Mel Odom - Blood Lines

“Daddy came to some of the games. Don and Mama shamed him into it on occasion.”

“He didn’t like coming?”

“Daddy doesn’t like being around other people. He didn’t make friends. He was what we always called standoffish.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do other people make him uncomfortable?” Remy asked.

Shel shook his head. “I’ve seen Daddy walk into a bar filled with people, most of them wanting to form a lynch mob, and take command of the whole situation. We had a vaquero in from Mexico one summer. His name was Miguel. He was eighteen. I was twelve at the time. The way he could stick on a green mount and break him was amazing. I wanted to be just like him.”

The road noise filled the pauses between Shel’s words.

“Anyway, Miguel got into a fight with one of the local guys,” Shel went on. “Words were said. Pride was hurt. And it was all over a girl.”

“Now there’s a bad mix,” Remy said.

“Yeah. Miguel was outnumbered, and those boys pulled out baseball bats. Miguel pulled a knife. Jimmy Dean Harris got cut pretty bad and ended up in the hospital. It was his daddy that gathered up the lynch mob that night.”

“Exciting little town you grew up in.”

“I’ve heard New Orleans isn’t exactly filled with saints,” Shel countered.

Remy displayed a flat, mirthless grin. “My grandmere would agree with you. She wanted to move out of that place, but she never could. Even after Katrina, she’s back where she grew up.”

“A lot of people get stuck in their ways.”

“I know that’s true. But anyway, your father walked into this bar.”

›› 1729 Hours

“He did walk into that bar that night,” Shel continued. “I followed him, but he didn’t know it. Daddy got a call from one of the men inside the bar, and I followed him into town on my dirt bike.”

“Where were the police?”

“We didn’t have police. We had a sheriff’s deputy. And he didn’t want any part of what was going on.”

“Brave soul.”

“This was Texas. Old Texas. And it was twenty years ago.”

“Not exactly prehistoric.”

“Not if you’re going by a calendar.” Shel looked at the interstate stretched out before them. “But things hadn’t changed much since the frontier days. At least, most folks living around there didn’t think they should have. Daddy got out of his truck with an old Colt. 45 on his hip and a pump-action shotgun in his hands. He didn’t hesitate about walking straight up to that bar.”

“I would have at least thought about it. Why didn’t he call for help?”

“Because Miguel was a Mexican, and nobody else would have risked their neck for him. And because that’s just the way Daddy is. He skins his own cats.”

“I thought you said it was a cattle ranch.”

Shel started to explain. The country accent came back to him so naturally when he started talking about things back home. Then he saw Remy grinning.

“I know you didn’t mean that he really skinned cats,” Remy said. “That’s just one of those country terms.”

“City boy,” Shel snarled good-naturedly.

“So what happened at the bar?”

“I peeked in through a window. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared to death for Daddy, but I don’t think I’d ever been more proud of him.”

“But it wasn’t his fight.”

“The way Daddy saw it, it was. He’d brought Miguel there to break horses and help out with the stock for the summer. What happened to Miguel-according to Daddy’s way of thinking-was his responsibility. Daddy faced all those men in that bar and told them he’d kill the first man who hurt Miguel.”

“Would he have?”

“They thought so.”

“What did you think?”

Shel looked at Remy and nodded. “He’d have killed any man who laid a hand on Miguel that night. That’s gospel truth.”

“Not exactly Joe Average.”

“Daddy never has been.” Shel took a deep breath and let it out. “Anyway, Daddy left with Miguel. He saw my bike and knew I was there. I thought he was going to kill me. He’d told me to stay home. Instead, he had Miguel and me load my bike into the back of his pickup, which wasn’t easy, and we went back to the ranch.”

“And that’s where it ended?”

“The sheriff came out the next day and told Daddy he didn’t want him going into town waving guns around and threatening folks. Daddy told him he wouldn’t have had to do it if the deputy would do his job, and he was lucky he didn’t bill him for keeping the peace and preventing a murder that night. Mama came out and gentled things down before the sheriff made a bad mistake. She was the only one who could do that where Daddy was concerned. Don talks to Daddy, and sometimes Daddy listens. But I think it’s more out of respect for him being a preacher.”

“What kind of relationship does your brother have with your father?”

“After Mama died of cancer while I was in high school, Don got relegated to the role of family peacemaker. I think that’s part of the reason he became a preacher. He figured out how to keep the peace in his life, and he mostly kept it between Daddy and me. But we never made it easy for him.”

“Does Father’s Day affect your brother in the same way it does you?”

Shel grinned at the thought of what was probably going on back home right now. “No. Don’s got a whole new set of problems. He has a hard time giving up on an idea, and he wears like leather. So he goes to see Daddy on Father’s Day whether Daddy likes it or not.”

›› Four-Mile Tavern

›› Outside Fort Davis, Texas

›› 1629 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Don McHenry was aware of the sudden quietness in the bar as he stepped into the long, deep cool of the building. Outside, the Texas countryside was parched and sun blasted. The heat called up twisting mirages over the baked countryside. Scars were already starting to show from the heat, and summer wouldn’t even officially begin for a few more days.

Don gazed around the bar but knew that most people there wouldn’t meet his eyes. Fort Davis was a small community. Most people knew he was a preacher either from attending church or from seeing the televised Sunday morning meetings or just from the presence he had in the community. He served on the development boards and umpired games at the Little League ballpark.

So some of the drinkers were anxious about him being there.

Although Texas wasn’t a dry state, it was still close enough to the Bible Belt of the country that some shame was attributed to drinking. A few of the churches still spoke against it. Don didn’t feel that way and sometimes enjoyed a quiet beer when he took his sons to a Texas Rangers baseball game in Arlington.

Four-Mile Tavern was named for its geographic location. Built along the highway leading into Fort Davis, the bar was four miles outside the city limits. At one point it had been a small house. The story went that the owners had built a small room onto the front of the house to sell moonshine to locals. Over the years its reputation had grown, and people from outside the city had started to drive in to drink there and hang out in front of the building.

So new construction had begun. Within a few short years, the house had more than quadrupled in size. Unable to keep up with the demands and fearful of law enforcement frowning on their homegrown business, the owners had gotten a liquor license and gone legit. They’d also purchased some secondhand restaurant equipment and started serving lunches and dinners to truckers, tourists, and those in the city who preferred to do their drinking outside of it.

As Don stood there in the door, he saw a handful of men and women slide out the back way. A few of the others gave him a hard-eyed stare.