Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Slick snow had stacked up earlier in the week, so had the wrecks. Two days later the sun, along with a light drizzle, had melted everything. Even the usual small piles of dirty snow in the gutters had washed away. Now, the January-February cold had set in.
In case he ended up working the wrecker again, Cain had resorted to buying a set of insulated coveralls, plus an extra pair of ski gloves and a couple of face masks.
Not for everyday use, but just in case…although just in case what, he wasn’t sure.
Lately he felt as if he wasn’t sure about anything.
He’d thought Randy would have been a lead headline on the local radio station. Instead, he’d been a short two-paragraph blurb in the local twice-weekly newspaper. No thanks to the local community, Randy had made a recovery and even entered rehab. Time would tell on that front.
Shooting pool for the second Friday night in a row, he was losing his game of eight ball against Betsy once again. Once she’d beat him on the lag for the break, the game had been like a replay of last week, with her running the table. All she had left to sink was the black eight ball.
He tossed the chalk on the side rail, then stood his cue against the wall. Maybe tonight she’d at least let him buy her a beer.
After accidentally-on-purpose running into her every time he was at Peyton’s to work on his truck for the past week, she’d crept into his bones.
Not enough to change his plans for leaving Crayton and opening his own security business in St. Louis, but enough that he wanted to spend time with this woman any way he could.
For as long as he was in town…and later.
After all, St. Louis was less than three hours away.
Betsy tapped the eight ball, sliding it across the green felt along an invisible straight line with precision. Slower…and slower…until it stopped.
A collective throat clearing went up from the usual Friday night crowd gathered around. The win-or-lose eight ball rested tight at the point of the pocket. Hugging the rail like a kiss, while blocking the pocket like a concrete traffic barrier.
“Oh, I hate to see that. Looks like you get to play after all.” Betsy stepped back from the table, picking up the chalk he’d just laid down.
Not an ounce of humor graced her expression. As usual, she was all business where he was concerned, but he’d caught a hint of sass in her tone. And the worst player in the world could have made her shot. She was a million times better than that.
“Why, thank you, Betsy,” Cain said.
He knew she thought she had him beat. Trouble was, he never gave up even when the odds were against him. Seeing as how she’d given him grief ever since he’d pulled her from a wreck up on the mountain over two months ago. Tonight, he planned to beat her at her own game.
She moved off to the side, then leaned against the small high-top table before sliding her bottom onto one of the stools. “Now don’t mess up. You only get one chance.”
Who did she think she was fooling? Certainly not him.
She’d laid the ball up on purpose. The one woman in town he knew better than to push had given him a pity shot, one he’d take for all it meant.
The game on the table. The game going on between them.
One, he knew he could win. The other seemed completely out of his control.
Seated at one of the hi-top tables surrounding the game area, Marcy smiled as she raised her mug of root beer to toast her sister Betsy. “Good shot.”
JB got up from beside his wife and walked over to stand by Cain. “You know Betsy set you up? Right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Need any advice?” JB walked to the end of the pool table and gave a look at the lay of the game.
Shaking his head, Cain chalked the tip of his cue. “Nope. I got this one.”
Raised voices from across the room caused the two men to turn and look at the same time.
Seated at a table in the shadowed corner of the pool room were Earl Millerton and a couple of other men from town.
No sign of Steven and his friends tonight.
Earl and another man seemed to be having a disagreement.
“Wonder what’s up with them?” Cain asked.
“Probably just blowing off some steam.” JB braced his arm against the wall. “I’d bet their wives have gone on a shopping weekend in KC or St. Louis. That’s usually when the guys hang out around the lake.”
Cain glanced back at the table where the other two men from the group looked anything but happy. He figured whatever was going on was more serious than steam because the tone of voices had changed to belligerence on Earl’s side.
Betsy tapped the bottom of her cue stick against the floor. “Are you guys gonna stand there and talk all night?”
“We’re not talking. We’re strategizing.” Shaking his head as if he wasn’t already dead-on sure of his next shot, Cain pointed to the far pocket. “You’ve left me in a world of hurt with that eight ball blocking the pocket.”
JB pointed and angled and leaned, all the time trying to give the impression he was laying out shots. “Cain, with my expert guidance I do believe you’ve got this game won.”
