A quick shower and ten minutes later, I stood in the upstairs linen closet, grabbing as many spare blankets as I could hold. I kicked the closet door shut and made for the stairs. Over the bundle of quilts, I spotted Cletus standing by the entryway table, turning an envelope over in his hands and peering at the return address.
“Hey,” I said.
He jumped, his hands and the envelope going behind his back. “Hey yourself,” he grumped. I’d obviously startled him.
“Help me with these. And what are you hiding behind your back?” I asked upon arriving at the main floor.
“I’m not hiding anything.” His tone was defensive, and yet he continued hiding the envelope.
“Yes, you are. What’s that letter behind your back?”
Cletus ground his teeth, the muscle at his jaw ticking. He was thinking. Deliberating. I lifted a concerned eyebrow. No one, least of all me, wanted Cletus to be deliberating.
Abruptly, he thrust the envelope at me. “Fine. You got a letter. Give me those stupid blankets. I’ll carry them out to the truck.”
We swapped burdens and Cletus stomped out the front door, mumbling to himself as he went. Meanwhile, I turned the envelope over to check the return address, much like he’d been doing when I spotted him seconds ago.
My stomach suddenly hollow and hard, I wished I hadn’t pressed Cletus about the letter.
It was posted three days ago, sent from the Federal Correctional Institution, Memphis, where our father was imprisoned for attempted kidnapping and aggravated assault. I briefly debated whether or not to tear it up and burn it. But morbid curiosity had me tearing it open instead.
Inside was a photo of Sienna and me, taken the night of our date. We stood by the hostess stand at The Front Porch. It was dark and a little blurry, taken with a cell phone, but we were obviously the two people in the photograph.
I flipped the photo over, knowing there would be a message but not wanting to read it. I read it anyway.
It said, “You always were best at the big cons. I hope her bank account is as big as her tits. She can pay my legal fees.”
I heard his voice in my head as though he’d been standing next to me. A sharp, fierce surge of protectiveness and anger had me shredding the note and the photo. Grim hatred and resolve turned my insides to stone because Darrell Winston never did anything without a reason.
The picture had been a threat.
He was never going to leave me in peace.
But I could make damn sure his filthy plans never touched Sienna.
Cletus and I met Drew and Roscoe at the Cooper Road Trail ranger station. They hadn’t yet left for the day. I brought doughnuts and coffee and bad news.
“You tore up the picture?” Drew asked, leaning back in the small wooden chair, peering at me from beneath blond eyebrows.
“It doesn’t matter.” Cletus shook his head. “If he hadn’t torn it up, I would’ve torn it up.”
Roscoe’s attention bounced between the three of us. “What can he do? He’s locked up.”
I glanced at my youngest brother, both happy and troubled he didn’t understand our father’s true nature.
Looking at Roscoe was like looking at a younger version of myself, except one who’d been mostly spared the influence of our father. He’d been the first to give me a chance five years ago, after Ben died, when I needed one of my brothers to believe in me. I was fond of Roscoe, protective in a way I should have been for the others when we’d all been growing up.
Cletus frowned at Roscoe, looked like he was about to fill in the blanks, but instead said, “Roscoe, could you take Jethro’s truck and run back over to Daisy’s for more coffee?”
“You’re trying to get rid of me.” Roscoe shook his head.
“Yes. We’re trying to get rid of you.” I clapped my hand on his shoulder. “You’re not the law—like Drew—and you’re not sinister—like Cletus.”
“Plus I want more coffee.” Cletus lifted his empty cup. “I can’t think without my coffee.”
“I’m not leaving.” Roscoe crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, mimicking Drew’s pose. “I’m not a kid. No use protecting me.”
Cletus and I frowned at each other, neither of us liking the idea of exposing Roscoe to this steaming pile of horse manure, but Drew vetoed us both. “He should stay. How can he defend himself against something he doesn’t understand? The time will come when Darrell tries to use Roscoe for something or another.”
It wasn’t unusual for Drew to speak to us in this way or cast the final, deciding vote in our family. After I’d stolen his motorcycle—a fucked-up cry for attention—and he’d beaten me senseless, he’d realized who I was. He’d realized I was Bethany Winston’s oldest son. Since then, he’d often given me fatherly lectures. He was a man of few words, but the words he spoke were always worth listening to.