Survival

Reception

Chapter 9

The reception was a beehive of activity. There were probably one hundred and fifty people there, and what seemed like a large catering staff as well.

He cleared his throat. "Will you save a dance for me? Preferably a slower one?"

She gave him a private smile. "Of course."

"Maybe some time alone, later?"

Now the smile softened, searching. "Maybe. Will we aim to misbehave?"

He had heard that somewhere before.

"You got me."

"Show on TV called Firefly. Didn't make it a season. Some really good writing."

"Oh. I like the notion, though."

The brilliant smile was back. "Yeah, me, too. Fucking says it all."

The large tent was set up with tables, and a smaller area for dancing at one end. He escorted her to a table. He knew the prettiest girl in the, er, tent was with him—and then Cady came up. She was turned out impeccably in a blue-print silk blouse and navy skirt, which contrasted nicely with her hair. She was as equally beautiful in his eyes, but in that special way which fathers cherish.

"Hi, Dad! Don't you both look nice!"

"Thanks—so do you, Punk."

"Gonna get some serious exercise out there, and eat a bunch. Ruby says to remind you you're going to play at least a couple of songs."

Vic looked to him questioningly. He jerked his head in acknowledgment.

There were the inevitable announcements, spoons on glasses for kisses, Best Man speech, the cake cutting, lots of eating, and about dusk—the band began to play a waltz of all things. It was the kickoff of the dancing, the Dad and daughter waltz. Janine and her dad went to the floor together. He gauged his chances at getting another waltz later, and acted immediately.

"I think I could manage this," Walt said, watching several couples who were waltzing around. "Is too old-fashioned for you?"

She snorted and gave him a troubled look. "Nooo," she said, as though she was a little offended to be asked that.

She however, performed a very correct waltz as they might teach at dancing school, standing straight, their bodies not touching except where his hands touched hers. It made him wonder if she ever had waltzed outside of lessons. He had thought, maybe even hoped, that she might interpret it as more of a slow dance. Their conversation continued during the dance.

"What will you be playing?"

"Uh—the usual, boogie-woogie."

"Really?" she asked. "Why?"

"It's what I like," he confessed, but now worried that she wouldn't.

"I had no idea! Well, as you've said, you're full of surprises."

He could only think, no, she really had an idea… She had been the only one able to 'read' him, for a long time, maybe any time…Even Martha had not, really…

The waltz ended and he escorted her back to their table, only to see Omar Rhoades approaching. Walt found himself scowling, not happy about that at all. Omar had a look like he'd already celebrated with a few whiskeys.

"Vicky!" he shouted, as though cornering her in the woods. "Would you do me the honor of the next dance?"

Walt couldn't very well say anything. He'd made no claims on her. Omar led her away triumphantly.

Ruby sat down next to him. She gave him a look.

"Might be good timing for some boogie-woogie," she said nonchalantly.

He stared at her. "Am I that transparent?"

"And then some. Sal's ready and waiting, if you are."

"I guess I am, then."

"Also, I switched up a few things. Lucian's doing dispatch for a while this evening so Ferg can have some time here."

"Glad Ferg can have part of the evening, anyway. He'd miss the dancing. Lucian would only bellyache about the dog and pony show, and maybe make a scene."

He stood up, glad to have something to do with his hands besides beating Omar to a pulp. He still hadn't forgiven him for getting Vic shot with the tranquilizer and Henry hurt in the elk trap, but his friend was still that, a good friend, which is why he said nothing. He figured Vic would set Omar straight if he crossed any lines.

The piano was a keyboard, and he began to navigate it experimentally, but it was forgiving and played easy. He started with a couple of wedding classics Sal had suggested. By the end of the third tune he signaled Sal, and began pounding out some Fats Waller.

Still on the dance floor with Vic, Omar looked startled, but apparently took up the challenge, tugging Vic back into his lead. She, on the other hand, appeared fascinated by her boss' transformation into a Rock Star of sorts on the stage, but got into the spirit of things. Cady was dancing with Ferg. Walt wasn't sure when he'd arrived, but Walt tried to do justice to the tune so he and Cady could enjoy the ride.

He made the bridge and was going back into the melody, when an uncomfortably familiar form sat next to him. He could smell the familiar perfume without looking at her.

"I've forgiven you," said Lizzie as she scooted closer on his right, hair carefully styled in more elaborate braids than Vic's, wearing a spectacular southwestern outfit complete with the exquisite Navajo needlepoint jewelry she favored. She looked good, but… "I knew you were going through a lot when Cady got hurt. You had the election and everything, besides, and then later, the awful thing about your wife..."

