Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(33)

A voice came from behind us. "Hey. there."

Mama and I both turned, and my face froze as I saw Louis Sadlek. the owner of Bluebonnet Ranch. He was tricked out in snakeskin boots and denim, with a silver arrowhead-shaped bolo tie. I had always kept my distance from him, which turned out to be easy because he usually left the front office empty. He had no sense of regular work hours, spending his time drinking and tomcatting around town. If one of the trailer park residents went to ask him about fixing things like a clogged septic line or a pothole on the main drive, he promised to take care of it but never did a thing. Complaining to Sadlek was a waste of air.

Sadlek was well groomed but puffy, with broken capillaries spreading across the tops of his cheeks like the mesh of hairline cracks at the bottom of antique china cups. He had enough good looks left to make you sorry for his ruined handsomeness.

It struck me that Sadlek was an older version of the same boys I had met at the parties Luke had taken me to. In fact, he reminded me a little of Luke himself, the same sense of unearned privilege.

"Hi yourself, Louis," Mama replied. She had picked Carrington up and was trying to pry the baby's tweezerlike grip from a long curl of her light hair. She looked so pretty with her bright green eyes and her wide smile...it gave me a jolt of unease to see Sadlek's reaction to her.

"Who's this little dumplin1?" he asked, his accent so thick it was nearly devoid of consonants. He reached out to tickle Carrington's plump chin, and she gave him a wet baby-grin. The sight of his finger against the baby's pristine skin made me want to grab Carrington and run without stopping. "You already eaten?" Sadlek asked Mama.

She continued to smile. "Yes, have you?"

"Tight as a tick." he replied, patting the belted jut of his stomach.

Although there wasn't anything remotely clever about what he'd said, Mama astonished me by laughing. She looked at him in a way that sent a creeping sensation down the back of my neck. Her gaze, her posture, the way she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, all of it conveyed an invitation.

I couldn't believe it. Mama knew about his reputation just as I did. She had even made fun of him to me and Miss Marva, saying he was a small-town redneck who thought he was a big shot. She couldn't possibly have been attracted to Sadlek—it was obvious he wasn't good enough for her. But neither was Flip, or any of the other men I had ever seen her with. I puzzled over the common denominator between all of them, the mysterious thing that drew Mama to the wrong men.

In the piney woods of East Texas, pitcher plants attract bugs with an advertisement of bright yellow trumpets and red veins. The trumpets are filled with sweet-smelling juice that insects can't resist. But once a bug crawls into the pitcher, it can't get back out. Sealed in the crisp interior of the pitcher plant, it drowns in sugar water and is consumed. As I looked at Mama and Louis Sadlek, I saw the same alchemy at work, the false advertising, the attraction, the danger ahead.

"Bull-riding's gonna start soon." Sadlek remarked. "I've got a reserved box in the front. Why don't y'all come join me?"

"No. thank you." I said instantly. Mama gave me a warning glance. I knew I was being rude, but I didn't care.

"We'd love to," Mama said. "If you don't mind the baby."

"Hell no. how could I mind a sugar pie like this?" He played with Carrington. flicking the lobe of her ear, making her gurgle and coo.

And Mama, who was usually so critical of people's language, didn't say one word about swearing in front of the baby.

"I don't want to watch the bull-riding," I snapped.

Mama gave an exasperated sigh. "Liberty.. .if you're in a bad mood, don't take it out on everyone else. Why don't you go see if some of your friends are here?"

"Fine. I'll take the baby." I knew at once I shouldn't have said it that way, with a possessive edge to my tone. Had I asked Mama differently, she would have said yes.

As it was, however, she narrowed her eyes and said, "Carrington's fine with me. You go on. I'll see you back here in an hour."

Fuming, I slunk away down the row of stalls. The air was filled with the agreeable twangs and drumbeats of a country band warming up to play at the big canopy-covered dance floor nearby. It was a fine night for dancing. I scowled at the couples who headed toward the tent, their arms slung around each other's waists or shoulders.

I lingered at the vendors' tables, examining jars of preserves, salsas, and barbecue sauces, and T-shirts decorated with embroidery and sequins. I progressed to a jewelry stall, where felt trays were littered with silver charms and glittering silver chains.

The only jewelry I owned was a pair of pearl studs from Mama, and a delicate gold link bracelet Luke had given me for Christmas. Brooding over the selection of charms, I picked up a little figure of a bird inset with turquoise.. .a shape of Texas.. .a steer head.. .a cowboy boot. My attention was caught by a silver armadillo.

Armadillos have always been my favorite animals. They're awful pests, digging trenches through people's yards and burrowing under foundations. They're also as dumb as rocks. The best thing you can say about their appearance is that they're so ugly, they're cute. An armadillo is prehistoric in design, armored with that hard ribbed shell, his tiny head poking out the front as if someone stuck it on as an afterthought. Evolution just plain forgot to do anything about armadillos.