Page 61 of Tex's Angel

An hour and bit later, we pull into his driveway. It’s now totally dark outside. There’s one car in the driveway and the lights are lit up on the inside of the house. Rigs gets off his bike and jerks his chin towards the front door. Rider pulls out his gun and makes a gesture for going around to cover the back door. We fan out. Rigs hangs back to cover me while I go up and ring the doorbell.

A very pregnant woman answers the door. “Yes, what can do for you?”

“Good evening, ma’am. I’d like to speak to Herman Miller, if he’s at home.”

Making a quick glance over her shoulder, she gets cagy. “It’s dinner time. What do you want with my husband?”

Before I can answer, a big hand comes out from behind the door, jerking it open. “I’ve got nothing to hide. What the hell do you want?”

I already didn’t like this man and now, I’m actively looking for reasons to kick his ass.

“I want to talk to y’all about your daughter’s CPS case.”

His wife sucks in a breath. The man’s expression goes from surly to enraged in the space of a few seconds. “I’ve ain’t got nothing to say about that girl.”

“The teacher who made the original CPS report was abducted earlier today.”

“That fucking bitch probably deserves whatever she’s got coming to her,” he flings back. His words don’t carry much heat, so I’m unsure if he even means it or is just trying to get us to leave him alone.

“Look, you’ve got a couple of choices. You can either come out and have a civilized conversation with me, or I haul your sorry ass out of the house, beat the shit out of you six ways to Sunday, and y’all end up answering my questions any damn way.”

He steps forward slightly, “Who the hell do you think you are, coming here, knocking on my door and threatening me?”

“Wrong answer, dickhead,” I say as I reach out, grab his shirt, and drag him out onto the front porch. When he’s close, I can smell alcohol on his breath.

He stumbles over the threshold and falls into me. I toss him down the steps and tell his wife, “Sorry ma’am, we’ll just be a minute.”

She stammers, “You aren’t going to hurt him, are you?”

“That depends upon how cooperative he is. I promise you this is important. A woman’s life hangs in the balance.”

Glancing out at him rolling around on the cement pad at the bottom of their steps holding his knee, she says, “I’m gonna have to call his family to come over. I can’t just let you beat him up.”

“Why not. You let him beat Anabel up, right?” I have zero shits to give for child abusers or the women who protect them.

If I’m being honest, I’ll admit my words were a low blow but instead of looking hurt or guilty, she gets angry. “You don’t know anything about our family.”

“Did he abuse you too? Is that why y’all didn’t stand up for your daughter and get her to safety? Were you scared of him? Because that’s the only damn reason I can think of that makes any kind of sense.”

“No, of course not. He never hits me because I know how to follow directions. I do what he says.”

A scared abused woman is one thing, but she’s standing here telling me he never laid a finger on her. My righteous anger is doubling by the second, “But your daughter didn’t, so she deserved to be beaten until she was covered in bruises. Is that what you’re saying?”

Her voice became more exasperated. “Herman is scarred from his time fighting in the war. The VA won’t help him, and Anabel was hyperactive. She never listened, wouldn’t eat anything I cooked and had trouble sleeping. It’s blessing that they took her and gave her to a family that had the resources to manage her behavior.”

Rubbing her belly, she took a deep breath before continuing, “This baby is gonna be different, our chance at a real family.”

I have never hit a woman in my life, and I ain’t about to start. But mark my words, if this bitch was a man, then I’d have shown her exactly what I think of her methods of parenting.

I whistle and Rigs steps over Herman to come up the steps. “She wants to call his family to intervene on his behalf.”

“Yeah, I heard that. Want me to have a little talk with her?”

Her eyes drop to the cross Rigs always wears around his neck and then she takes in his button up shirt and leather cut. “What are you, some kind of preacher?”

Rigs turns and says. “I am a man of God.” Okay, the brother ain’t lying. Though I know he near enough got excommunicated from the clergy while he was in the military for almost killing a child abuser. He might not actively work as a minister anymore, but he still does believe in his own way—a way that in the past, had him sending a lot of evil fuckers to meet their maker prematurely, spurred on by his hand.

The woman’s expression relaxes slightly, clearly, she’s decided that since he’s a man of God he can be trusted.

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