"Well, butter my backside and call me a biscuit, is that Richard Edgar Castle I see with my own two eyes?"
The writer tears his gaze from Beckett, curious eyes landing on this new development—a fair-featured fortysomething woman with almond brown eyes and lustrous brunette hair.
With a low ponytail tied by a turquoise bow and middle-parted bangs sweeping out from beneath a white cowboy hat, the writer is reminded of Belle from Beauty and the Beast if she had decided to travel West and become a cowgirl (a cowbelle, heh).
But instead of a dress, the woman wears a pair of faded Levi jeans and a threadbare white linen blouse covered by a blue patchwork apron and from her fraying pant hems, white cowboy boots peek out.
"Um, in the flesh?" Castle says cautiously, sharing a quizzical look with Kate, who frowns and shrugs as she rises to her feet.
The woman sets down a box on the counter with a thunk and wipes her hands on her apron.
"As I live and breathe," she says in a Southern twang, awed, as she deliberately steps over Rogan and sticks her hand out. "Beatrice Potts, but you can call me—"
"Auntie Bea," Rogan moans loudly.
"Quit your moanin', nephew," Bea says with an exasperated roll of her eyes.
"Think my nose is broken," Rogan groans.
"'Bout time someone socked it to ya," Bea says, unsympathetic. "Your handiwork?" she asks in Beckett's direction.
"Uh, yeah?" Beckett replies tentatively with a contrite grimace, suddenly embarrassed.
Bea waves her off. "I'm sure he said or did something to deserve it. I'dda hit him myself sooner, but I'm a good Christian woman and I don't believe in corporal punishment." A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as Rogan tries to sit up with a loud wail. "Much."
She bends down to inspect his injury, gingerly assessing his askew nose with skillful fingers.
"My kid sister down in Lubbock sent him to me for the summer to help straighten him out, but he's a magnet for trouble. Chip off the ole block. Just like his father, the no-good dirty rotten scoundrel."
"Ow!" Rogan cries as she flicks his cheek and stands.
"You'll be fine," she tuts. "Just need some ice and I'll reset it."
Off the writer's questioning look, she provides, "I'm the closest thing to a doctor 'round these parts. Town vet and owner of this shop," she says, hands mounting her hips in a proud stance. His fingers itch for his Moleskine.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ma'am," Castle says, tipping his hat.
"Pleasure is all mine," she says suggestively, openly checking him out from top to bottom. "And please, it's Bea. Ma'am makes me feel mighty old and I'll have you know there's still plenty of gas left in this canister."
He chuckles nervously. "I don't doubt it." He glances at Beckett, only to find her suppressing a laugh with fingers over her mouth. Okay, yeah. He didn't imagine it. Bea is definitely hitting on him. His face flushes with heat.
"My knitting gals aren't gonna believe this. We're all huge fans. I actually run your fan website, His Ladies—"
"—In-Waiting? That's you? Shut the front door! Are you CastleFreak1212 or CastleLover45?"
"CastleQueen333," she replies with a wide grin. "Because three—"
"—is my favorite number! You read my profile in the New York Ledger?" he says. She really is a fan. So cool. Maybe she'll be amenable to answering any of the five hundred questions that are currently ricocheting around his mind. First one being—what is someone like her doing in an out of the way place like this?
"Oh, I've read every single one of your interviews. The gals and I think you're much better than that Patterson fellow. Cuter, too." Her eyes unabashedly rove over him again. "Much cuter."
"You're too kind," he says, preening, as Beckett executes her own exasperated eye roll. What? He's a hot commodity to some people.
"We simply love how the just are rewarded and the wicked are punished in your book." Rogan snivels and her expression sours. "Speaking of, why don't you get up off your hindquarters and grab an ice pack for this sweet peach. I'm sure her hand hurts something fierce after encounterin' your cinderblock of a head."
Rogan grumbles, hand to his nose, as he struggles to right himself.
"You must be the girlfriend," Bea says, ignoring him and focusing on Beckett. "Kyra, right?"
"Oh, uh—"
"Kate, actually," Castle intervenes quickly, "Kyra and I are no longer together."
"I see." Bea crosses her arms in assessment. Gestures between him and Beckett. "So are you two together, then?"
