though heâs already left us.â
âHe canât hear. Hell, he wouldnât even be breathing if it wasnât for this machine. All Iâd have to do is reach up andâ¦â
âStop it, Trent! You donât have the guts to kill him.â
âOr the need. What the rig explosion didnât do, the old manâs stubbornness about being transferred to a real hospital will. He may have blamed the Dallas hospital for killing Mom, but Iâll be able to thank this little place fornot having the ability to keep him alive. In a few hours, Iâll be running Howard Drilling. Even if he lives, heâll be a vegetable, and Iâll take over.â
The womanâs tone was cruel. âAnd our dear little tramp of a stepmother will be back to waiting tables where she belongs. Iâd feel sorry for her if I thought Daddy ever loved her. But she was just his toy. Iâll always believe he married her just to irritate you.â
âHe did a good job of that.â
The woman laughed. âWait till you see what I brought her as a change of clothing. I find it hard to believe she had the guts to even ask me to do such a thing. She hugged me as if she could comfort me and asked if Iâd do her a great favor. She even said it didnât matter what I brought, she just needed a change because she wasnât leaving the hospital until Daddy did.â
âAll sheâll have left is guts as soon as the old man dies.â Trent laughed.
A door opened. The conversation ended. He drifted with the pain for a while before he heard someone crying again.
âDonât die, darling,â the soft Southern voice whispered over and over. âPlease donât die.â
Her fingers pressed lightly over the bandages on his hand. She willed him to live with a determination stronger than his need to die. Whoever she was, she wasnât giving up. She wasnât letting go.
Through the pain he realized he didnât want her to give up on him. She was the only hope he felt he had ever known.
Â
Sleepy little farming towns flooded overnight with thousands of oil field workers, teamsters and speculators. Gambling houses, saloons and shacks called parlors offered entertainment for a price. Small-town sheriffs from Borger to Port Arthur called in the Texas Rangers to help maintain a modicum of control. When the boom died, the local law stood alone as the towns drifted back to sleep.
October 12
1:45 a.m.
Frankieâs Bar
T he bartender leaned as far over the bar as his huge belly would allow and whispered, âWeâre closing, Randi, you want another one?â
Randi Howard stacked her last shot glass beside the others and shook her head. âCanât seem to drink enough to feel it tonight, Frankie.â
The old boxer behind the bar nodded. âIâve been there, kid, believe me.â He used two of the glasses sheâd emptied to pour them each a shot of tequila. âJimmy was a good man and heâll be missed. Hereâs one to him.â
Randi didnât down the offered drink. She just nodded. âHe was a good man. Best damn husband I ever had.â She looked up at Frankie. âHe never beat me. Did you know that? Not once.â
Frankie moved down the bar to the next customer; sympathy and advice were doled out like whiskey, in short shots. Heâd been a boxer and a biker before settling down to tending bar. Randi guessed heâd heard every hard luck story over the years, and hers was just one more.
She lifted the last drink to her lips. âTo you, Jimmy. I might not have been able to stand the boredom of living with you any longer, but Iâm sure going to miss you now I know youâre gone and I canât come running back.â
Blinking away a tear, she remembered how he once told her that she was a one-woman wrecking crew leaving broken hearts wherever she went. He always said things like that to her before they married.
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