Page 1 of Piece Of Me

CHAPTER 1

Scarlett Bridgestone didn’t set out to become the number one topic of conversation in Big Bend, it just sort of happened.

On a clear and sunny afternoon, mid-July, she appeared out of nowhere along Main Street, walking at a brisk pace, shoulders square, hair blowing in the wind. Now, normally this isn’t a thing that’s special or to be talked about, but since Scarlett had come back to Montana in January, no one had seen a lick of her. She’d taken herself off to the Triple B Ranch where all the other Bridgestones lived, and pretty much disappeared.

Some folks thought she’d up and left again, what with her having a new baby and all, while others thought she might have had some of that depression young mothers get. Totally understandable on account of no baby daddy being in the picture. Either way, when Mary Margaret Christchurch saw her walk by the old Five and Dime (or more correctly the new Dollar and More) she had to take a second look. And then a third. And then she popped into the Coffee Pot, where she spied some of the women from her hot yoga class.

“I swear to God, Scarlett Bridgestone has gone crazy,” she announced with a flourish, her bright orange lips pursed, her slicked back brunette hair glistening.

“What’s that?” Mabel Banks asked, eyebrows raised as she poured old Mr. Barclay a fresh coffee.

“Scarlett Bridgestone,” Mary Margaret repeated. “She’s gone off the deep end.” She smoothed an invisible piece of lint from her black yoga pants and waited for a response.

“Ain’t that so.” Mabel winked at Mr. Barclay, as the elderly man took his coffee, snuck a look at Mary Margaret, and then took a seat by the window to watch the show. He swept off his hat and hunkered down.

Aware that she now had an audience, Mary Margaret set her pink crocodile bag down on the counter and turned to the gathered women. “First off her hair is purple.”

“Purple?” One of the ladies said. “You sure about that?”

“I’m as sure as the rain that’s coming tomorrow.” Mary Margaret shuddered. “And she’s got ungodly roots.” A pause. “At least an inch thick.”

“Well, hair color is an individual thing,” Mabel chimed in. “Nothing wrong with experimenting.”

“It’s not just the hair,” Mary Margaret continued. “She was wearing a night shirt.” A pause for dramatic effect. “A nighty. In public. Have you ever?”

“Oh,” the ladies murmured in unison, as if some deadly sin had been committed.

“On her feet? Cowboy boots. Pink ones with fringes.”

“My, my,” Mabel exclaimed, palms of her hands on the counter as she leaned forward. “You see how some of these young’uns walk about? Could be a dress is all. I swear my daughter drives her daddy crazy with the getups she wears. Most of her skirts hardly cover her bare ass.”

“This was a nighty. With a unicorn on the front.” Mary Margaret shook her head. “And she looked so intense, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was packing.”

“Kind of hard to hide a shot gun in a nighty,” Mabel said dryly.

Mary Margaret carried on as if she hadn’t heard a thing. She chewed her bottom lip. “She looked crazy.” She shrugged. “We all know the apple don’t fall too far from the tree so to speak. That family has some history.”

Mabel straightened up and frowned. “Did you come in here for anything other than to gossip?”

Mary Margaret scrunched up her face. “Of course, I did.” She pointed to the display case. “I’ll have a honey crueller and latte to go.”

Across town Scarlett, unaware of the spectacle she was creating, marched into the post office and paused at the blast of cold air. Her skin was clammy from the heat and her long hair stuck to her neck. She moved it away, and impatiently tapped her toe as she waited for the two ladies in front of her to finish up their business.

God, she was so mad.

The burn in her gut was still there, and uncaring that in fact she was in an old night shirt, her favorite if anyone wanted to know, she set her shoulders back and glared at the man behind the counter.

David Wilcox.

He’d been a few years ahead of her in school and had always been a dick. For some reason he’d chosen her to bully. He used to yank on her braids when they rode the bus home—something he’d do whenever he had the chance. One day, when she was seven or so, Scarlett had had enough. She’d jumped over the seat, punched him in the nose, kneed him in the nuts, and bit his cheek.

Scarlett angled her head for a better look. Yup. There it was. Faint but still visible, the scar she’d left behind. She’d gotten into a lot of trouble, but it had been worth it because the boy had never touched her again.

The ladies ahead of her finished up their business and turned around. The one on the left, Jill from the bank, Scarlett knew. The other woman looked vaguely familiar, but she wasn’t exactly in the mood to sit and think about it.

They slowly walked past her, though they gave a wide berth and didn’t say a word. Scarlett watched them out of the corner of her eye until they were gone. The door opened behind her, and if she were paying attention, she would have heard a male voice, but as it was, all of her focus was on one man.

David Dickhead Wilcox. He was tall, like she remembered, though his midsection had gone soft and hung over his waistband, kept in check by a belt pulled too tight. His hair, always thin, was nearly gone save for the round patch that circled his head, and his brown eyes were wide as he looked at her, obviously more than a little concerned.

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