Next time, he’d put her down, truss her up, and get her back to the cabin. Simple as that.
Plenty of good-looking women around to pick from. He’d take his time on it. The bartender one had been pretty enough, but he’d seen prettier. And thinking about it, maybe she’d been older than he should look for. Not so many years in her to bear children, which was a woman’s purpose in life.
Younger, prettier—and it might’ve been that the one who killed herself had been a whore, seeing as she worked a bar. Could be she’d’ve carried some disease.
He was better off he hadn’t taken that ride with her.
He’d find the right one. Young, plenty pretty—and clean.
Pick her out, bide his time, truss her up, and take her to the cabin. He had her room ready for her. He’d train her right, teach her what so many forgot. Women were created to serve men, to submit and obey, to bear sons.
He wouldn’t mind punishing her. Punishment was his responsibility as well as his right.
And he’d plant his seed in her. And she would be fruitful and bear forth sons. Or he’d find one who would.
That might take some patience, some planning.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t find one to give him a good ride in the meantime.
In the cabin, in his room, he brushed a hand over the Bible on the stand by the bed. Then reaching under the mattress, pulled out a skin magazine.
Women were mostly whores and trollops, he knew. Flaunting themselves, tempting men to sin. He licked a finger, turned a page, felt righteous as he hardened.
He didn’t see any good reason not to take a woman up on her flaunting until he found the right wife.
CHAPTER NINE
Four days after Billy Jean’s death—ruled a homicide—Bodine drove to Helena for the funeral.
The very next day she stood on the second floor of the Mill listening to Tim McGraw and Carrie Underwood and Keith Urban—Billy Jean’s favorite—play in the background while people paid their respects.
She gave Jessica full credit for creating the right atmosphere. Photos of Billy Jean, some alone, some with friends, stood around the room in simple iron frames. Flowers, bursts of color, speared out of milk or Mason jars. Simple, casual food—cold cuts, fried chicken, mac and cheese, cornbread—ranged on a long table covered with an oilcloth.
Nothing fussy or fancy, and everything speaking of comfort.
People who came could step up to the mic on the stage, say a few words, or tell a story about Billy Jean. Some stories brought tears, but more brought laughter, that great leveler of grief.
A few people brought guitars or fiddles or banjos, played a song or two.
Bodine prepared to slip out, then stopped when she saw Chad Ammon come in, head right for the stage.
Conversation stopped, started up again in murmurs. Bodine stood where she was, scanning the room until she found Chase, met his eyes.
With that one look they agreed to let him speak, and to handle whatever trouble might come of it.
“I know a lot of you think I shouldn’t have come.” His voice cracked a little. “Anybody has anything to say to me, you can say it after I’m done saying my own. I didn’t treat her right. She deserved better than me.”
Somebody called out, “Damn right,” which started up the murmurs again.
“I know it’s damn right. She was … she was a good woman, a good friend. She was kind. Maybe she didn’t take crap off of anybody, but anybody could count on her when they needed it. She couldn’t count on me. I cheated on her. I lied to her. Maybe I didn’t ever raise my hand to her or any other woman in this world, but I didn’t treat her with respect. If I’d been a better man, maybe we’d have still been together. Maybe if we’d been together, she’d still be here. I don’t know.”
Tears slid down his cheeks.
“I just don’t know, and I never will. All I know is someone kind and good, someone who knew how to laugh, who liked to dance and gave her trust to me is gone. There isn’t a thing anybody here can say to me worse than what I say to myself every day. But you can say it. I won’t blame you for it.”
He stepped away from the mic. His legs seemed to shake as he walked off the stage.
Bodine saw she had two choices. Let those murmurs and hard looks turn to words, and maybe worse. Or start the healing.
She moved through the crowd, saw Chad stop, raise his tear-streaked face to hers. He broke into sobs when she slid an arm around him.
“All right now, Chad. You come with me now. You don’t blame yourself for what happened. She wouldn’t want you to. She wasn’t like that.”
She made sure her voice carried as she led him out of the memorial, and to the steps leading down.
In the heavy silence, Jessica walked quickly to the stage. From what she could see, Bodine had started turning the tide. She’d try to keep it moving.
“I didn’t know Billy Jean very well. I haven’t worked here as long as most of you. But I remember after my first week here, going into the Saloon. I was feeling good about the work, but a little out of place, maybe a little homesick.”
She brushed her hair back from her face. She’d left it down so it waved its way to her shoulders. More casual, more friendly, she thought, than wearing it up and sleek.
“I wanted to fit in here,” she continued, “so I went into the Saloon that evening. Billy Jean was working the bar. I asked her what she’d recommend, told her I’d just started working here.
“She told me she knew that already, that bartenders hear everything sooner or later, and usually sooner. She recommended a huckleberry margarita. I’m going to admit it didn’t sound appealing.”
On stage, Jessica smiled at the chuckles.
“A lot of customers were in there that night, and I noticed how easy she made her job look. How she had a smile for everybody, even if she was working with both hands. She put that drink in front of me. I looked at it thinking why in the hell did people around here put huckleberries in everything. Then I took a sip, and got the answer.”
She smiled again at the quick laughter, waited a moment. “I drank my first huckleberry margarita. Then I drank a second one, sitting at the bar, watching Billy Jean work. When she put a third one in front of me, I told her I couldn’t. I had to drive home. Only to the Village, but I couldn’t get behind the wheel with three drinks in me. And she said: Honey, you go ahead and have that drink, and celebrate your first week here. That she was off in an hour, and she’d drive me home. So I did, and she did. It wasn’t the huckleberries that made me feel like I was beginning to fit in. It was Billy Jean.”
She stepped off the stage, took an emotional test of the air around her. And, deciding the tide had fully turned, moved to the background.
“That was a good thing.”