They all set off down the fairway. Skipjack's face was flushed, his golf shirt sticking to his barrel chest. She understood the game well enough by now to know what needed to happen. Because of his handicap, Skipjack got an extra stroke on this hole, so if everybody parred it, Skipjack would win the hole for his team. But if either Dallie or Ted birdied the hole, Skipjack would need a birdie himself to win the hole, something that seemed highly unlikely. Otherwise, the match would end in an unsatisfying tie.
Thanks to her interference, Ted was farthest from the pin, so he was up first for his second shot. Since no one was close enough to overhear, she could tell him exactly what she thought. "Let him win, you idiot! Can't you see how much this means to him?"
Instead of listening to her, he drilled a four-iron down the fairway, putting him in what even she could see was perfect position. "Butthead," she muttered. "If you birdie, you've just about guaranteed your guest can't win. Do you really think that's the best way to put him in a good mood for your odious negotiations?"
He tossed his club at her. "I know how the game is played, Meg, and so does Skipjack. He's not a kid." He stalked away.
Dallie, Kenny, and a glowering Skipjack put their third shots on the green, but Ted was only lying two. He'd abandoned common sense. Apparently losing a game was a mortal sin for those who worshipped in the holy cathedral of golf.
Meg reached Ted's ball first. It perched on top of a big tuft of chemically nurtured grass in perfect position to set up an easy birdie shot. She lowered his bag, contemplated her principles once again, then brought her sneaker down as hard as she could on the ball.
As she heard Ted come up behind her, she shook her head sadly. "Too bad. It looks like you landed in a hole."
"A hole?" He pushed her aside to see his ball mashed deeply into the grass.
As she stepped back, she spotted Skeet Cooper standing on the fringe of the green watching her with his small, sun-wrinkled eyes. Ted gazed down at the ball. "What in the-?"
"Some kind of rodent." Skeet said it in a way that let her know he'd witnessed exactly what she'd done.
"Rodent? There aren't any-" Ted spun on her. "Don't tell me . . ."
"You can thank me later," she said.
"Problem over there?" Skipjack called from the opposite fringe.
"Ted's in trouble," Skeet called back.
Ted used up two strokes getting out of the hole she'd dug him into. He still made par, but par wasn't good enough. Kenny and Skipjack won the match.
Kenny seemed more concerned about getting home to his wife than relishing the victory, but Spencer chortled all the way into the clubhouse. "Now that was a golf game. Too bad you lost it there at the end, Ted. Bad luck." As he spoke, he was peeling away at a wad of bills to tip Mark. "Good job today. You can caddy for me anytime."
"Thank you, sir. It was my pleasure."
Kenny passed some twenties over to Lenny, shook hands with his partner, and took off for home. Ted dug into his own pocket, pressed a tip into her palm, then closed her fingers around it. "No hard feelings, Meg. You did your best."
"Thanks." She'd forgotten she was dealing with a saint.
Spencer Skipjack came up behind her, settled his hand into the small of her back, and rubbed. Way too creepy. "Miz Meg, Ted and his friends are taking me to dinner tonight. I'd be honored if you'd be my date."
"Gosh, I'd like to, but-"
"She'd love to," Ted said. "Wouldn't you, Meg?"
"Ordinarily yes, but-"
"Don't be shy. We'll pick you up at seven. Meg's current home is hard to find, so I'll drive." He gazed at her, and the flint in his eyes sent a clear message that told her she'd be looking for a new home if she didn't cooperate. She swallowed. "Casual dress?"
"Real casual," he said.
As the men walked away, she contemplated the evils of being forced on a date with an egotistic blowhard who was practically as old as her father. Bad enough by itself, but even more depressing with Ted watching her every move.
She rubbed her aching shoulder, then uncurled her fingers to check out the tip she'd received for spending four and a half hours hauling thirty-five pounds of golf clubs uphill and down in the hot Texas sun.
A one-dollar bill looked back at her.
Neon beer signs, antlers, and sports memorabilia decked out the square wooden bar that sat in the center of the Roustabout. Booths lined two of the honky-tonk's walls, pool tables and video games another. On weekends, a country band played, but for now, Toby Keith blasted from the jukebox near a small, scarred dance floor.
Meg was the only woman at the table, which left her feeling a little like a working girl at a gentleman's club, although she was glad neither Dallie's nor Kenny's wife was present, since both women hated her. She sat between Spencer and Kenny, with Ted directly across the table along with his father and Dallie's faithful caddy, Skeet Cooper.