He keeps his mouth shut this time, lest Beckett decides more corporal punishment is in order.
"We're, uh, traveling together. Just road trip buddies," she answers.
Back to buddies? Ouch.
"Uh huh," Bea says, unconvinced. "Does this mean you're back on the market?" she directs at him.
"Oh, uh…" He rubs the back of his neck. Cheats a glance at Beckett. But she's pointedly staring at a spot on the floor. Right. Just road trip buddies. "I suppose."
"You suppose?" Bea challenges, amused.
He's stupidly grateful for the interruption when Rogan shouts, "Auntie Bea, I'm bleedin!"
Sure enough, blood trickles out from the ends of both his nostrils.
Bea sighs in resignation.
"Can you excuse me one moment?"
"Congratulations are in order, Mrs. O'Leary. The Drive-Thru of Love confirms you and your beloved hubby did indeed tie the knot at their oh so fine establishment," Castle says, snapping his cell closed.
"Do you want me to break your nose, too?" she huffs, lighting her cigarette, her right hand wrapped in a layer of gauze, a small ice packet trapped to her skin. She and the writer are outside. A hand-painted sign above them reads Bea's Bonnet.
"Sorry. But you have to admit it's a little funny."
She blows a concentrated cloud of smoke toward his face in response. He fails to duck in time and accidentally inhales a mouthful. A satisfied smile curls at her lips as he erupts into a fit of coughs. Not so funny now, is it?
"I just can't believe I've been traveling with a married woman," he says, after bumping his chest clear. "Oh my god, does this make me the mistress? How could you?"
"Again, we are not sleeping together."
"Semantics," he says blithely, plucking her cigarette from her fingers and taking a pull.
"Hey!" she protests, snatching it back. "Get your own, jackass."
"Hey!" he echoes. "I'm a wiseass, not a jackass."
"I didn't know there was a difference," she deadpans. Then, sly, "I don't think your Ladies-In-Waiting would approve of such behavior."
"Oh, ha ha. Here it comes. Let's hear it. Get it all out now," he says, motioning his hands in a hit me with it gesture.
"You should've seen yourself in there!" She cackles gleefully. "You were about to get down on one knee. Tell me, when can I expect an invite to your nuptials? Are you thinking of registering at Barnyard R Us? I'll make sure to get three of everything." She bats her eyes theatrically. Puts on a high, Southern falsetto. "Oh, Mr. Castle, could you sign my chest?"
"You are ridiculous."
"You know, I've never understood May-December relationships, but I think you two crazy kids can make it."
"Look, I'm not gonna deny she's an attractive woman, but I draw the line at people the same age as my mother."
"You're just afraid she's gonna boil your bunny."
"You think she's gonna Fatal Attraction me? She's my number one fan. It's clearly a Misery plot waiting to happen. She's gonna crush my ankles with a sledgehammer and force me to finish my novel, all the while imprisoning me in an isolated cabin for months on end, no hope of rescue," he says, dramatically staring off into the distance.
She snorts a laugh.
"Don't worry, Castle. I'd get you out."
"You would?"
"No road trip partner left behind, right?"
She offers him her cigarette. A silent truce. He takes it, smiling around the stick of nicotine as he inhales, blue eyes shimmering with soft affection. Shit. He really needs to stop looking at her like that.
He exhales. "Not just a buddy, then?"
Okay, yeah. She didn't imagine it. Her earlier statement had hurt him. What was she supposed to say? They're not together. Not like that. Not yet.
Woah, not yet?
"Castle," she sighs helplessly. So not the time for this conversation. He wants to talk about what they are to each other? She's technically married to someone else.
Like always, he does that thing where he seems to read her mind; picks up on what she's not saying. He hands her the cigarette back, not pushing further. Conceding. And steers them into more neutral territory with a nod at her new injury.
"How's the hand?" he asks. "That was one hell of a punch."
She smiles.
"Numb. Think the ice pack has done it's job."
"Can I—?" he asks, motioning at the clip holding her gauze together.
She nods and lets him unfurl the material, slow and careful. The ice packet slips into his palm and his examining fingers delicately brush the surface of her reddened skin. The way he touches her, so sweet and tender, makes her heart twist painfully and she desperately wishes things could be different. Wishes she could say the things she wants to say.
