"Welcome home, Pamela. It's good to have you back."
How deeply Emma seethed, when Bobby raised his glass of wine in celebration of John Ross and Pamela's reconciliation, did not fall unnoticed around the Southfork dinner table. Thankfully, however, none were intuitive enough to comprehend why Emma had become so invested in the potential for divorce. The blonde-bombshell only became more furious, after John Ross excused himself from the table and beckoned Pamela to follow his not-so-subtle lead. "Thank God that's over," he immediately started to unbutton his shirt, relieved to have escaped Emma's glare unharmed. "Now, I have you all to myself..." Bobby and Ann had bombarded Pamela with the welcome-wagon since her return to Southfork.
Pamela, unsatisfyingly, brushed her husband's advances off. "Emma wasn't very discrete at dinner." John Ross internally groaned; he had hoped his wife would overlook Emma's reckless behaviour. "Bobby and Christopher were suspicious and Ann isn't stupid. It won't be long until they put two and two together." Emma's relentless, unashamed eye contact had unnerved Pamela - though, she wouldn't dare admit as much - and it was predominantly because the young woman was so volatile. Pamela would even describe Emma as unpredictable.
"Buzz-kill," her husband whined, his lips pursed into a pout. His complaint only provoked further seriousness from Pamela and he moaned, frustrated in all kind of ways. "Emma's pissed, she'll get over it. We just need to wait her out. The minute she gets under your skin, she's won."
Reluctantly, Pamela accepted his advice and switched the topic of conversation. "It's weird your mom didn't make dinner. She promised to be here."
"Yeah," John Ross displayed an aura of genuine concern, as he wrapped his arms tenderly around her waist, "I'm worried about her." His mother had undergone a subtle transformation but it was definitive. He still hadn't pinpointed the extent of her relapse, in the wake of his father's death. "Did she seem herself when you stayed with her?" Pamela regretfully shook her head, a sombre expression to match the one that decorated his features. There was no concrete evidence but Pamela was convinced her mother-in-law had been under the influence. "I need to sit down with her. We haven't had a real conversation since J.R. died," he admitted. "Let's drop in tomorrow, after we book that vacation I promised you."
"Oh, yeah?" Pamela bit into her smile, as he softly nibbled on her earlobe.
"Oh, yeah!" He chuckled, as they mutually removed each other's clothing and fell onto the bed, in the midst of an embrace.
Pamela awoke abruptly in the middle of the night, dehydrated, and untwined her body from John Ross' arms. Southfork didn't ever seem to really sleep, even at 3am; it was the direct of Sue Ellen's home, which was a heavenly oasis of calm. With only her husband's shirt for loose modesty, Pamela scoured Southfork's refrigerator for a bottle of ice-water and devoured half of its contents, before the click of heels became louder with every unsteady step. Her heart sank, as a blonde man entered view and Emma stumbled into the kitchen. "Well, well, well... if it isn't Mrs. Brady." Her love-rival visibly appraised her flaunted figure and Emma positioned her body against the kitchen island - seductively, in her mind, yet not so well executed in reality. "Jealousy isn't an attractive colour on you."
Pamela could hear the slur in her words and practically feel the fuzziness in her vision. She choked on her own laughter, "... and desperation isn't attractive on anyone."
"He'll never stay faithful, he isn't capable of loyalty." Emma bit back, provoked by the remark. "He doesn't love you. He doesn't know how to love anyone, except maybe himself. You should've clawed your way out, when you had the chance."
"... and let you suffer him, all alone?" A sarcasm enveloped Pamela's words, as she shook her head, "No, I would never leave you to contend with him. After all, us women need to stick together, Em." She positioned herself inches from the childlike woman in front of her, "I may not have called you out in front of the whole family for the affair but that doesn't mean you're home-free. Don't mistake my discretion for weakness. My husband and I own half of this ranch, and I could have you booted off in a heartbeat. The only reason you remain here is because I have too much love and respect for Ann to break her heart with the truth about the little slut she abandoned!" Emma flinched, affected by the mention of her traumatic childhood. "My restraint, however, has its limits; cross me again, and I won't be so kind."
