Devil’s Claw

Butch met them just inside the door. “You didn’t change,” he said, frowning. “Didn’t you get my message? Frank said he’d be sure to tell you.”

Joanna sighed. “Frank did give me the message, but there wasn’t enough time to go out to the department and still be here on time. I’m sure the clothes I’m wearing will work. I promise not to spill anything.”

“It’s not that,” Butch said. “It’s just that everyone else is dressed a lot more casually than you are.”

“Don’t worry,” Joanna said. “I’ll be fine. Now come on. Where are your parents? Let’s go get the introductions out of the way so I can stop being nervous about meeting them.”

Outside, Joanna found that the backyard was lit with a series of festive-looking lanterns complete with lighted candles. Predictably, three men-George Winfield, Jim Bob Brady, and a portly man in shorts, sandals, and socks, who made Jim Bob look slim by comparison-were clustered near the barbecue. Even across the yard, Joanna could see that Butch Dixon resembled his father, Donald. The older man was taller and much heavier than his son. In contrast to Butch’s clean-shaven head, his father had thick, curly gray hair, but their facial features were almost identical.

Halfway down the yard, Eva Lou Brady sat at Eleanor’s cloth-covered picnic table engaged in subdued conversation with a heavyset woman with thinning gray hair who looked to be in her mid-sixties.

“Come on,” Butch said to Joanna, taking her hand and leading her down the backyard. “I’ll introduce you to my father first.”

They met Eleanor Winfield halfway to the barbecue. She looked her daughter up and down, pursed her lips, and said nothing, but Joanna got the message all the same.

“Dad,” Butch was saying. “Here she is-the girl of my dreams-Joanna Lathrop Brady. Joanna, this is my dad, Donald Dixon.”

Donald Dixon turned away from the grill with its layer of thinly sliced beef, looked at Joanna’s face, and beamed. “You can call me Don,” he said, holding out a massive paw of a hand and pumping Joanna’s eagerly. “Everybody does. And I’m delighted to meet you. Maggie and I have heard so much about you. Butch said you were just a little bit of a thing, and by God it’s true!”

Despite the fact that it annoyed Joanna when strangers and new acquaintances made unsolicited comments to her size, she nonetheless managed to keep her smile plastered firmly in place. “Good things come in small packages,” she responded, knowing that the comment sounded perky and stupid both, but Don Dixon seemed to like it.

“Right you are,” he said heartily, slapping a beefy, snow-white, shorts-clad thigh. “I do believe my mother used to tell me the same thing. I just didn’t pay any attention. Have you met Maggie yet?”

Hearing the Chicago twang in his voice-the hard-edged vowels-Joanna recognized what Jenny had meant. Don Dixon’s accent hurt her ears, too.

“No,” she said in answer to his question. “I just now got here.”

“Well, by all means go over and be introduced. She’s really looking forward to meeting you. She hasn’t talked about anything else ever since we left Chicago.”

Taking a deep breath and following Butch’s lead, Joanna turned back to the picnic table. “Mom,” Butch was saying when they arrived at the table. “This is Joanna Brady. Joanna, my mother, Margaret, but everyone calls her Maggie.”

Margaret Dixon held out her hand. She smiled a thin smile. “How do you do. Glad to meet you, Joanna. I’ve got my fingers crossed. Let’s hope the third time’s the charm.”

Joanna saw the muscles tighten along Butch’s jawline. “Mother!” he said.

“I’m sure Joanna knows what I mean,” Maggie Dixon said quickly, waving away his comment as though it were a bothersome fly. “No doubt the two of you will be very happy. And since Butch is getting such a late start on settling down, it’s probably a good thing you come complete with a ready-made family.”

For months Butch had been hinting to Joanna that his mother was a difficult woman. He had warned that, in a competition of relative prickliness, Maggie Dixon would run Eleanor Lathrop Winfield a close race. Joanna had laughed off his comments, saying he was probably exaggerating or making things up. Now, all it took was that one exchange for Joanna to realize he was right. Maggie Dixon was going to be tough to like. Across the table and behind Maggie’s back, even the perpetually easygoing Eva Lou Brady felt constrained to shake her head and raise a disapproving eyebrow.

Never one to retreat from a battle, Joanna motioned Butch to take a seat next to Eva Lou. Then, raising her skirt, she stepped over the picnic bench and sat down next to Maggie. Wanting to give Butch a chance to relax, Joanna dived into the task of making polite conversation.

“So how do you like Cochise County so far?” she asked as evenly as she could manage.

“It is warm,” Maggie replied. “I’ll say that much for it, and it’s so dry here. My skin feels like it’s going to turn brittle and break off. I’m used to a lot more humidity. My mother and her second husband retired out here,” she continued. “They bought a place up in Sun City. That’s how Butch ended up coming out here years ago. But as far as I’m concerned, I could never see what it was about the desert that appealed to my mother so much, and it’s such a long way from home. And now that Donald’s retired from the post office, we prefer to spend our winters in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Ever been there?”

Suddenly the idea that Arizona was a long way away from both Chicago and Hot Springs, Arkansas, held some appeal for Joanna Brady. Good, she found herself thinking. Let’s keep it that way.

“So how do you like being sheriff?” Maggie Dixon continued without bothering to wait for an answer. “That sounds like a difficult job for a woman. And isn’t it dangerous?”

“At times, it’s a difficult job for anyone-man or woman,” Joanna replied. “And yes, it can be dangerous, but that can also be true of any job. You have to keep your wits about you.”

“Well,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “From what Butch writes about you and says on the phone, I can tell he’s very proud of you. But you won’t keep doing this, will you-I mean after you’re married?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, you know how it is. It’s the man’s job to support his family. And then, if you got pregnant…”

Butch got up abruptly. “I think I’ll go see if Eleanor needs any help,” he said, leaving the battle of the picnic table under Joanna’s sole direction.

Maggie turned and watched him go. “Now I suppose my son will be mad at me,” she mused. “He’s always accusing me of being nosy. But these are the kinds of things people need to talk about before they get married, not after. And I’m sure that’s the mistake Butch made before-the other times he got married. He went into those relationships with no idea at all of what he really wanted. Of course, the first time, he and Debbie were both much too young. And with Faith, I don’t think either one of them thought ahead very much, either. Faith’s a very nice girl,” Maggie added. “We still stay in touch from time to time. I’m sure you’d like her. She and her husband just had their second child-a little boy. I meant to mention that to Butch.”

Months earlier, about the time Butch had asked Joanna to marry him, he had told her about his first two marriages and what had happened to them. She remembered all too well Butch relating the tale of his bitter divorce from a woman named Faith who had taken him to the cleaners both financially and emotionally as she abandoned ship in order to marry her husband’s soon-to-be-former best friend.

Don’t bother telling him, Joanna thought. That’s the last thing he needs to know!

“Well?” Maggie asked. “Are you?”

Her tone implied that there was an unanswered question lingering in the air, one Joanna had somehow failed to hear.

“Am I what?” Joanna returned.

“Are you and Butch planning on having kids?” Maggie prodded. “The magazines are always filled with articles about women and their ticking biological clocks, but I think men’s do, too. And at Butch’s age-”

“Come and get it while it’s hot,” George Winfield announced as he walked by the table carrying a platter piled high with strips of broiled flank steak. “We’re serving this buffet-style,” he added. “Come into the kitchen and fill your plates. Those who want to can come back outside to eat.”

“Let me give you a hand, Maggie,” Don Dixon said, stopping by the table to help his wife rise from the picnic bench. While Don led Maggie into the house, Eva Lou stood up and wordlessly gave Joanna a sympathetic pat on