No one's shown up for her again and again like he has. And yes. He's hurt her. Deeply. But he's made up for it—shown her his dark corners, laid himself bare in return. And this...connection they have, this inexplicable bond, it's something more than friendship. She knows that. Something much more. But she's afraid to name or define it.
Especially with the reemergence of both their exes, ghosts from the past, suddenly haunting them in the present.
Being mistaken for Kyra serves as a harsh reminder that the writer's break-up is still fresh. Not even a week old. And yes, he threw her ring in the Grand Canyon. But does that really mean he's over her? They were together three years. She's known him for just over three days. How the hell is she supposed to compete with that?
Though the more pressing issue at the moment is her ex. If you can call him that. A more accurate description would be the drunken mistake she made during Spring Break.
She flexes her fingers and Castle retracts his touch. She briefly mourns the loss of contact.
"And?" he asks.
"Better."
An awkward silence stipples between them.
Castle sticks his hands into his pants pockets and rocks back on his heels.
"Sooo, what's next?" he ventures. "How do we break you out of marriage jail?"
"You've already done more than enough. It's not your problem to fix."
"Nonsense. We're partners. If you have a problem, that means we have a problem."
Her heart leaps, and she has to fight the impulse to kiss him. She puts her lips to her cigarette, the next best thing.
"You know what, I'll call my lawyer up."
"You have a lawyer?"
"I've got a guy for everything, Beckett," he boasts. Pauses. Lifts a provoking eyebrow. "Unless you wanna call your dad."
God-fucking-damnit.
"Okay, so the good news is you don't have to go back to the state that issued your marriage license. You can file in the state where you or your spouse meet the residency requirement," Castle says, walking into Bea's living room. Or was it Auntie Bea now?
Bea's small, one-story clapboard house with a wraparound porch sits in an unkempt field behind the shop, dead grass and weeds sprouting along the path to the front door. Despite its worn appearance, the place is tidy, clean, and well-kept. Homey and eclectic with kitschy knick knacks scattered about (horse figurines mostly).
All the windows and doors have been thrown open to let the late afternoon breeze filter through and circulate around the space. The living room is decorated with yellow wallpaper that has white daisies on it and dried-out flowers in scores of mismatching and misshapen vases claim any empty surface (likely scrounged from various yard sales). The effect of it all makes Kate feel like she's in sunny meadow.
Bea pours sweet iced tea into tall glasses filled with ice cubes, while a disgruntled Rogan throws himself into one of the oversized chairs with a flowery print, his nose bandaged with white strips of medical tape and bits of cotton stuffed into his nostrils. The writer joins her on the comfy brown couch with overstuffed cushions.
"And since Rogan meets the residency requirement for Texas, you can get granted a no-fault divorce with an Original Petition."
"No-fault?" Kate asks as she accepts the glass of iced-tea Bea hands her, smiling in thanks.
"It basically means your marriage has become—" Castle flips a page in his red Moleskine, "...insupportable because of discord or conflict of personalities that prevents any reasonable expectation of reconciliation."
"I'd say there's a definite conflict of personalities," Beckett says flatly, sipping from her drink. Oh, wow. It tastes amazing. Like nectar of the gods.
Bea chuckles warmly. "I know you won't be my niece for much longer, but you're already my favorite."
"That's not saying much. You're technically her only niece. All my cousins are boys," Rogan says.
Bea doesn't seem to have children of her own, but Kate's learned she's the eldest of three. There's Gene, her younger brother. And LeAnn (Rogan's mother), the baby.
The older woman frowns at her nephew. "You're one to talk. As if you could hold a candle to Gene's boys. You're more crooked than a barrel of snakes. Practically forcin' this beautiful angel into an unholy union with you. You should be glad your nose is the only thing she broke."
Her new favorite aunt huffs, wiping her damp fingers on a hand towel stuffed in the waistband of her jeans.
"You'll have to excuse him. He doesn't think before he speaks, you know. Or as I like to say, porch light's on but no one's home."
"Porch light…no one home," Castle mutters as he scribbles on a fresh page in his Moleskine.