Emma wallowed even deeper in the lethal cocktail of alcohol and prescription medication. "You'll never be one of them." There was spite in her tone, as she coddled Pamela's deepest fear. "They'll never trust you, especially him. He already has so many secrets from you." Pamela's paranoia rose and Emma revelled in the power. "Your husband is quite the chatterbox, especially in bed."
Pamela, uncharacteristically, recoiled from the opportunity of confrontation. "Go bore someone else with your lies, Emma."
"My mistake," Emma nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders, as her nemesis started to leave. "I thought you would have interested in your father's innocence."
"My father has never been innocent," Pamela span on her heels, provoked. Emma received a rush of excitement, only enhanced by the chemical buzz that pulsated through her body. "He murdered J.R. and my babies." The pain of the loss was miles beyond the pain Pamela experienced by the absence of her father's love. The children had been her purest creation, in spite of the destruction she lay upon the Ewing family.
"You have no proof," the blonde dismissively sniggered. "All you have is John Ross' word."
"Roy Vickers confessed, off-the-record," Pamela passionately bit back. "My father instructed him to activate the explosion that killed my children."
"Maybe so," Emma conceded, unconcerned by whatever crimes the Barnes patriarch had actually committed. "But I didn't mean the explosion." A devilish smirk ensured Pamela latched on with full attention. "Clearly, your father didn't care for your life or the lives of your children but he does treasure his own. He's not a stupid man and he's never received punishment for his crimes before. If Cliff had shot J.R., he would have ensured his freedom." There was the slightest hint of logic and sanity in Emma's point, so much so that even Pamela found it hard to deny its believability... but, deny she did.
"John Ross would never lie to me," she defiantly shook her head, ever-faithful, and Emma rolled her eyes. "Not about that. Not about my father." Her husband was flawed, in so many dysfunctional ways, but he didn't have the same capacity for cruelty as his father, or hers. The evidence was undeniable and, whether he had become his father's son or not, John Ross didn't have that kind of clout or alliance with the Mexican authorities. "If my father didn't kill J.R., who did?" She flipped the accusation and Emma visibly balked at the question; it had been the one piece of information John Ross neglected to share, no matter how hard she worked to tease it out of him. "Sleep it off, sweetheart," Pamela regained confidence, as Emma swayed back and forth, her body embarking on the inevitable comedown. "Tomorrow, you can look for your own place. I want you off this ranch," she strutted from the kitchen, "Within the week!"
The morning dawn invaded the bedrooms on the east-facing side of the house and Pamela squinted her eyes in defence of the suns intrusion. Her body rolled backward and instantly acknowledged the absence of her husband. The drip of the shower could be heard and Pamela climbed from the bed, with the best of intention to surprise him but the letter on his bedside table attracted her attention. It had quarter-fold marks and the calligraphy of the words suggested it had been written by an old hand, which was confirmed by J.R.'s signature.
When you've done that, Bobby will know what to do. Remember, you're my son. Tip to tail.
"J.R. left letters for everyone," her husband's voice caused Pamela's steady heartbeat to quicken and her hands immediately loosened, which allowed the letter to fall to the floor. Her cheeks reddened, as John Ross appeared unbothered and scooped the treasured keepsake from the floor. "Me, uncle Bobby, my mother..." he appeared melancholic at the recollection of his mother's letter and the reaction it had evoked from her. "Guess my father did do sentiment, after all."
"I'm sorry," Pamela apologised, when he folded the letter with dampened hands and folded it into a square. "I didn't mean to invade your privacy."
"Babe, it's okay. We're married now," he chuckled. "What's mine is yours." He handled the letter with extreme care and tucked it into a safe space. "This letter means a lot to me. It was my father's last words; it was the only way he could tell me how much he loved me and how proud he was."
"What did he mean when he said Bobby will know what to do?" Pamela's intrigue spilled over and his throat visibly clamped up. His brain scrambled for an appropriate response. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry," she patted her husband's torso, the lower half of his body wrapped in a white towel, and tenderly kissed his lips. "Let me shower. Then, we can have brunch, check in with your mom and pick out some vacation brochures."
"Perfect," John Ross agreed, as his wife disappeared into the en-suite. He composed himself and pondered the repercussions if his wife were ever to discover the truth; it would be the Barnes-Ewing third generation feud and would damn them all into an eternal hell.
