Chapter 2

"Hey, handsome... want a booth or a table?"

The friendly woman's voice brought Ryan back to his senses. He'd allowed his mind to wander a long way afield while he waited for the hostess to seat him. He was preoccupied a lot these days. He looked forward to getting his mind back. Not having himself under control bothered him.

"Oh... whatever," he replied, not caring in the least if he sat in a café booth or at a table. "How about some place near a window where I can see out, but where it's quiet too?"

"Sure," the short, rotund waitress shot back cheerfully. "Let's go... over this way."

Ryan followed her to a sunlight booth against the rear wall beyond the big group of regular customers and separated from them by a chest-high partition.

"Can I get ya some coffee, honey?" she asked while Ryan folded his 6 feet, 1inch frame into the constricted space between the tabletop and unmoving bench seat. It was tight for a big man getting in, but once there, the table was at a convenient height and a good distance from his body for eating or working on his laptop.

"Black, hot, and lots of it," Ryan returned.

The hostess/waitress smiled. Not that they had any of the designer brews here, but she didn't even like being asked for a "cappuccino" or the like. It made her wonder just how much of a man a guy could be to want to drink something with a name like that. Her approval showed in her eyes.

While she filled the insulated pitcher back at the counter, she let her eyes rest on the big man who'd begun coming in every morning and evening last Thursday. He owned a small construction company, she'd learned--one that specialized in minor renovations, interior remodeling, and some building restorations. He dressed well and usually in a tailored business suit, but his strong hands were callused. This man had worked hard with his hands in the past, and most likely still did on occasion. Yesterday morning, Sunday, he'd came in with blue jeans and a work shirt on that had seen a lot of use.

"What can I get ya this morning, sugar," she asked after pouring her customer his first cup. She put the pitcher on the table close enough for him to reach out with his long arms and far enough from his hands to not be in the way. He smiled his appreciation.

"Orange juice, western omelet, hash browns, biscuits, and a side of ham?" he answered, pointing at menu item number six. She'd expected that. His order hadn't changed the last three mornings. She took the refolded menu from his hands after writing up his order.

"Comin' right up," she told him and walked away. She'd love to stay and chat with the man. The more she saw of him, the more she realized how much she liked his clear blue eyes, the strong chin, and... well, he looked like he was a hunk under those clothes. She wondered... and then she made herself cut off that line of thought. She was seeing Fred... had been for near a year now... and she didn't want to get sidetracked. He was too young for her anyway.

Ryan watched her slide the check with his order under the spring clip on the shiny metal order wheel and spin it around so the cook could see it. The cook nodded his understanding he had a new order. The hostess rushed off to greet more customers.

The line was getting longer. It looked like most of the little town had decided to not cook their own breakfast this early Monday morning.

There was a rising buzz of affable conversation, punctuated with the sounds of pieces of crockery being bumped against each other and the occasional peal of laughter. The smells of cooking eggs, bacon and sausage, biscuits, and cinnamon rolls emanating from the kitchen was making him salivate.

Ryan smiled. He liked it here, and he was beginning to like the cheerful, pleasant waitress a lot. She seemed to typify the folks in this small town... a village really. There probably weren't five hundred souls in the whole place. Most of the people he'd seen here so far were a lot like the waitress... reserved at first... outgoing and friendly once she got to know you. Yesterday, Sunday, she'd sat down across the table from him and chatted with him for twenty minutes in a slow period. It had impressed Ryan no end.

There was a crowd of people trying to get seated now. It was early, but folks in rural parts of Texas still started their days early to avoid the heat of the day. It probably wasn't necessary anymore, and there would be even less justification once Ryan's crew upgraded the air conditioning in the old courthouse, but it was a thing their parents and grandparents had done. In the absence of any really good reason to change, they kept on as they always had.

Only fifty miles or so outside of San Antonio... a metropolitan area with 1.5 million citizens... this small town hadn't changed that much from the way it was in the late nineteenth century. Oh, the big slab of concrete that was Interstate 10 ran east and west just a couple hundred yards from the front door of the café, but the regulars hardly noticed.

He thought their grandfathers and grandmothers had probably taken as little note of the big herds of longhorns coming through after the civil war. For the umpteenth time since he'd come here, Ryan wistfully wondered what his world would have been like if he'd been alive back then. He'd always had this feeling he'd been born about 150 years too late.

He shook off the nostalgic mood. The hot coffee helped. He looked at it suspiciously. It looked, and tasted, strong enough to float one of the horseshoes another of his crews had dug up last Friday. They were clearing land out behind one of the local rancher's house to put up a separate garage and had come across a number of interesting finds. A second sip confirmed his first impression. It might even have floated a couple of the heavy iron shoes. He was glad he'd come to the little town to personally supervise a number of small-scale renovation projects. This was some good coffee.