“I can’t believe you’re taking his side, JB.” Marcy pretend-complained. “You better remember how cold it is outside, because the way you’re going, you’re gonna find yourself walking home.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ll give him a ride home,” Cain said.
Marcy turned to her sister. “I still wish you’d reconsider going to New York with us. Mom and Summer want you to come along, too.”
For a fleeting moment, Betsy let the idea of having fun with her two sisters and their mom grab her emotions. As the girls had grown up, the grown-ups had always referred to them as Sadie’s Girls. The sisters’ own peers had called them Sadie’s Trio of Sass, among other things.
“Maybe I’ll go with you all next time.”
“That’s what you said when the rest of us went to Chicago,” Marcy said, rolling her eyes.
Betsy walked back over to the pool table and deliberately bumped her hip against the side. “Hey, are we shooting pool, or what?”
JB laughed as he went back to his seat by Marcy. She turned a cool shoulder toward her husband before he slid his arm around her waist, pulled her close and whispered in her ear. She whispered back, ending their standoff with a kiss.
Cain figured it must be nice to have that kind of invite waiting for you at home every night. JB might have only been back in town for a few months, but no one could even remember when JB and Marcy hadn’t been together and in love.
Cain glanced at Betsy. “Now what was our bet?”
“If you win, I have dinner with you.” Betsy glanced at the eight ball, then back at him. “And if I win, you—”
“If you win.” Cain quirked the side of his mouth. “I’ll have dinner with you.”
“No way. I already took that bet from you years ago.” Her tone had chilled. “You stood me up.”
“I never—”
“Yes…you did.” Betsy chalked the tip of her cue till the dust fluttered to the floor. “I believe you were distracted by a better-built model back in high school.”
Truth be told, Betsy hadn’t been the type he liked fifteen years ago.
She’d been scrawny and smart and so into sports he’d thought she could probably beat him at a lot of games.
Still, he sure didn’t remember making a bet with her.
Or standing her up. As he recalled, he was always unsure how to approach Betsy.
Besides her uncle, Cal Davis, being sheriff of Crayton, her dad had been an FBI agent—gunned down when she was still in grade school.
The shooter had been taken down within a minute, but there’d been no saving her dad.
That’s when Betsy’s family—mama Sadie, sisters Marcy and Summer, and her—had moved to Crayton from Jefferson City.
“I’m sorry if that happened, Betsy. But we were both young.” Cain crouched into his stance and lined up his shot. He’d have paid closer attention if he’d known what Betsy at thirty-two would be like.
“Well, we’re not young anymore. In fact, I’m getting older by the minute waiting for you to finish this game.” Betsy blew out a sigh. “For the record, I don’t need your apology. And if you let me win without a fight, I’ll—”
Cain shot the first ball without even thinking. Hard, fast and to the pocket, it dropped like iron drawn to a magnet. Then six more, one after the other, found their mark in the pockets. Down the line. Off the rail. Two for one.
Betsy never changed her expression. Never moved except for her clear green eyes that tracked every shot he took.
With only the eight and one of his solids left on the table, he decided the fun was about to begin. She’d set him up to lose. Turnabout was fair play.
He played his solid just enough to sneak the ball between the eight and the cup. Had been a gutsy play on his part. A half a dime’s length less of felt and he’d have lost for sure, but it had been worth the chance just to see her expression.
“You did that on purpose.” Betsy walked the perimeter of the table, pausing only once by a side pocket.
Suddenly, the voices from the far side of the room got louder. Earl scraped his chair across the floor as he stood, then half stumbled on his way across the room. A little wobbly on his feet, he stopped next to Betsy. “Hey, Ms. Peyton. Looks like you’re up against the rail there.”
She reached out and steadied the man. “Sure am. You okay tonight?”
“Why does everybody keep asking me that?” His words slurred together as he shoved her hand off his arm. “Can’t a guy go to the men’s room in peace?”
“Sorry. I was just—”
“I’m tired of people trying to take care of me. My wife…my son…you…” Earl pushed to get past Betsy.
She jerked back, grabbing her right forearm as if she’d been nicked by fire.