Devil in Texass(16)

respectable image, George was always the first one to cut loose with Jack. Partners in crime to the end.

All in the name of good, harmless fun, of course.

But there’d been few rowdy times of late. In fact, it felt as though a dark cloud

hovered over the town, putting everyone on edge. The exact reason George was

pestering him about running for office.

“This town has some serious issues to reconcile,” George continued as he packed

away the poker chips while Jack finished tidying the small room. “The mayor needs a

strong advocate on his side before he loses all control. One of us needs to step up to the plate and help him.”

“Be my guest,” Jack offered. Though his blood boiled at the downward spiral they

were all collectively taking.

Some of the church-going folk were riding a morality sanction like a runaway train.

And people were suffering because of it. Yes, when it came to taking a stand, Jack had 42

Devil in Texas

precious chips stacked in his corner, in one respect. But he had his fair share of

opponents that had been gunning for him since he was a rebellious teenager—and

because of his last name. Conversely, the odds were against him.

An impasse of his own making, really.

“I’d consider running,” George said. “But we both know how people feel about

electing someone who’s ‘new’ to the community. I’ve been here for nearly ten years, but because I wasn’t born and raised in Wilder, I’m still considered an outsider.”

“Another mistake. Fresh ideas and diverse perspectives would do wonders for this

town.” But people had to embrace innovation in order to move forward. Something few

seemed inclined to do these days.

“Seriously, Jack. There’s no convincing you?” George prodded.

Jack gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not totally discounting the idea. But you have

to consider…it might make matters worse, not better.”

“You’ve got some stiff competition—and opposition—with the old guard, I’ll

admit.”

“Let’s call a spade a spade,” Jack said as they left the back room. He stalked down

the narrow hallway and entered the bar area. This was his pride and joy. His personal haven. The one remaining landmark in Wilder that was a thorn in the saints’ sides.

“I don’t have the cleanest reputation in town, and I’m not about to laud myself as a

reformed sinner just so I can make a stand,” he said as he dumped the peanut shells

into the trash. “I wouldn’t intentionally be self-serving if I was on the Council, but I also wouldn’t let the congregation bulldoze me.”

“You realize you’re making my point for me,” George said in a dry tone.

Jack scowled. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t put serious thought into running, even before George had brought it up after the poker game. Unlike his friend, Jack had been born

and raised in Wilder. He’d suffered through waves of small-town narrow-mindedness

interspersed with big-city brilliance—such as what his own father had once contributed to the community before he’d left town. Or been run out. All depended on who you

asked.

For as long as he could remember, Jack had been in the thick of the push-and-pull

that resulted in this town taking one step forward to progressive thinking and two steps back to the Dark Ages.

“Something’s got to give,” George continued on. Not saying anything new. “You’re

a man who makes things happen, Jack. Be a damn shame if you didn’t do something to

set things right.”

“Now, George,” Jack said in the most civil tone he could muster. In truth, the mere

thought of how sterile their environment had become sparked his anger in a heartbeat.

But he’d learned long ago not to go off half-cocked. This was a delicate matter to be handled with care.

43

Calista Fox

He of all people knew the influence some of the more embedded residents held

over this small, lakeside community. Lydia and Reverend Bain. Stan Parsons, the high

school principal. Myra Brighton, a distant descendant of the founder of Wilder. Even

the mayor had to battle them on major decisions.

Granted, not everyone in this Bible Belt community kowtowed to someone else’s

interpretation of religion and the Lord’s gospel. Clearly, there was a balance to be

struck, and that wasn’t easy to do when some felt threatened by what they perceived to be big-city ideas and a decline in values by today’s youth. The God-fearing men and

women of Wilder held fast to their beliefs and prayed for the sinners’ souls every

Sunday morning and Wednesday night at church.

Oh hell. They likely prayed all damn week.

Jack wasn’t a firm believer in Satan himself. It was all a matter of perspective. He

believed people did things—good or evil—based on what was inherently in their hearts

and souls, not necessarily by divine or satanic influence. He’d read the good book cover to cover. Twice. Could recite the Ten Commandments. He even sent up a prayer to the

heavens every now and then when a friend passed or things were looking bleak.

But Jack Wade was also a man who liked a little sinnin’ from time to time.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of gray areas in Wilder, what with some of the

congregation piously delineating themselves as holier than the non-church goers.

Sometimes it was hard to pinpoint the greater evils that existed because of the personal agendas being pushed.

“Look,” Jack reasoned. “I’m not backin’ down. I’m just not committin’ yet. Rocking

the boat when I’m fighting to stay afloat doesn’t make good business sense. Sales are steady during the week and I need them to remain that way now that we’re closed on

Sundays.”

The ledger didn’t lie. Having to close the saloon doors one day a week—on a

weekend, no less, when there was Sunday football and people looking to relax before

they had to get back to the daily grind come Monday—made a big impact on his profits.

“I understand your situation,” George said. “And you have mine and Jess’ devoted

patronage to support ‘the cause’.” He smiled magnanimously. “How about a Glenlivet

to prove it?”

Jack chuckled. They’d been friends a long time and Jack knew he could count on

George and his wife, Jess, to fight the good fight with him. Reaching for the fancy single malt Scotch George favored, he poured two fingers into an old-fashion glass and set the drink in front of the other man. “You’re not going to let this drop, are you?”