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“Before they could kick you out. He never said, but I think that’s why he went hermit on us.”
“Yeah. I tarnished his hero’s image. Dulled his halo something awful.”
“Don’t say things like that. The Major—”
“Go easy on that whiskey.”
“Trapper, he—”
“Great seeing you, Glenn.” He left.
It had become full dark while he was inside, but as he skirted the yard, he managed to get Tracy’s attention and signaled her to meet him at the SUV. When she reached him, she danced a little jig. “I just scored a goal.”
Trapper fist-bumped her. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Sure. I owe you for the toilet thing.”
“Go inside and whisper to Hank that he needs to check on his dad.”
“How come?”
“He’s getting shit-faced.”
She shot him a grin. “I can do that.”
“Be discreet. I don’t want anybody embarrassed.”
“Got it. You can count on me.”
“You know what, Tracy?”
“What?”
“I think I want to marry you.”
The metal on her teeth flashed when she smiled. “You’re as wicked as they say.” Then she fist-bumped him again before dashing off.
As Trapper drove away, he thought how badly he hated tattling on Glenn, the man he’d known since birth, who’d always treated him like a second son.
Because of their shared vocations in law enforcement, Glenn had more in common with Trapper than with Hank, who was idealistic and optimistic, always finding the good in people and situations, never probing gray areas because to people like Hank gray areas didn’t exist.
Trapper had no faith in goodness and light. People and institutions were fallible and undependable. Fate was a cruel bastard. If a situation turned out all right, Trapper figured he’d simply gotten lucky, but his tendency was to expect calamity. As he did now.
Chapter 5
You’re going to love it!” Kerra said. “It’s perfect.”
“I’m envisioning Southfork.”
“No, more low-slung. Ranchy. Not as formal. His living room has a cathedral ceiling, exposed beams, and a natural stone fireplace that I could stand up in. I want to shoot the interview in that room with him seated in his leather recliner.”
Too excited to sit still as she described The Major’s house to her producer, Gracie Lambert, Kerra paced the narrow space between the motel room bed and the bureau.
“Keep talking,” Gracie said. “I’m taking notes. What’s he like?”
“Exactly the way you’d expect. Strong but humble. Kind eyes. He’s been on camera so much, he won’t need any coaching for that, but he and I are having a couple of getting-acquainted sessions. Come Sunday night, we’ll be at ease with each other. The first chitchat is tomorrow morning. I offered to bring doughnuts.”
“Doughnuts, chitchat, when no one else has been able to get near him for years.”
