Read Online Billy Bob Walker Got Married by Lisa G. Brown - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lisa G. Brown
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seen her and Billy Bob together and told him.
"You're a kid. He's five years older than you and he's got nothing. Not one red cent. No future. And if that's not enough, he's—" Sam broke off his words.
Shiloh remembered that she'd been crying, terrified of her father's anger and hurting because she was about to lose Billy Bob. "What? What is he, Papa?" she had asked him pleadingly. "I know he's not mean. He hasn't done anything to hurt me."
"Exactly what has he done?" Sam asked at last, more quietly. "You've apparently been slipping off to meet him all summer. How far has he gone, Shiloh?"
She had flushed and mumbled, "Not that. I—we didn't do that, Papa. I promise."
He had finally let out his breath in an expulsion of relief, then reached out to touch her face. "Good. You're too young. You've got college and your whole life ahead of you. Don't get mixed up with any man yet. As for Walker," Sam continued, oblivious to her emotions, "he's just not like you. He's not going anywhere. He'll marry some girl from out at Seven Knobs, have a pack of kids, and die a poor man."
"He loves me," Shiloh said steadily.
"He'll find somebody else who's available when you’re gone," Sam told her bluntly.
And he had been right: Billy Bob had.
It had hurt, but it had been four years ago. And Sam had been so pleased with her that summer that she had pushed Billy out of her mind and out of her heart. Maybe it had been—up until now—her one and only real spurt of rebellion.
But she didn't hate Billy Bob. Dislike him. maybe when he was as obnoxious as he'd been this afternoon. But most of her memories, dim and hazy though they were, were pleasant enough.
She doubted she would ever have a pleasant memory of Michael, and she shuddered before she went to the closet to get dressed.
For all its stylish cut, the black dress was meant to soothe Sam's feathers. He liked the somber color, and he would like the simplicity of the nearly straight sheath that curved in around Shiloh's narrow waist.
She twisted once in front of the mirror, her hair swinging richly, brushing the tops of her shoulders. Almost unconsciously, she raised her fingers to brush the same place on her left breast that she'd brushed a thousand times in the last day, and her throat knotted.
In the kitchen, Laura hovered anxiously over the oven. The chicken smelled like heaven, and Shiloh remembered that she hadn't eaten since breakfast.
Leaning over a silver tray to steal a cream cheese tart, she told the housekeeper, "I'm starving. What'd we do to deserve these"—she waved the tart—"in the middle of the week?"
Laura avoided looking directly at her. "There's hors d'oeuvres out, too," she offered. "Miniature broccoli quiches."
Shiloh stopped eating and stared. "Miniature broc— are you sick, Laura? All this for me and Sam?"
"And his company,"' Laura told her, meaningfully.
"He brought somebody home with him?" she asked in surprise, frowning. "I thought he was set to rake me over the coals. I guess I'm relieved. What can he do to me with company watching? But I don't—"
"You'd better go on out and get it over with," Laura interrupted, "or else there won't be any quiches left. The judge always eats a ton of them." She glanced carefully over at Shiloh as she removed a dish from the oven.
Her words froze Shiloh in motion, and her eyes came up to Laura's sympathetic ones, wide and startled. "What? What did you say?"
"Judge Sewell's here," Laura answered flatly.
At last temper seeped over Shiloh's face, replacing the near-terror of an instant before. "How could he? He didn't even give me a chance before he called Michael's father over. Just like always, he rides roughshod over what I want, and when it's too late, I'm right where he wants me to be. But it—it can't be that way this time, Laura."
The housekeeper looked at the pleading face in front of her. "So go tell them that," she advised bluntly, and as the other woman went out the swinging door on a
"You're a kid. He's five years older than you and he's got nothing. Not one red cent. No future. And if that's not enough, he's—" Sam broke off his words.
Shiloh remembered that she'd been crying, terrified of her father's anger and hurting because she was about to lose Billy Bob. "What? What is he, Papa?" she had asked him pleadingly. "I know he's not mean. He hasn't done anything to hurt me."
"Exactly what has he done?" Sam asked at last, more quietly. "You've apparently been slipping off to meet him all summer. How far has he gone, Shiloh?"
She had flushed and mumbled, "Not that. I—we didn't do that, Papa. I promise."
He had finally let out his breath in an expulsion of relief, then reached out to touch her face. "Good. You're too young. You've got college and your whole life ahead of you. Don't get mixed up with any man yet. As for Walker," Sam continued, oblivious to her emotions, "he's just not like you. He's not going anywhere. He'll marry some girl from out at Seven Knobs, have a pack of kids, and die a poor man."
"He loves me," Shiloh said steadily.
"He'll find somebody else who's available when you’re gone," Sam told her bluntly.
And he had been right: Billy Bob had.
It had hurt, but it had been four years ago. And Sam had been so pleased with her that summer that she had pushed Billy out of her mind and out of her heart. Maybe it had been—up until now—her one and only real spurt of rebellion.
But she didn't hate Billy Bob. Dislike him. maybe when he was as obnoxious as he'd been this afternoon. But most of her memories, dim and hazy though they were, were pleasant enough.
She doubted she would ever have a pleasant memory of Michael, and she shuddered before she went to the closet to get dressed.
For all its stylish cut, the black dress was meant to soothe Sam's feathers. He liked the somber color, and he would like the simplicity of the nearly straight sheath that curved in around Shiloh's narrow waist.
She twisted once in front of the mirror, her hair swinging richly, brushing the tops of her shoulders. Almost unconsciously, she raised her fingers to brush the same place on her left breast that she'd brushed a thousand times in the last day, and her throat knotted.
In the kitchen, Laura hovered anxiously over the oven. The chicken smelled like heaven, and Shiloh remembered that she hadn't eaten since breakfast.
Leaning over a silver tray to steal a cream cheese tart, she told the housekeeper, "I'm starving. What'd we do to deserve these"—she waved the tart—"in the middle of the week?"
Laura avoided looking directly at her. "There's hors d'oeuvres out, too," she offered. "Miniature broccoli quiches."
Shiloh stopped eating and stared. "Miniature broc— are you sick, Laura? All this for me and Sam?"
"And his company,"' Laura told her, meaningfully.
"He brought somebody home with him?" she asked in surprise, frowning. "I thought he was set to rake me over the coals. I guess I'm relieved. What can he do to me with company watching? But I don't—"
"You'd better go on out and get it over with," Laura interrupted, "or else there won't be any quiches left. The judge always eats a ton of them." She glanced carefully over at Shiloh as she removed a dish from the oven.
Her words froze Shiloh in motion, and her eyes came up to Laura's sympathetic ones, wide and startled. "What? What did you say?"
"Judge Sewell's here," Laura answered flatly.
At last temper seeped over Shiloh's face, replacing the near-terror of an instant before. "How could he? He didn't even give me a chance before he called Michael's father over. Just like always, he rides roughshod over what I want, and when it's too late, I'm right where he wants me to be. But it—it can't be that way this time, Laura."
The housekeeper looked at the pleading face in front of her. "So go tell them that," she advised bluntly, and as the other woman went out the swinging door on a
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