defender.
“If I know Booker, he hasn’t changed enough,” Doyle replied. “But I’ll let you two finish up. Good to see you, Josh. You ever get a chance, stop by City Hall and I’ll take you to lunch. And don’t forget the anniversary party.”
“Thank you,” Josh said. “I won’t.”
He and Rebecca watched her father go without saying anything. Josh had nothing to say. He didn’t like Booker, didn’t want Rebecca to connect with him any more than her father did. He didn’t like the fact that she was marrying someone who sounded so ill-suited to her—and so young. More than anything, he didn’t like the condescending way her father had just treated her. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could say or do about any of it because what happened in Rebecca’s life was none of his business.
Tossing a twenty on her vanity, he jammed his hat on his head.
“You don’t want me to finish?” she asked in surprise.
“It’s fine the way it is,” he said and walked out.
TALL, WIRY AND SLIGHTLY BOWLEGGED, with a head of thick dark hair that fell low on his brow, often shading his eyes, Booker T. Robinson hadn’t changed much. He’d grown, of course, several inches from the look of him, and he’d filled out. But judging by the tattoos on his arms, the calluses and scars on his hands, and the long jagged scar on the right side of his face, the years hadn’t been kind to him. Even the clothes he wore, a plain black T-shirt with a front pocket and tattered blue jeans, added to his tough-guy image.
He was a rebel, all right. But Rebecca liked him. Probably because he was one of the more honest people she’d met. At least he was generally honest with himself. He wasn’t a pillar of the community. He probably never would be. But he didn’t care what other people thought and he didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t. He cussed and smoked and sometimes drank to excess. He said what he wanted to say and he offered no apologies or excuses.
Rebecca had never been happier to see anyone in her life. She sank into the white wicker chair on his grandmother’s porch, put her feet up on the railing and felt at home in her own skin for the first time in months.
“I couldn’t believe it when my father said you were in town. Why haven’t you called me?” she said.
He handed her the cold beer he’d offered her when she first came to the door and carried his own to the porch swing a few feet away. Popping the cap, he took a long drink and sat down before answering. “I wasn’t so sure you’d be excited to see me. Your father was always one of those law and order types.”
“Yeah, well, he still is. If he gets the chance, he might try to run you out of town. But don’t take it personally. And don’t let anything he does reflect on me.”
He chuckled. “I see you two are still close.”
Rebecca remembered the way her father had treated her in the salon that morning compared to the way he’d treated Josh—stop by City Hall and I’ll take you to lunch—and felt her temper rise. But she didn’t want to talk about it. She’d been trying to forget Josh ever since shampooing his hair had felt like a sexual encounter.
She took a sip of her beer. “You ever marry?”
“No.”
“Kids?”
“No. You?”
“None so far. I am getting married, though. I just don’t know when.”
“That sounds promising. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Name’s Buddy. Lives in Nebraska.”
He nodded.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked.
“Nothing right now.”
This time the silence felt awkward, and Rebecca knew she’d treaded too close to something he wasn’t willing to discuss. So she backed off. “Haven’t you been going stark-raving mad out here with only your grandmother for company?”
“Not yet. I only got in last weekend, and Granny’s kept me busy fixing up the place.” He gazed out over the meadowlike yard. “It’s prettier here than I remembered.”
The Hatfield property was pretty. Set away from Dundee, back in the mountains, it consisted of several wooded acres. The house, a simple white A-frame as old and charming as the one on Little House on the Prairie, had a wraparound porch with a hint of fancy woodwork at the windows and doors. A detached garage sat off to one side, at the end of a long drive, and a stone path led through the backyard, past a root cellar and a neatly tended vegetable garden, to the back porch.
“My dad said you’ve come to look after Hatty,” Rebecca said. “Does that mean you’re staying for a while?”
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one, then offered one to her.
She almost grabbed it. She wanted to. But Josh didn’t chew or smoke. In the bad habits department, as in all others, she didn’t compare favorably to him, and she hated that.
“Figured it was the least I could do for all the years she’s spent trying to reclaim my soul from the devil,” Booker said. He set the cigarettes on the arm of the swing—within easy reach—when she refused them. “Fortunately, she’s a lot better off than she let me believe. I think it was all a ruse to get me out here. But now that I’m here—” he shrugged “—I think I’ll stick around. For a while, anyway.”
“So did she ever manage to reform you? Are you a better man?” Rebecca shifted farther away so the smell of his smoking wouldn’t tempt her beyond her endurance.
“I don’t think I’ve changed a whole hell of a lot. But then, I’m getting the impression that neither have you.”
“Even you?” she cried. “What does a girl have to do?”
He laughed outright. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been trying to change. I’ve been trying for years, but no one’s even noticed, except maybe Delaney. If anything goes wrong, I still get the blame. When Josh Hill knocked over the food table at my sister’s wedding, did anyone say, ‘That Josh Hill, you just can’t invite him anywhere.’ N-o-o-o. You know what they said? They said they should’ve expected something like that with me around. All I want is to live my life without the extra baggage, you know? I mean, I’m thirty-one years old. How long is it going to take for people to forget my past sins? Will I ever live them down?”
“Why would you want to?” he asked.
He wasn’t getting it. Of course he wouldn’t. He was Booker Robinson, and to him a bad reputation was a mighty fine thing to have. He’d worked hard to establish his own.
“Forget it,” she grumbled. “You don’t understand.”
“Yes, I do.”
“What?” She leaned forward. “What do you understand?”
“That they’re getting the best of you.”
“Who?”
