Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(75)

“Stop it, Francie,” he yelled, as she staggered to her feet. “Don't come any closer or you'll really get hurt.”

“You bloody bastard,” she sobbed, wiping her nose on her wrist. “You bloody married bastard! I'm going to make you pay!” Then she went after him again—a pampered little British house cat charging a full-grown, free-roaming all-American mountain lion.

Holly Grace stood in the middle of the crowd that had gathered outside the front door of the Roustabout to watch. “I can't believe Dallie didn't tell her about me,” she said to Skeet. “It doesn't usually take him more than thirty seconds to work my existence into any conversation he has with a woman he's attracted to.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Skeet growled. “She knew about you. We talked about you in front of her a hundred times—that's what's making him so mad. Everybody in the world knows the two of you've been married since you was teenagers. This is just one more example of what a fool that woman is.” Worry etched a frown between his shaggy eyebrows as Francesca landed another blow. “I know he's trying to hold her off without hurtin' her too much, but if one of those kicks lands too close to his danger zone, she's gonna find herself in a hospital bed and he's gonna end up in jail for assault and battery. See what I told you about her, Holly Grace? I never knew a woman as much trouble as that one.”

Holly Grace took a swig from Dallie's bottle of Pearl, which she'd picked up off the table, then remarked to Skeet, “If word of this little altercation makes its way to Mr. Deane Beman, Dallie's gonna get his ass kicked right off the pro tour. The public doesn't much like football players beating up women, let alone golfers.”

Holly Grace watched as the floodlights caught the sheen of tears on Francesca's cheeks. Despite Dallie's determination to hold that little girl off, she kept going right back after him. It occurred to Holly Grace that there might be more to Miss Fancy Pants than what Skeet had told her on the telephone. Still, the woman couldn't have much sense. Only a fool would go after Dallas Beaudine without holding a loaded gun in one hand and a blacksnake whip in the other. She winced as one of Francesca's kicks managed to catch him behind the knee. He quickly retaliated and then managed to immobilize her partially by pinioning both her elbows behind her back and clamping her to his chest.

Holly Grace spoke quietly to Skeet. “She's getting ready to kick him again. We'd better step in before this goes any further.” She handed off her beer bottle to the man standing next to her. “You take her, Skeet. I'll handle Dallie.”

Skeet didn't argue about the distribution of duties. Although he didn't relish the idea of trying to calm down Miss Fran-chess-ka, he knew Holly Grace was the only person with half a shot at handling Dallie when he really kicked up. They quickly crossed the parking lot, and when they reached the struggling pair, Skeet said, “Give her to me, Dallie.”

Francesca let out a strangled sob of pain. Her face was pressed against Dallie's T-shirt. Her arms, twisted behind her back, felt as if they were ready to pop from their sockets. He hadn't killed her. Despite the pain, he hadn't killed her after all. “Leave me alone!” she screamed into Dallie's chest. No one suspected she was screaming at Skeet.

Dallie didn't move. He gave Skeet a frozen stare over the top of Francesca's head. “Mind your own goddamn business.”

Holly Grace stepped forward. “Come on, baby,” she said lightly. “I got about a thousand things I've been saving up to tell you.” She began stroking Dallie's arm in the easy, proprietary manner of a woman who knows she has the right to touch a particular man in any way she wants. “I saw you on television at the Kaiser. Your long irons were looking real good for a change. If you ever learn how to putt, you might even be able to play half-decent golf someday.”

Gradually, Dallie's grip on Francesca eased, and Skeet cautiously reached out to draw her away. But at the instant Skeet touched her, Francesca sank her teeth into the hard flesh of Dallie's chest, clamping down on his pectoral muscle.

Dallie yelled just long enough for Skeet to whip Francesca into his own arms.

“Crazy bitch!” Dallie shouted, drawing back his arm and taking a lunge toward her. Holly Grace jumped in front of him, using her own body as a shield, because she couldn't stand the thought of Dallie getting kicked off the tour. He stopped, put a hand on her shoulder, and rubbed his chest with a knotted fist. A vein throbbed in his temple. “Get her out of my sight! I mean it, Skeet! Buy her a plane ticket home, and don't you ever let me see her again!”

Just before Skeet dragged her away, Francesca heard the echo of Dallie's voice coming from behind her, much softer now, and gentler. “I'm sorry,” he said.

Sorry... The word was repeated in her head like a bitter refráin. Only those two small words of apology for destroying what was left of her life. And then she heard the rest of what he was saying.

“I'm sorry, Holly Grace.”

Francesca let Skeet put her into the front seat of his Ford and sat without moving as he turned out onto the highway.

They drove in silence for several minutes before he finally said, “Look, Francie, I'm gonna pull into the gas station down the road and call one of my friends who works over at the county clerk's office to see if she'll put you up for the night. She's a real nice lady. Tomorrow morning I'll come on over with your things and take you to the airport in San Antonio. You'll be back in London before you know it.”