Dorothy Garlock - [Dolan Brothers] (23 page)

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“’Pears to me like we ought to limber up those old boys a mite some dark night,” Keith said.
“Something’s not quite right,” Johnny said. “I’m not sure if it’s the sheriff or the deputy. Hijacking is against the law. They should have put them in jail when I first turned them in.”
“There’s someone who doesn’t want me here. Those two tried to keep me from coming into town. Adelaide said they seldom have hijackings around here. They were kind of dumb about it. I don’t think they’d done it before.” Kathleen’s eyes clung to Johnny’s face. He had avoided looking at her since he came back to the table.
“We should get our boy to bed.” Keith moved his chair back and stood. “He’s all tuckered out. You’re tired too, aren’t you, honey?” he said to Ruth. “You’ve carried that girl around all day.”
“It could be a boy. Don’t get your hopes up,” Ruth said wearily.
“I’ve got to get home, too.” Kathleen got to her feet. “Thank you for the supper,” she said to Keith.
“Where’s the ticket?” Johnny asked.
“It’s all taken care of. Don’t get in a fret, boy. We’ll consider it even if you bring Kathleen down for a visit.”
Kathleen’s eyes went quickly to Johnny. His expression was unreadable.
“Thank you for fixing the tire, Johnny. I hope to see you again, Ruth.”
“You will. I’d bet the ranch on it.”
“Hold on.” Johnny took Kathleen’s arm as she made to leave. “I’ll see you home.”
“You don’t have to bother.”
“It’s no bother.”
On the walk in front of the restaurant, Keith and Ruth turned toward the hotel, Johnny and Kathleen to where her car was parked in front of the bank.
“Where is your truck?”
“Behind the
Gazette
office.”
“I’ll be all right now. Thanks again.”
“I’ll see you home.”
“How will you get back?”
“I’ve got two legs, you know.” He opened the passenger door of her car and waited for her to get in before he went to the driver’s side. He tossed aside the pillow she usually sat on and got under the wheel.
“Is Clara giving you any trouble?” he asked as he turned onto the rutted street.
“I can put up with her . . . for a while. Hazel is worried. She didn’t come home last night.”
“She shacked up with Marty somewhere. Maybe he’ll take her back to Texas. If he does, he’ll dump her somewhere.”
“Who is he? You and Keith seemed to know him.”
“He’s a distant cousin of Keith’s. Keith isn’t proud of it.”
“Adelaide said that a few years ago she and Paul went to Red Rock to an air show. He was there selling oil leases.”
“I remember that show. I went up for an airplane ride.”
“Were you scared?”
“For a few minutes. Then it was great.” He looked at her and grinned.
They were silent until Johnny parked the car behind Hazel’s house and turned off the lights.
“I hate thinking about you walking back to town. I’ve always heard that cowboys hate to walk.” She liked sitting with him in the dark and wished it didn’t have to end so soon.
“You could walk with me.”
“Then you would insist on walking me back.” She laughed nervously.
“I could bring you back in my truck.”
“You’d better be careful. I might take you up on it.”
“You mean it? You’ll do it?”
“Why not? It’s Saturday night.”

 