He didn't break concentration and began to bring the tune home…

"I can see you brought the JV tonight. If you get tired of that, we were good together, Walt. If you want more, you know where to find it."

He did want it, but it wasn't with Lizzie. He finished with a flourish.

And then Ruby was moving toward him, waving her phone.

"Lucian's got a call from Doug Framer. His stud hog, his foundation stock, has disappeared."

Walt pursed his lips. Technically, it should be Ferg who went, but Lizzie had effectively killed his interest in the keyboards, and the music had switched to something slow and sultry, and Vic was now dancing with—Branch? No, that would definitely not do. Branch was still in therapy, and as far as he knew, not dating anyone, but neither were attached, and he had a sinking feeling about the rest of the evening following suit with a string of Vic-admirers. He didn't think but a moment about it—he'd rather leave than watch that transpire.

"I'll take care of it," he said gruffly, his earlier delight in the evening having abruptly abated, with seeing Vic swarmed over, the demands on him to play and make nice with his constituents and the increasingly tight necktie.

He went directly to the Bronco, grabbed his bag and changed in the Mens' room in the church. He saw only a couple of men he didn't know. The Johnson groom's family, probably. In deference to the warm evening, he left his jacket there, and pinned his star to his shirt. His hat was, of course, in the truck, he could add that on his way.

In his comfortable clothes, began to make his way to the other side of the tent, to let Vic know he was going. He heard a noise to the side of him, and there was Vic, holding a parasol-ed drink, shouldering her way through the crowd in her best law enforcement fashion, a statement in itself, since her sundress rode up her legs and her boots weren't as effective as duty boots. Face a little flushed from the exercise, the heat, or the alcohol, he didn't know, or care. She was breathtaking.

"Walt! What's wrong? Where are you going?"

"Dispatch, Framer farm. His stud hog has disappeared."

"Really? A livestock call—after hours? I thought—I thought we might have some time together—later." Her eyes bored into his, the tarnished gold glittering reflecting the fairy lights hung in the tent. "Isn't Ferg on duty, tonight?"

"Ruby rearranged a couple of things so Ferg could spend some time here. I'll take the call."

"But, why? Did I do something wrong?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "I thought…later…"

"I do. Want to spend time together. This just doesn't seem to be the time, or the place."

She watched him, considering. He got the feeling she always evaluated as much of what he did not say as much of what he did say. Then, "Well, okay. I can change. I have everything in my truck."

"No time, he's worried that someone's made off with the hog. I'm leaving now."

"Fuck it, fuck this," she said, depositing her drink on a nearby table. "I'll come with you," she said, tugging on his hand. "It will undoubtedly be more fun than staying here without you and getting hit on all evening."

His heart beat a little faster at the first part of that pronouncement. Both parts, really. He'd rather have her company than imagine her being vied for all evening by a bevy of suitors.

When they got to the trucks, she hauled her Go Bag from hers and dropped it into the backseat of the Bronco. "Just in case, for later," she explained. She clambered into the Bronco. The little white boots had better purchase than the stilettos she had worn for her divorce party a few months back.

"Out of uniform and unarmed, Deputy."

"Not exactly unarmed…" She turned, grabbed for her Go Bag, and unzipped it. She had her duty belt with her, including the Glock, unloaded and safety on. "You sure you don't want me to change in the backseat? It'll just take me a couple of minutes."

"Could—you just stay as you are but keep me company? I sure like you looking like this. Besides, it's probably a false alarm, or the hog is asleep or just wandering around."

"Well…okay. If you don't think the county will cite me for inappropriate attire on duty."

"I'd be the one citing you, anyway, and as far as I'm concerned, you aren't on duty."

"Okay," she said, but he could tell she was still reluctant.

"Tell you what," he said, "if we get there, and it warrants it, you can change in the backseat."

"It's not as easy as when you change clothes—my bra's in my bag—this sundress has a built-in support. I'll have to wriggle in and out for both of them. It'll take me a few minutes."

He couldn't answer that, mouth momentarily dry. Lucky sundress, his traitorous body thought…lucky bra…

At least the ligature-producing tie was off, and he could sneak his fill of glances without every man in Durant ogling her. As the Bronco ate up the miles, he enjoyed the view to his right, hoping there might be more to see later in the evening.

She revealed a bandana full of treats she had filched from the reception, and fished bottles of water from the backseat. The remaining possibility of a later was still worth anticipation, even weighed against the unexpected duty call.