Page 98 of Cruelest Contract
Tye is still determined to get his ice cream and we park in the shade of a thick cottonwood tree with gnarled branches reaching in every direction like twisted arms. There’s a short protective fence around the trunk and roots are punching up out of the concrete.
“They used to chain outlaws to that,” Tye says after we exit the truck.
“To the tree?” I ask.
“Sure. Back in the old days when there were gunslingers and shit. They hadn’t built a jail yet and there was no place to put the bad guys so they just chained them to this tree for a while.”
“Is that accurate?” I look to Getty for confirmation but he’s ignoring us both.
“Don’t you believe me?” Tye pouts.
“Sometimes you have an unstable relationship with the truth.”
He laughs and wags a finger. “You’ll be sorry you said that.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a sign over there. You go read it. I’ll stay here and await an apology.”
A brass plaque is mounted on a low stone pillar. Tye’s description isn’t far off. In the early days of Vigilance, anyone causing a disturbance was kept here at this tree until a judge could be tracked down.
“Told you so,” Tye says.
“I’m sorry for doubting you.” I join him on the sidewalk, made of wood planks and extending the length of the commercedistrict on both sides of the street. Each step of our boots makes a satisfying hollow thud.
“I forgive you,” he says and then his face falls. “Shit. Know what? The ice cream place isn’t open yet.”
“Why don’t we go in here?” I suggest, pointing to an adorable bakery called Sugar Jean’s.
I’ve eyed the place on every trip to town and I’m eager see the inside. A mint green and cotton candy pink shade stretches over the sidewalk. A tempting selection of baked goods is on the other side of the window beside a painted cartoon graphic showing a sweet-faced woman with white hair and huge pink-framed glasses. I like her already.
“Come on, I’ll buy you a cookie,” I coax Tye.
Easy sell. Tye’s chief motivations are food and sex. He dashes over to hold the door open.
Two identical women are behind the counter. Introductions reveal they are the twin daughters of Sugar Jean herself, now retired. They fuss over Tye. When they hear I’m Julian’s new wife, they also fuss over me. They make a valiant attempt to fuss over Getty but he refuses to even smile.
Naturally, all the locals are very familiar with the Tempestas. In the short time we spend inside Sugar Jean’s, every customer who walks in greets Tye and Getty with either polite words or a wary nod.
Tye turns out to be a decent shopping buddy, patient and good humored. After we leave Sugar Jean’s, we visit two boutiques and I get to use Julian’s card to purchase some colorful throw pillows and a framed pastel illustration of downtown Vigilance that will look nice in the bedroom.
All the while, Getty stays within a few footsteps, a grumpy wraith who responds with a deliberately unnerving stare when anyone greets him. He’s made it clear that shepherding his brother’s wife around town isn’t his dream afternoon. Really,he’s kind of a drag but I suspect telling him to get lost won’t be well received.
Julian gave the impression that the Tempesta family owns quite a bit of real estate around town. When I ask Tye for details he shrugs and says he doesn’t pay much attention to business but admits most of the buildings on the commercial strip are family owned.
Shortly before noon, Tye demands to be fed again. The Rustler Steakhouse is a stand-alone weathered wood building at the north end of Front Street. Inside, the lighting is dim and the theme is a wild west saloon.
Our waiter is named Katz. His clothes are no different than what I see the wranglers on the ranch wearing and a red bandana hangs around his thick neck. He and Tye are obviously friendly, bantering about sports while Getty sullenly scans the menu.
The menu drops from Getty’s hands to the table when two men rise from the bar and head for the exit. His expression swings to a deadly glare.
“Gaetano,” Tye warns. “Take it easy.”
“They’re not supposed to fucking be here,” Getty growls and deftly moves his hand to his holstered gun.
The men slow down long enough to quietly look us over. They wear grimy leather cuts over flannel shirts and from here I can’t read the words on the patches affixed to their jackets.
The man on the left is considerably younger and more handsome than his companion. His eyes zero in on me, trailing over my body and back to my face. Every instinct I have senses a threat. If we were alone in a room, I have no doubt he would harm me.