Ryan Gilchrist was a small-time contractor, just as he'd been four years ago. He was still a little frog in a big pond but, that having been said, he'd grown quite a bit during that period. There were plenty of tadpoles swimming around in the pond that were a lot smaller than he was now. In fact, the operation had grown so large, he had to spend most of his time with his butt firmly fixed in a chair behind a desk. He'd had to rent office space in a big building downtown. He hated working there. He often told folks he'd given up doing useful work.

He'd finished up a degree at UTSA over the past four years, going to school at night mostly. He'd had to take time off from work and finish some courses in residence during the daytime toward the end. He came away with a Bachelor of Business Administration in Resource Management but it wasn't as useful a thing as he'd thought it would be.

When he'd been looking through the school's catalog, he'd thought the courses in this degree plan would teach him to better manage his burgeoning little company. Some actually had proven to be very useful and others were "okay" courses. Most of them though... well, he'd had to figure out how to "learn" any number of irrelevancies just so he could answer test questions correctly. More than once, he'd had to grit his teeth and select answers he knew were totally wrong in the real world. That had irritated him no end. It was all over now, and the memory of the aggravation was fading quickly. He knew, though, he'd never go back to get a higher degree.

His mind drifted from topic to topic... and then back again. He was waiting for his breakfast to be served in a warm café full of friendly people. He appreciated the warmth... and the friendliness. There was little of either at home these days. His thoughts automatically shied away from thoughts of home. He didn't really have one anymore. There were better things to think about.

His business... things were going pretty well with it, everything considered. He'd even had to hire a secretary just to field all the phone calls that were coming in. Between her and a part-time CPA, the payrolls were processed and sent electronically to the employees' banks on payday. All of the Federal and State reports were filled out and forwarded to the correct agency on time too. Ryan concentrated on scheduling, personnel issues, and getting all the logistical details taken care of. He had eight crews working for him now--fifty-two men and women all together. Half of them were ex-marines and soldiers.

He'd come to rely on their maturity and high sense of responsibility and they'd responded. Most of the projects Ryan turned up were based on word-of-mouth advertising. His ex-servicemen and the others easily impressed the company's clients with their dedication, attention to detail, and the overall quality of the finished product. Today, he had three crews here in this small Texas town, out away from the big city. They were all working hard.

He told himself, and anyone who would listen, that he was here in the little town supervising the joint effort. In fact, he was here hiding from his wife because he couldn't stand the sight of her anymore.

"No, no," he growled softly into his coffee cup. "Fool me twice... shame on me. Huh uh... no damned way that's gonna happen."

He wasn't about to accept a second adultery on Carrie's part. He wasn't certain why he'd stayed around the first time but whatever the reason had been, he sure wasn't going to do it again. He had a plan... and it was almost time for the endgame.

After he heard the first tape recording, he made a point of secreting the tape recorder with a fresh miniature cassette in his wife's Celica every morning, and listening to the used ones sometime later in the day. He was amazed to hear his wife deriding him, his small contractor company, their friends, and virtually every aspect of their lives together.

More than once he listened as she completely rewrite much of their history together. Some of the things she said he did, particularly anecdotes about how he treated her... damn it, they flatly had not happened. He'd never taken a hand to her, much less had he ever beaten her as she claimed. Most of the other remarks were similarly colored by revisionist history. He didn't understand why the woman he'd married was doing this.

Gradually, Ryan had begun to put things together. As vigilant as he'd been, certain things had gotten in below the radar. He realized now many of their friends had been exposed to a steady litany of complaints she'd thrown their way. He could see the effect of her lies in their eyes. Some of the couples he and Carrie had regularly socialized with now avoided him whenever possible. When he did attend a function, he understood why they were reserved, even withdrawn, around him. It had to be because of things Carrie was saying about him. He knew why his brother-in-law and both sisters-in-law avoided him now. He understood why his wife's parents would hardly speak to him these days.

Her disrespect changed what he intended to do. Before, he'd determined he would simply confront her with his knowledge and let her know he was leaving. Texas was a no-fault state. It would have been a simple matter of waiting sixty days for a judge's signature on a piece of paper.

Now... now, he wanted proof of her adulterous conduct. He needed to go through a divorce trial; he would demand one so he could tell his part of the story. He'd have his attorney challenge every motion made by hers. Ryan's lawyer would propose hard-to-meet conditions in return. The hearings, proposals, and counter proposals would go on indefinitely. It might bankrupt him but he didn't care. If his business went under, it would have the beneficial effect of keeping her from getting a share of the little construction outfit that was just beginning to grow into something nice.

He had no way to refute most of her allegations. Most of the things she said were going on simply had never occurred... and it was damned difficult to prove something didn't happen. One of the persistent themes was that he was physically abusive; she'd repeated that in several cell phone conversations he'd overheard.