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He was shocked. He was uncomfortable. He was disturbed.
And he was more affected than he’d like to admit.
“Why are you here,” Betty snapped.
Trent Barker lifted his head and shrugged away from Betty. He glared at Beau, his hands fisted, once more everything inside Beau tightened. He’d stop the man if necessary because there was no way in hell he was going to let him hit his daughter again.
“Who the hell are you?” Trent said aggressively.
Beau had a feeling that if he opened his mouth he would only make the situation worse. He remained where he was, but stayed silent as he watched the inner workings of a family in trouble.
“You come sniffing around for her?” Trent pointed to Betty. “You’re welcome to her. Lost cause is what she is.”
Betty’s grandfather made a clucking sound and spoke, his voice cajoling, as if he was talking to a child.
“Trent, this here is Beau Simon. He used to play for the Giants. Remember?”
“I don’t give a shit about the San Francisco Giants. Baseball is for pussies. Hockey. Now that’s a real sport.”
Beau watched Betty as her grandfather moved toward Trent. She took a step back, out of the way, and something about the set of her shoulders tugged at him. It spelled defeat.
She looked up then—caught his eye—and straightened her shoulders and just like that her face was neutral. No emotion. She was cardboard. Ceramic. She was nothing.
She could have been at the bus stop waiting for a ride, or in line at the market.
That was when he got it.
She was acting. Playing a part. The part of a woman who didn’t care about anything, especially the family that was crumbling around her. But Beau knew better. He’d seen it.
Herschel spoke calmly. “Well, son, he’s here to see Betty and I’ve invited him for dinner.”
“What?” The strangled retort came from Betty. “No. No way.”
“Betty!” Herschel said sharply. “Manners.”
Trent Barker took the opportunity to slide past everyone and he disappeared into the house.
“I’ll deal with him, Gramps. You’ve had enough.” Betty threw Beau a look that spoke volumes—she wanted him gone—and then followed her father into the house.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Herschel said quietly after a few moments.
The old man looked lost, eyes averted as he absently ran his hands through the thick wiry hair beneath his white ball cap.
“It must be hard,” Beau said. “Dealing with all of this.”
“The hardest thing ever.” Herschel tugged on the brim of his cap. “I want you to know he’s a good man. A good son. A good father. This,” he motioned in the air. “What you just saw, a man who would strike his own child? That isn’t Trent.” The old man’s voice shook. “That isn’t my boy.”
“I understand.”
“He’s always been hard on the girls, you know? Losing Chantal at such a young age was tough. Those girls were barely five, but already a handful.”
Herschel sighed. “Maybe he was too hard on them.” He shrugged. “Maybe he did spend too much time with Billie. But he did the best he could and God, he loves those girls. No one can ever take that away from him.”
“Are you sure that she’s alright with him?” Beau had to ask the question because he was a little uncomfortable after what he’d seen.
Herschel cleared his throat and motioned to the house. “He wouldn’t…they’ll be fine.” He finished gruffly. “Now you come with me son, and I’ll get you a nice cold beer. We’ve got chicken for dinner and you can chat with Betty about whatever it is you wanted to talk to her about while I get things ready.”
Beau shook his head. “Sir, you don’t have to go to any trouble. I can come back when she’s…when things are settled.”
