Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(122)

Dallie's hand slammed down over the hamburger. “I said go get another one, dammit.”

Teddy felt sick. Sometimes his mom yelled at him if he made a fresh remark or didn't do his chores, but it never made his stomach feel all wiggly like this, because he knew his mom loved him and didn't want him to grow up to be a jerk. But he could tell that Dallie didn't love him. Dallie didn't even like him. Teddy's jaw set in a small, rebellious line. “I'm not hungry, and I want to go home.”

“Well, that's just too damned bad. We're going to be on the road for a while, just like I told you.”

Teddy glared at him. “I want to go home. I have to go to school On Monday.”

Dallie got up from the table and jerked his head toward the door. “Come on. If you're going to act like a spoiled brat, you can do it while we're on the road.”

Teddy lagged behind on the way out the door. He didn't care anymore about all Holly Grace's dumb old stories. As far as he was concerned, Dallie was a big old butt-wipe. Slipping his glasses back on, Teddy tucked his hand in his pocket. The switch comb felt warm and reassuring as it settled against his palm. He wished it was real. If Lasher the Great was here, he could take care of old Dallie Butt-Wipe Beaudine.

As soon as the car moved onto the interstate, Dallie punched the accelerator and shot into the left lane. He knew he was acting like a real son of a bitch. He knew, but he couldn't stop himself. The rage wouldn't leave him, and he wanted to hit something about as badly as he'd ever wanted anything in his life. His anger kept eating away at him, growing bigger and stronger until he could hardly contain it. He felt as if some of his manhood had been stripped away. He was thirty-seven years old and he didn't have a goddamn thing to show for it. He was a second-rate pro golfer. He'd been a failure as a husband, a goddamn criminal as a father. And now this.

That bitch. That goddamn selfish, spoiled little rich-girl bitch. She'd given birth to his child and never said a word. All those stories she'd told Holly Grace—those lies. He'd believed them. Christ, she'd gotten back at him all right, just like she'd said she would the night they'd had that fight in the Roustabout parking lot. With a snap of her fingers, she'd given him the most contemptuous f*ck-you a woman could give a man. She'd taken away his right to know his own son.

Dallie glanced over at the boy sitting in the passenger seat next to him, the son who was the flesh of his body just as surely as Danny had been. Francesca must have discovered by now that he had disappeared. The thought gave him a moment's bitter satisfaction. He hoped she was hurting real bad.

Wynette looked very much as Francesca remembered it, although some of the stores had changed. As she studied the town through the windshield of her rental car, she realized that life had carried her in a huge circle right back to the point where everything had really begun for her.

She hunched her shoulders in a futile attempt to relieve some of the tension in her neck. She still didn't know if she'd done the right thing by leaving Manhattan to fly to Texas, but after three unbearable days of waiting for the phone to ring and dodging reporters who wanted to interview her about her relationship with Stefan, she had reached the point where she had to do something.

Holly Grace had suggested she fly to Wynette. “That's where Dallie always heads when he's hurting,” she had said, “and I guess he's hurting pretty bad right now.”

Francesca had tried to ignore the accusation in Holly Grace's voice, but it was difficult. After ten years of friendship, their relationship was seriously strained. The day Francesca had returned from London, Holly Grace had announced, “I'll stick by you, Francesca, because that's the way I'm made, but it's going to be a while before I trust you again.”

Francesca had tried to make her understand. “I couldn't tell you the truth. Not as close as you are to Dallie.”

“So you lied to me? You fed me that stupid story about Teddy's father in England, and I believed it all these years.” Holly Grace's face had darkened with anger. “Don't you understand that family means something to Dallie? With other men it might not matter, but Dallie isn't like other men. He's spent all his life trying to create a family around him—Skeet, Miss Sybil, me, all those strays he's picked up over the years. This is going to just about kill him. His first son died, and you stole his second one.”

A wave of anger had shot through Francesca, all the sharper because she had felt a prick of guilt. “Don't you judge me, Holly Grace Beaudine! You and Dallie both have some awfully freewheeling ideas of morality, and I won't have either of you shaking your finger at me. You don't know what it's like to hate who you are—to have to remake yourself. I did what I needed to do at the time. And if I had to go through it again, I'd do exactly the same thing.”

Holly Grace had been unmoved. “Then you'd be a bitch twice over, wouldn't you?”

Francesca blinked her eyes against tears as she turned onto the street that held Dallie's Easter egg house. She was heartsick over Holly Grace's inability to understand that Dallie's long-ago affair with her hadn't been anything more than a small sexual diversion in his life—certainly nothing to justify the kidnapping of a nine-year-old child. Why was Holly Grace taking sides against her? Francesca wondered if she was doing the right thing by not involving the police, but she couldn't bear the idea of seeing Teddy's name smeared all over the tabloids. “Love Child of Television Personality Kidnapped by Golf Pro Father.” She could see it now— photographs of all of them. Her relationship with Stefan would become even more public, and they would dig up all the old stories about Dallie and Holly Grace.