Billie pulled Gulliver onto her lap.
Was this why Charley had given her the flash drive? These last few minutes of evidence? This would give the government Dale, Eudora, and—oh, God—Sylvie. What was the punishment for a minor who abused horses in this way? Was seventeen a minor or an adult? What did this mean for Richard? For the other kids?
Did Richard know the extent of Sylvie’s involvement? It was bad enough to ride a sored horse. But to participate in soring itself? If Richard didn’t know about it, should Billie tell him?
The phone rang, startling her. The pain meds Doc prescribed for Gulliver had made him so groggy he didn’t even flick his ears at the sound. Billie answered without checking and realized for an airless moment that the bank was on the line. When she got off the phone after reasoning and pleading, she felt strangled. Bills and debtors. Horses who needed to be fed. Clients who mustn’t know what a hard time she was having in case they took their horses away and cut her tiny income. She was afraid of her own telephone. It was too early to drink. A bath would feel good.
She started to run the water then stopped and went back to her computer. She watched Charley’s footage again. She knew how to make money. The way she always had before she ran away, came here, and started her life over on this ranch.
She pulled a notepad onto her lap and started to write.
Later, she took a break to feed the horses, returned to the casita, and finished writing around eleven. She poured herself a glass of wine then and filled the tub. What she had written was good. She could tell. The words had come with a rhythm that had transported her as she wrote. That was how she always knew she was on target. Tomorrow she would type it into the computer, editing as she went. She would send it as an attachment to Frank. She didn’t want to be a writer anymore. She just wanted to ride Starship and live on her ranch with Gulliver and take care of other people’s horses.
She lay back, closed her eyes, and with her toes, turned on the hot water.
CHAPTER 17
ON FRIDAY EVENING the phone rang after Billie had finished feeding and gotten back to the casita. She had an open beer can in one hand and a slice of cantaloupe in the other and didn’t want to put either down. Gulliver, feeling better, was busy with an old rawhide he had dug up. It was too late for bill collectors. Billie answered without looking.
“Billie.”
“Frank.” She could hear the smile in her voice, and she knew that he could too.
“Billie.”
“Frank.”
“Billie?”
“Yes?”
“What were you thinking?”
“What do you mean?”
He sighed loudly. “We need to talk. In person.”
“Are you still coming to Tucson?”
“I just got in. Meet me at Señor Roco’s in an hour.”
“It’ll take me more than that to get there.”
“Well, hurry up. I’ll be in the bar.”
She’d taken off the door to her closet because it protruded too far into the tiny living space when it was open, and she never closed it anyway. So she’d made it into the table where she worked and ate, when she wasn’t working or eating off her lap on the futon. She’d hung an old serape she found at a thrift shop in its place as a make-do door. This she now held back with her forearm as she searched for something to wear to Tucson to meet Frank.
Nothing. There was not a single thing in there she could wear on a date. Which of course this wasn’t. This was even worse, a late-night business meeting with her ex-husband—exponentially more important than a date. She riffled through a pile of semi-folded T-shirts and tank tops. No. The closet bar held a couple of hangers with Western wear shirts, their pointed collars and lapels with rhinestone snaps eliminated them. She could imagine Frank’s disapproval if she dressed like that. The bureau drawers were stuffed with sports bras, cotton jockey briefs, sweatpants eroded by miles of horseback riding until they were almost rags. Sweatshirts. Boot socks.
She backed out of the closet, desperately looking under piles and into corners, then glanced up at a suitcase she’d stored up on the highest shelf when she first moved here. A suitcase she’d brought from New York. She slid a wooden side chair over, stood on it, and pulled down the bag. She hefted it onto the futon, and after a struggle, got the zipper to open. Everything inside was black. Black wool skirt, black slacks, black shoes, black jacket with black jet buttons, black pantyhose. Tucked into a side pocket, she found a black lace bra and lacy thong and tossed them onto the kitchen counter. The microwave’s clock told her she’d already spent a quarter hour just looking for underwear. She dove back into the suitcase and this time found a silk T-shirt in a brown so deep it was almost black, simple and softly elegant. She remembered spending three hundred and seventy-nine dollars for it in a Lexington Avenue boutique. She had paid cash, hid the receipt from Frank, and never wore it in case he asked about it.
She washed fast, running a soapy washcloth all over herself at the kitchen sink, then rinsing with a soaked hand towel. Not yet dry, she dove into the bra and thong, slipped on the silk blouse, and pulled on the first pair of jeans on the pile. Hopping, she shoved her feet into a pair of scuffed fat baby boots and ran to the truck. Before she got in, she rubbed the top of each boot on the back of her blue-jeaned calf and hoped that at least they’d look clean.
Parking in downtown Tucson was always tough. There weren’t enough spaces for the
