snake Garrett Clintok is, if that’s your stand on it. But if the past was the damn past, Clintok wouldn’t still be trying to ambush you.”
“That’d be his issue, not mine.”
“Oh, for—” Disgusted with anything approaching reason, Bodine kicked into a canter.
Callen paced her easily, and couldn’t seem to leave reason behind. “I don’t see why you’re pissed at me.”
“Oh, just shut the hell up. Men.” Riding her own temper, Bodine urged Leo into a gallop.
“Women,” Callen said under his breath, and let her take the distance she needed even as he kept her in sight all the way back to the ranch.
*
He hadn’t meant to kill her. When he looked at it clear, thought long and hard, he understood she’d really killed herself.
She shouldn’t’ve run like that. Shouldn’t’ve tried yelling like that. If she hadn’t tried kicking at him that way, he wouldn’t have had to shove at her. She wouldn’t have gone down so hard, hit her head so hard.
If she’d come along quiet, he’d have taken her on home, and she’d’ve been right as rain.
His mistake? Not smacking her down right off. Just smacking her down, loading her in the truck. He’d wanted a quick taste of her first, that was all. To make sure she’d do for him.
He needed a wife of childbearing age. A young, good-looking woman who’d give him a good ride, and strong sons.
Maybe he’d decided on her too quick, but he’d sure wanted that ride.
He’d done the rest right, he reminded himself. Siphoned the gas out of her tank, left her just enough to get good and away from the center of things. Followed her with his lights off, then gone to the rescue when he saw her car stop.
Got her out of the car just fine, kept it all nice and easy.
Then he’d gotten himself too excited—that’s where he’d gone from right to mistake. Shouldn’t’ve grabbed her, tried to get that taste of her. Should’ve waited on that.
He’d learned his lesson there.
Next time, he’d put her down, truss her up, and get her back to the cabin. Simple as that.
Plenty of good-looking women around to pick from. He’d take his time on it. The bartender one had been pretty enough, but he’d seen prettier. And thinking about it, maybe she’d been older than he should look for. Not so many years in her to bear children, which was a woman’s purpose in life.
Younger, prettier—and it might’ve been that the one who killed herself had been a whore, seeing as she worked a bar. Could be she’d’ve carried some disease.
He was better off he hadn’t taken that ride with her.
He’d find the right one. Young, plenty pretty—and clean.
Pick her out, bide his time, truss her up, and take her to the cabin. He had her room ready for her. He’d train her right, teach her what so many forgot. Women were created to serve men, to submit and obey, to bear sons.
He wouldn’t mind punishing her. Punishment was his responsibility as well as his right.
And he’d plant his seed in her. And she would be fruitful and bear forth sons. Or he’d find one who would.
That might take some patience, some planning.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t find one to give him a good ride in the meantime.
In the cabin, in his room, he brushed a hand over the Bible on the stand by the bed. Then reaching under the mattress, pulled out a skin magazine.
Women were mostly whores and trollops, he knew. Flaunting themselves, tempting men to sin. He licked a finger, turned a page, felt righteous as he hardened.
He didn’t see any good reason not to take a woman up on her flaunting until he found the right wife.
CHAPTER NINE
Four days after Billy Jean’s death—ruled a homicide—Bodine drove to Helena for the funeral.
The very next day she stood on the second floor of the Mill listening to Tim McGraw and Carrie Underwood and Keith Urban—Billy Jean’s favorite—play in the background while people paid their respects.
She gave Jessica full credit for creating the right atmosphere. Photos of Billy Jean, some alone, some with friends, stood around the room in simple iron frames. Flowers, bursts of color, speared out of milk or Mason jars. Simple, casual food—cold cuts, fried chicken, mac and cheese, cornbread—ranged on a long table covered with an oilcloth.
Nothing fussy or fancy, and everything speaking of comfort.
People who came could step up to the mic on the stage, say a few words, or tell a story about Billy Jean. Some stories brought tears, but more brought laughter, that great leveler of grief.
A few people brought guitars or fiddles or banjos, played a song or two.
Bodine prepared to slip out, then stopped when she saw Chad Ammon come in, head right for the stage.
Conversation stopped, started up again in murmurs. Bodine stood where she was, scanning the room until she found Chase, met his eyes.
With that one look they agreed to let him speak, and to handle whatever trouble might come of it.
“I know a lot of you think I shouldn’t have come.” His voice cracked a little. “Anybody has anything to say to me, you can say it after I’m done saying my own. I didn’t treat her right. She deserved better than me.”
Somebody called out, “Damn right,” which started up the murmurs again.
“I know it’s damn right. She was … she was a good woman, a good friend. She was kind. Maybe she didn’t take crap off of anybody, but anybody could count on her when they needed it. She couldn’t count on me. I cheated on her. I lied to her. Maybe I didn’t ever raise my hand to her or any other woman in this world, but I didn’t treat her with respect. If I’d been a better man, maybe we’d have still been together. Maybe if we’d been together, she’d still be here. I don’t know.”
Tears slid down his cheeks.
“I just don’t know, and I never will. All I know is someone kind and good, someone who knew how to laugh, who liked to dance and gave her trust to me is gone. There isn’t a thing anybody here can say to me worse than what I say to myself every day. But you can say it. I won’t blame you for it.”