LITMIR.BIZ

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stamped his feet to get his blood moving and fight the chill. The cabin was without any heat except what he could get from turning on the oven, and he didn’t have the propane to waste on that. The only reason he had electricity was because he’d worked for the power company in his earlier life just long enough to learn how to connect to the current and steal the watts he needed.

      Once the coffee was brewing, he started the daily search for the remote. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the rats hid it every night while he was sleeping. This time it turned up under the blanket he’d huddled under to watch the late show last night.

      The TV came to life just as the local station broke in with a news flash. He turned up the volume to get the full story. It was all about Nick Ridgely. Apparently he’d gotten seriously injured in Sunday’s game. Like who gave a damn about Nick Ridgely?

      They showed a picture of him with his sons. Cute kids. But then they would be. Nick was married to Becky Collingsworth. He still had sordid dreams about her in those short little skirts and sweaters that showed off her perky breasts.

      But the bitch had never given him the time of day. The announcer referred to her as Nick’s estranged wife. Apparently she’d dumped him. Or maybe he’d dumped her. Either way they were both fixed for life, lived like Texas royalty with money to burn while he lived in this dump. The little money he’d stashed away before prison was nearly gone.

      No cash. No job. Nothing but a parole officer who kept him pinned down like a tiger in a cage.

      Bull’s muscles tightened as perverted possibilities skittered through his mind. He went back to the kitchen for coffee, took a long sip and cursed himself silently for even considering doing something that could land him right back in prison.

      Still the thoughts persisted and started taking definite shape as the image of Nick Ridgely’s twin sons seared into his mind.

       Chapter Two

      “Too bad about your dad.”

      “Yeah, man. Tough.”

      Derrick joined the boys entering the school after recess. “I talked to him last night. He’ll be back and better than ever.”

      “That’s not what they said on TV this morning.”

      David pushed into the line beside them. “Yeah, but they don’t know. My mother said they’re just making news.”

      “Well, my daddy said neck injuries are the worst kind. Anyway, I’m sorry he got hurt,”

      “Me, too,” Butch Kelly added. “I’d be scared to death if it was my dad.”

      “It’s not like he’s crippled or anything,” David said. “He just took a hit.”

      Janie Thomas squeezed in beside Derrick. “They put your picture on TV, too. My big sister thinks you’re cute.”

      “Yeah, David, you’re cute,” Derrick mocked, making his voice sound like a girl.

      “You look just like me, you clown. If I’m cute, you are, too.”

      David followed Derrick to their lockers. They were side by side because they were assigned in alphabetical order. He shrugged out of his jacket and took off the Dallas Cowboys cap his dad had gotten signed by all his teammates. Derrick had one, too. His was white. David’s was blue. He wore it everywhere he went.

      “Are you worried about Daddy?” Derrick asked.

      “I am now,” David admitted. “Do you think he might really be hurt too bad to ever play again?”

      “I don’t know. I think we should ask Uncle Langston to fly us to Dallas to check on him.”

      “Momma said we couldn’t go.”

      “She said we couldn’t miss school, but he could fly us up there at noon, and we could be home by bedtime, like he did when he took us to watch Daddy play the Giants back in October.”

      David shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe, but I bet Momma’s still going to say no.”

      “We ought to call Uncle Langston. He might talk her into it.”

      “We’d miss practicing for the pageant.”

      “So what?” Derrick scoffed. “How much practice does it take to be a shepherd?”

      “I’m the little drummer boy.”

      “Big deal. You just follow the music. I say we call him. The worse thing he can do is say no.”

      “The office won’t let us use the phone unless it’s an emergency.”

      “Our daddy might be hurt bad,” Derrick said. “That’s an emergency.”

      “You’re right. Let’s go call Uncle Langston now. Maybe he’ll check us out early, and we won’t have to do math.”

      “I like that plan. I hate multiplication. It’s stupid to do all that work when you can just punch it in the calculator and get the answer right away.”

      The boys went straight to the office. The good news was that Mrs. Gravits, who worked behind the desk, let them use the phone to call their uncle. The bad news was that Langston wasn’t in.

      They left a message with his secretary saying they really needed to fly to Dallas today.

      BECKY DROVE up to the church ten minutes before the scheduled time for practice to end. Several mothers were already waiting, parked in the back lot nearest the educational building. Her friend Mary Jo McFee waved from her car. Becky waved back.

      Normally she would have walked over and spent the ten minutes of waiting time chatting, but she knew that conversation today with anyone would mean answering questions about Nick, and she wasn’t up to that.

      As it was, the phone at the big house had rung almost constantly since breakfast, and Matt had wranglers guarding the gate to keep the media vultures off ranch property. A couple of photographers had almost gotten to the house before they were turned back.

      Becky leaned back and tried to relax before she faced her energetic sons who’d no doubt have new questions of their own about their father. Five minutes later, a couple of girls came out of the church. Mary Jo’s daughter was one of them.

      A couple of boys came next, and less than a minute later, the rest of the kids came pouring out the door. Some ran to waiting cars; the ones who lived nearby started walking away in small groups.

      Two boys climbed on the low retaining wall between the church and the parking lot. A couple of girls pulled books from their book bags and started reading. But there was no sign of David and Derrick.

      Becky waited as a steady group of cars arrived to pick up the waiting children. Her cell phone rang just as the last kid left in a black pickup truck.

      She checked the ID and decided not to answer when she didn’t recognize the caller. Probably yet another reporter, though she had no idea how they kept getting her cell phone number.

      She dropped the phone into the compartment between the front seats, her impatience growing thin. Any other day, her sons would have been the first ones out.

      The slight irritation turned to mild apprehension when Rachel Evans, the church’s part-time youth coordinator, stepped out the door and started walking toward the only other car in the parking lot. Rachel was in charge of the practice and never left until all the children had been picked up.

      Rachel noticed Becky and changed direction, walking toward her white Mercedes. Becky lowered her window.

      “I’m sorry to hear about Nick,” Rachel said. “I guess the boys were too upset to come for practice, not that I blame them.”

      Becky’s apprehension swelled. “Weren’t they here?”

      “No. Some of the boys said they were flying to Dallas

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