Meg could see how much Skipjack wanted to win, just as she could see that it didn’t occur to either Ted or Dallie to back off, not even for the future of the town. Dallie had played consistently well, and Ted’s erratic play was now a thing of the past. She was getting the weird feeling that he might even be enjoying the challenge of making up the three holes she’d cost them.

Skipjack snapped at Mark for taking too long to hand over a club. He could feel his win slipping away and, along with it, the chance to brag that he and Kenny Traveler had beaten Dallie and Ted Beaudine on their home course. He even stopped pestering Meg.

All Team Beaudine had to do was miss a few putts, and they’d put Spencer Skipjack in a magnanimous mood for future negotiations, but they didn’t seem to get that. She couldn’t understand it. They should be catering to their guest’s enormous ego instead of playing as though only the outcome of the match mattered. Apparently they thought tossing jokes at one another and letting Skipjack feel like an insider was enough. But Skipjack was a sulker. If Ted wanted him to be receptive, he and his father needed to lose this match. Instead, they were pressing even harder to maintain their one-hole advantage.

Fortunately, Kenny came to life on the seventeenth green and sank a twenty-five-foot putt that tied up the teams.

Meg didn’t like the determined glint in Ted’s eye as he teed off on the final hole. He lined up his drive, adjusted his stance, and launched his swing . . . at the exact moment she accidentally on purpose dropped his bag of golf clubs . . .

CHAPTER EIGHT

The clubs landed with a crash. All seven men standing on the tee spun around to stare at her. She tried to look abashed. “Oops. Dang. Big mistake.”

Ted had pulled his drive into the far left rough, and Skipjack grinned. “Miz Meg, I sure am glad you’re not caddying for me.”

She stubbed her sneaker into the ground. “I’m really sorry.” Not.

And what did Ted do in response to her blunder? Did he thank her for reminding him of what was most important today? Conversely, did he stalk over and wrap one of his clubs around her neck as she knew he wanted to? Oh, no. Mr. Perfect was way too cool for any of that. Instead, he gave them his choirboy smile, wandered back to her with his easy lope, and righted the bag himself. “Now don’t you stress, Meg. You’ve just made the match more interesting.”

He was the best bullshit artist she’d ever known, but even if the others couldn’t see it, she knew he was furious.

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.

“The Roustabout’s an institution around here,” Ted said as Skipjack finished polishing off a platter of ribs. “It’s seen a lot of history. Good, bad, and ugly.”

“I sure do remember the ugly,” Skeet said. “Like the time Dallie and Francie had an altercation in the parking lot. Happened more’n thirty years ago, long before they were married, but people still talk about it today.”

“That’s true,” Ted said. “I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard that story. My mother forgot she’s half my father’s size and tried to take him down.”

“Damn near succeeded. She was a wildcat that night, I can tell you,” Skeet said. “Me and Dallie’s ex-wife couldn’t hardly break up that fight.”

“It’s not exactly the way they’re making it sound,” Dallie said.

“It’s exactly the way it sounded.” Kenny pocketed his cell after checking on his wife.

“How would you know?” Dallie grumbled. “You were a kid then, and you weren’t even there. Besides, you’ve got your own history with the Roustabout parking lot. Like the night Lady Emma got upset with you and stole your car. You had to run down the highway after her.”

“It didn’t take too long to catch up,” Kenny said. “My wife wasn’t much of a driver.”

“Still isn’t,” Ted said. “Slowest driver in the county. Just last week she caused a big backup out on Stone Quarry Road. Three people called me to complain.”

Kenny shrugged. “No matter how hard we all try, we can’t convince her that our posted speed limits are only polite recommendations.”

It had been going on like that all evening, the five of them entertaining Skipjack with their good ol’ boy patter, while Spence, as she’d been instructed to call him, soaked it in with a combination of amusement and the faintest hint of arrogance. He loved being courted by these famous men—loved knowing he had something they wanted, something he had it within his power to withhold. He dragged his napkin over his mouth to wipe off some barbecue sauce. “You’ve got strange ways in this town.”