Chapter Fourteen
“M
arty, get off me. I got to tell ya somethin’.”
“You want to go honky-tonkin’,” he said with a deep sigh, rolled on to his side, and kicked the sheet down so he could see all of her naked body.
“Ya really want to go?” Clara asked hopefully.
“No. I wanna do this.” He grabbed her bare buttocks and pulled her to him.
“We’ve already done it twice, Marty,” she protested.
“We did it five times in one night in Wichita Falls. That’s what I like about you, sweetie. You know how to get me up. We could break our record tonight.”
“Be serious, honey.” Clara propped herself on her elbow, leaned over him, and kissed him long and wetly. “When are we gettin’ married, sugar?”
“How about Christmas?”
“While we’re in Nashville?”
“Uh-huh.” Marty tried to pull her over on top of him, but she resisted, and moved her finger down over his chest to burrow in his navel and then on down to his limp sex organ.
“Can’t it be sooner?”
“What’s the hurry?”
“We’ve got to get married, Marty. ’Cause—”
“This wouldn’t be any better if we were married.” He pressed her hand tightly to him.
“We’d be together all the time and do it when you wanted to.”
“Why have you got this bug all of a sudden to get married?”
“Marty, I’m pregnant—” Her hand went to his cheek and turned his face toward her.
He laughed. “You can still screw, can’t ya? Don’t think I ever screwed a pregnant woman.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Hell, no.”
“Oh, good. I was afraid you’d be mad.”
“Why should I be mad? It ain’t my kid.”
“Yes, it is, Marty. It’s yours, and we got to get married.”
Marty’s arm shot out, knocking her away from him as he sat straight up in the bed.
“My kid? Oh, no. You’re not stickin’ me with a kid.”
“It’s yours, Marty. What am I goin’ to do?”
“Get rid of it. Shitfire! You’ve been around long enough to know what to do. Hell, you can get it done in Dallas or in Wichita Falls.” Marty turned and sat on the side of the bed.
“It takes money for that. I don’t know why you’re so mad. You’re hornier than a billy goat and had to know what would happen.”
“I’m not going to be tied down with a brat. How the damn hell do I know it’s mine? You spread your legs for anyone who walks on two feet.”
“I do not! I’ve only been with you since we met.”
“Yeah. Tell that to the man in the moon.”
“Come back to bed, sugar. Let’s see if we can break that record. I really feel like I want to.”
“I’m gettin’ the hell out of here.” He jumped up and started putting on his clothes.
Clara bounced up out of the bed and stood naked in front of the door.
“You’re not running out on me, Marty Conroy.”
“Oh, yes, I am. I never bargained for no kid.”
“I didn’t get pregnant all by myself! It happened, and it’s as much yours as mine.”
“You said you couldn’t have any brats, so I never bothered with rubbers.”
“The doctor said maybe I’d not get pregnant again.”
“Then let the doctor pay for it.” Marty was throwing clothes in a small straw bag.
“You never intended to marry me in the first place, did you?”
“You’ve got it right there. Mama would have a fit if I brought a cheap floozy like you home to Conroy.”
“You miserable little rat! You ugly, dirt-cheap, little shithead! You never took me anywhere except to that dirty old rodeo. I’m surprised you didn’t try to screw me there. I begged you to take me honky-tonkin’, and you didn’t take me, not even one time.”
“I didn’t want to be seen with you, you stupid bangtail. Didn’t you catch on? You’re as dumb as a pile of horseshit.”
“Why did you tell me down in Wichita Falls that we’d get married and you’d take me to Nashville? I’d have screwed you without the lie.”
“And I’d have had to pay you. It worked out better this way.”
“You are cheap!”
“It’s no big deal to let a woman think you’ll marry her. I’ve told that to more women than I can count. When they hear that I’m the Conroy from Conroy, Texas they all want to be Mrs. Conroy.”
“Godamighty,” Clara shrieked. “Why else would they want a struttin’ little pissant like you? Certainly not for that peanut-size thing you’ve got ’tween your legs.”
“Shut up!”
“I won’t shut up. I’ll yell so loud that everybody in this hotel knows about . . . your peanut!”
“Stop yelling, or I’ll slap you!”
“You just try it, you horny little turd, and I’ll cut your head open with the heel of this shoe.” She grabbed the shoe with the sharp spike heel and drew it back threateningly.
“Here, slut!” Marty threw some wadded-up bills on the floor at her feet. When she looked down at them, he swung his straw bag, knocking the shoe out of her hand. He quickly shoved her to the floor. “You’re not that good a whore anyway.”
“You . . . you shithead.” Clara picked up three crumpled one-dollar bills. “You cheap dirt-eatin’ son of a bitch,” she yelled. “As soon as the courthouse opens Monday I’m goin’ to Judge Fimbres and have you declared the father of my child. I’ll tell him you raped me. I’ll make sure the hotel clerk sees me leave here lookin’ all beat-up! Then we’ll see how much good it does you to be
Mr. Conroy
from Conroy, Texas.”
“You do that and I’ll . . . I’ll—”
“You’ll what, big
little
man?”
“I’ll kill you.”
“Ha! Ha! You ain’t got the guts.”
Marty went out, closing the door softly behind him, and hurried down the back hall to the stairs. Clara’s anger dissolved into misery, and she began to cry.
• • •
The evening was cool.
Before Kathleen and Johnny had walked a block, she had goose bumps on her arms, but she was so happy being with him that she wouldn’t have mentioned icicles hanging from her nose. Johnny had put his hand inside her arm, slid it down to clasp her hand, and drawn her close to his side. Their steps matched and they walked across the school yard in companionable silence.
“Johnny—”
“Kath—” They had both spoken at the same time. Johnny chuckled. “You go first.”
“No, you, or you’ll not tell me what you were going to say.”
“Will you?”
“I promise.” Kathleen knew that she was acting like a giddy schoolgirl, but she couldn’t help herself. It was so wonderful being with him. Unconsciously, she squeezed his hand and hugged his arm closer to her side.
“I was going to ask you if you had used the typewriter since you had the table.”
“Almost every night. I am so grateful for it. It sure beats sitting on the floor.”
“Every night? You’ve got that much news to write?”
“I’ll tell you a secret if you promise not to tell.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Poke a needle in your eye?” Kathleen laughed happily.
“It’ll have to be a pretty good secret for me to go
that
far.” He liked the light chatter between them. He liked to hear her laugh.
Does that mean that she is happy to be with me?
“I’ll accept the ‘cross my heart.’”
They crossed the street and reached the sidewalk. Johnny moved to the outside and took her hand again.
“What’s the big secret?” he asked, wondering how he could keep her from feeling the pounding of his heart.
“I write Western stories,” she whispered.
“You what? Write stories?”
“For
Western Story Magazine
. I’ve had six stories published and contracts for four more. Do you ever read the pulp magazines?”
“No. I don’t read much.”
“I write under the name of K. K. Doyle. My publisher said it’s mostly men who read the magazines, and they’d not want to read a story written by a woman.”
“Humm. I wouldn’t think that it would matter.”
“I see his point. I’ve never read a love story written by a man. Oh, maybe I have. Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet
was a love story.
What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!
That’s all I know of it, but it’s definitely a love story.”
“Humm,” Johnny said again.
“Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
“Not to me.”
“Would you like to read one of my stories? I write about pounding hooves and blazing guns and hard-eyed strangers.” She laughed softly. “Everything is exaggerated. It makes for more exciting reading.”
“How can you tell if the stranger has hard eyes?”
“He stares, he squints, he scowls. His eyes are dull, flat and black . . . or blue . . . or gray. It’s fun making up the stories. I can kill off the bad characters and save the good ones. I make sure that if a girl is in the story, she likes the good cowboy wearing the white hat. The bad cowboys wear black hats.”

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