Nothing But Trouble
Beverly Barton
To my dear friend, Jan Celeste Hamilton Powell, whose ability to truly
rejoice with me as well as cry with me keeps our long-standing relationship strong.
And a special thanks to Nancy Sue Elkins and Brenda Hall, friends I can always count on when I need them most.
Contents
Prologue
Tallulah Bishop swung open the door of her one-ton Chevy tow truck, ordered her Great Dane, Solomon, to stay, and grabbed her shotgun off the seat. Jumping down to the ground, she called out a warning to the drunken man a few yards away.
“Cliff Nolan, you let Richie go right now, you hear?”
Holding his young son by the nape of his neck, Cliff turned his head sharply, sneering at Tallie. “Get the hell off my property, you damned nosy do-gooder. This here’s my land and my family. I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”
Richie’s small mongrel dog growled at Cliff, who immediately thrust out his big foot and kicked the animal.
“No, Daddy, don’t. Please don’t hurt Whitey,” Richie cried when he heard his dog yelp in pain.
Tightening his hold on Richie, Cliff swung the boy around several times and tossed him to the ground. Richie reached out for Whitey, circling the dog’s neck with his thin little arms and looking up with tearful, pleading eyes at his staggering father.
“Hell’s toenails,” Tallie muttered to herself, then she shouted out again to Cliff. “Leave Richie and Whitey alone or I’ll shoot you. Do you hear me?”
Cliff Nolan stared at Tallie, his bloodshot hazel eyes half-closed, his thin lips curved into a smirk. “You ain’t nothing but hot air. Always coming around here, putting ideas in my Loretta’s head. She don’t need the likes of you telling her how to be a wife. You wouldn’t know the first thing about being a woman.”
“I know that no man has the right to beat his wife and kids or mistreat his animals.” Tallie took several tentative steps away from the gravel driveway and into the weed-infested yard.
Loretta Nolan crept out onto the porch of her mobile home, her haggard face appearing far older than her twenty-seven years. “Please, Cliff—”
“Shut your trap, woman!” Cliff glared at his wife.
“Best you go, Tallie,” Loretta said.
With his arms wrapped around Whitey’s neck, Richie Nolan crawled away from his father, dragging his dog with him. Shifting his feet in the dust, Cliff turned halfway around, stared down at the escaping twosome and raised his leg.
“No, Daddy, don’t!” Richie shouted just as Cliff’s foot came down on the dog, who yelped in pain.
Lifting his foot again, Cliff kicked at Richie, but missed his target when the boy scooted away. Still holding a trembling, whimpering Whitey, Richie kept pushing himself farther and farther away from his rampaging father.
“This is my last warning, Cliff. Get away from Richie. Now!” Tallie aimed her shotgun.
Cliff Nolan raised his foot. Richie froze in horror when he bumped into the side of the house. Drawing back his leg, Cliff aimed his foot for a kick into Richie’s stomach. Tallie screamed. Cliff turned sharply in her direction. With Whitey in his arms, Richie stood up quickly and ran toward the front porch. Unsteady on his feet, Cliff spun around and bellowed for Richie to stop.
“Leave him alone,” Tallie warned.
“Go to hell!” Cliff said.
Tallulah Bishop pulled the trigger on her shotgun. Birdshot ripped through Cliff’s ragged jeans, splattering across his back, butt and legs. Yelling in pain, Cliff dropped to the ground.
Still clinging to Whitey, Richie flung himself and his dog into his mother’s open arms. Loretta stood on the porch steps, her dark-circled eyes staring at her husband in disbelief.
“Call the sheriff,” Tallie said. “And an ambulance, too. Cliff’s going to need Doc Hall to pick that birdshot out of his butt.”
Nodding in silence, Loretta turned slowly and walked back inside her mobile home. Richie stood on the porch, holding Whitey close to his little chest while tears streamed down his dirt-streaked face.
Tallie supposed she should go over and see if she could help Cliff, who lay on the ground in a heap, his skinny behind sticking straight up in the air while he moaned and groaned and cursed everything from heaven to hell. But Tallie wasn’t inclined to offer either sympathy or assistance. The ambulance would be here soon enough, and it was unlikely that Cliff would bleed to death from birdshot splattered into him from yards away.
The sheriff probably wouldn’t be far behind the ambulance. Even though Lowell Redman didn’t like Cliff any better than she did, he’d have no choice but to arrest her. After all, she had shot a man.
Now she’d have to call Peyton. He’d be madder than a wet hen. He’d warned her the last time she’d had to call him for help that he was tired of bailing her out of one jam after another. But what should she have done, just stood there and allowed Cliff to abuse Richie and Whitey? For over a year, she’d been begging Loretta to take the kids and leave, but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
Tallie knew she’d done something really stupid this time, and whether she wanted to or not, she’d have to ask Peyton to come get her out of jail. And if there was a trial, she’d need him to defend her.
She dreaded facing Peyton far more than she dreaded spending the night in jail. No matter how good her intentions were, she always wound up creating problems for him, and she really didn’t want to cause him any difficulties, especially not now when he was thinking about running for governor. Peyton Rand was a good man and deserved only the best—and the best for him certainly wasn’t Tallie Bishop.
As bad as she hated to admit it, maybe Peyton had been right when he’d told her that she was nothing but trouble.
One
Tallie