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Patrick folded the fax neatly in half. “If I were you, Kenneth, I’d be very nice to Lady Emma. Who knows what tales she might tell Francesca.”
But as Kenny looked across the counter into Emma’s solemn eyes, he knew she wouldn’t say one bad thing about him to Dallie’s wife. And somehow that bothered him more than anything else.
Chapter 23
The morning sun formed a corona behind him, this man whose legend was as big as the Texas sky. Although age had dabbed the temples of his dark blond hair with silver and deepened the brackets around his mouth, it hadn’t whittled away at the strength in his tall, lean body or dulled the gleam in those Newman-blue eyes.
A decade earlier, this man and the great Jack Nicklaus had met each other on a course people called the Old Testament and played one of the greatest golf matches in history. On that fateful day Jack Nicklaus had played for the glory of sport, but Dallas Beaudine had played for the heart of the woman he loved . . . and he’d won.
A shoulder injury had temporarily sidelined Dallie, forcing him into the role of acting commissioner, but he was nearly recovered now, his term as commissioner would soon be over, and the senior tour lay ahead of him like a juicy bone waiting to be devoured. First, however, he had some loose ends to tie up. One loose end, in particular.
Morning dew glistened on the toes of Kenny’s golf shoes as he stepped off the path and walked toward the first tee at Windmill Creek. His stomach gave a nervous twist as he saw Dallie standing there, even though he told himself he had no reason to be nervous. The two of them had played hundreds of rounds of golf over the years, beginning when Kenny was a teenager with the most expensive equipment money could buy and no idea how to use it. Dallie had taught him everything. No, Kenny shouldn’t be nervous, but a film of sweat had broken out on his chest.
He hadn’t seen Dallie since the day he’d been suspended, and he hid his sense of betrayal behind a cool nod as he stepped up onto the tee. “Dallie.”
“Kenny.”
Kenny turned to acknowledge the grizzled Jack Palance look-alike sprawled down on the bench with a red bandanna tied around his forehead and a rubber band holding back his thin salt and pepper ponytail. He was Skeet Cooper, the most famous caddy in golf. Skeet and Dallie had hooked up several decades earlier after a brawl at a Texaco station outside Caddo, Texas, when Dallie’d been a fifteen-year-old runaway and Skeet an ex-con with no future. They’d been together ever since.
“You got a caddy?” Dallie asked.
“He’s on his way.” Kenny’s regular caddy, a wizard named Loomis Crebbs, was carrying Mark Calcavecchia’s bag while Kenny was on suspension, and Kenny’d never missed Loomis more than he did right now. Still, he’d found a good substitute.
Clubs rattled behind them. Skeet Cooper rubbed the corner of his mouth
with his thumb and rose from the bench. “Looks like Kenny’s caddy’s here.”
Dallie lifted an eyebrow as his son stepped up on the tee carrying Kenny’s bag.
Ted smiled. “Sorry I’m late. Mom made me eat breakfast. Then she started fussing with my hair, don’t ask me why.”
Dallie took the driver Skeet handed him. “Funny you didn’t mention that you were going to caddy for Kenny today.”
“Must have forgot.” Ted smiled and shifted the bag. “I told Skeet.”
Dallie shot Skeet an annoyed look that didn’t bother Skeet one bit. Kenny gestured toward the tee. “Be my guest. I believe in showing respect for the elderly and the infirm.”
Dallie just smiled. Then he walked over to the tee, swung a couple of times to loosen up, and striped a beautiful drive down the center of the fairway. It was the kind of golf shot Dallie’d cut his teeth on.
Kenny tried to quiet his nerves as he approached the tee, but that film of sweat on his chest wasn’t drying up. He told himself there was no reason to get all agitated about today’s round. Not only did he know every nuance of Dallie’s game, but the residual effects of the older man’s shoulder injury were going to give Kenny a distinct advantage. Even so, his jitters wouldn’t go away because today’s match was about something bigger than a round of golf, and both of them knew it.
Kenny stepped up to the tee, adjusted his stance, and hit a nasty duck hook into the left trees.
Dallie shook his head. “I thought we fixed that when you were eighteen.”
Kenny couldn’t remember the last time he’d hit a shot like that. A fluke, he told himself as they walked off the tee and down the fairway, with their caddies following.
“I hear from Francie that you got married,” Dallie said.
Kenny nodded.
“Simplest thing for you to do, I s’pose.” Dallie chewed the words as if they had a bad taste to them. “Hard for the press to get too riled up about a man defending his bride. Easiest way out.”
Kenny had to struggle to keep his voice even. “Only a person who doesn’t know Emma could say something like that.”
Ted piped up from behind Kenny’s shoulder, “That’s what I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen.” He stepped between them. “The thing is, Dad, Lady Emma’s a lot like Mom once she gets an idea in her head.”
“I doubt that. Your mother refused to marry me until I got my life straightened out. Seems Lady Emma’s not that particular.”