"What are you doing?" Kate asks, bemused.
"What do you think? She's a goldmine!" He angles toward Bea. "What was the other one? Crooked snakes?"
"More crooked than a barrel of snakes," Bea says, pleased as punch. "If you like that, I got plenty more."
"I'd love to bend your ear later," Castle says, all moony-faced. He certainly has a thing for strong women, doesn't he?
"You can bend anything you like," Bea says with a flirtatious wink.
Kate doesn't know whether to laugh or barf. She chooses the former, a half-muffled snort, which draws the writer's attention back to her, his cheeks a deep shade of scarlet.
"So, um…"
"You gave me the good news," she recaps, holding back another laugh. "Does that mean there's bad news?"
"Uh, yeah. Bad news is there's a mandatory 60-day waiting period to file."
Her urge to laugh evaporates.
"You're kidding. There's no way to expedite it?"
"Not if you're set on divorce."
"Why wouldn't I be set on divorce?"
"You could go for an annulment," he says. And then, reading from his notebook, "A court has the ability to annul a marriage if one of the parties was under the influence of alcohol, drugs, or other narcotics at the time of the marriage."
"Why didn't you lead with that?"
"Because it's fun to watch you squirm." He grins, devilish. She glowers at him and he quickly sobers. "And because the person who wishes to annul the marriage must be able to prove they were under the influence at the time. Do you have photos or anything?"
They both look at Rogan expectantly.
"No, I don't. I'm sorry."
But there's something about his tone and the way he's not meeting her eye that tells her there's more to the story.
She springs from the couch and approaches him, gaze narrowed in shrewd scrutiny. Rogan cowers into the corner of his chair. Oh, yeah. He's definitely hiding something. She can feel it in her gut.
"You're lying," she accuses. Then, before he can retreat further, she's grabbing his ear, twisting it and demanding, "Tell me the truth."
"Ow, ow, ow!"
"Freakishly strong, right?" Castle calls out.
"Okay, okay, I might have something!" Rogan yells. "Stop!"
She lets go.
He holds up his hands in defense.
"We bought the video package," he confesses in a rush. "There's a tape."
She instinctively looks back at the writer to share in the discovery; this break in the case. His eyes are lit up in excitement, and without missing a beat, they both ask,
"Where is it?"
"I told you no good ever comes of dealing with those Camelot boys," Bea huffs.
"Camelot boys?" Castle asks, intrigued.
"The Camelot. It's a biker bar off the next exit. Whole crew of motorheads sit on their asses all day and fancy themselves the Knights of the Round Table. More like the Nitwits of the Round Table. I said betting on the bulls was a bunch of bull." Bea stalks toward Rogan, a tigress. "But you couldn't help yourself, could you? How much?"
Rogan reluctantly holds up four fingers.
"Hundred?"
He shakes his head, morose.
"Thousand?!" Bea exclaims.
He nods, having the decency to look ashamed.
Bea clutches a hand to her chest. "Boy, I may just bring out the switch yet. You're gonna put me out of business. We're barely hanging on as it is. People don't stop this way like they used to."
"Hold on. Are you saying these Camelot people have the tape? Why would they have it?" Beckett asks.
"They took all my electronics as collateral. The video was in the VHS," Rogan mumbles.
"So going in and asking nicely is out of the question, I'm guessing," Castle says.
"Certainly not dressed like that," Bea says, nodding at their plain shirt and jean ensembles. "They've got a code of conduct. Won't let anyone past the door unless they're gussied up in proper attire."
Her eyes twinkle with mischief.
"Lucky for you, I've got just the thing."
xxx
A/N: So thrilled y'all got a huge kick out of the last chapter—thank you for showering me with your pretty adjectives. I loved hearing what your favorite parts were (it helps to know what resonates), and I'm delighted you love Dr. Carter as much as I do.
And you bet your britches, I'm gonna milk this annulment plot a bit longer. But I promise you the payoff will be worth it and the next installment is going to blow your socks off (I really think I outdid myself)—I took a lot of inspiration from Once Upon A Time in the West and there may or may not be a duel involved ;)
Coming soon (yes, it'll be a longer update)—True Love's Kiss