Jericho

By Sandra Canfield

RETURN TO CALLOWAY CORNERS

Remember the Calloway women Mariah, Jo, Tess and Eden? For all the readers who loved Calloway Corners welcome back! And if you haven't been there yet, join us!

Jericho. The eldest of the notorious Calloway boys has come home to visit his father, who's fresh out of prison. Not much in Calloway Corners, Louisiana, has changed. The town still considers Jericho a fist–happy troublemaker like his dad. Only one person's keeping Jericho from leaving

Susan. As sheriff, she knows Jericho is trouble. Sure enough in town for less than an hour, he's already in her jail. Some people never change. Or do they? Susan no longer trusts her judgment of men an abusive ex–husband has seen to that. But Susan's beginning to see a whole new side to Jericho. A gentle, protective side

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460879207

Sandra Canfield

Sandra Kay Patterson Canfield was born on 21 November 1944 in Longview, Texas, USA. She wrote as Sandra Canfield and under the pseudonym of Karen Keast. She also used the pseudonym of Sandi Shane in collaboration with the writer Penny Richards (alias Bay Matthews). At 58, Sandra passed away on 23 January 2003 in Shreveport, Louisiana.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGED, Jericho Calloway thought. He was standing in the doorway of the Midnight Hour on a late-September Thursday night. Although it had been eighteen years since he’d set foot inside the bar, the same boot-scooting scuff marks scarred the worn wooden floor, the same jukebox played a love-gone-wrong song, the same low lights lent secret shadows to the room. For a moment, he could see things in those shadows that he’d worked long and hard, but never successfully, to forget. The parking lot had held even more sinister memories, all of which had tugged at him like demons as he’d hurried across the asphalt, past the glowing neon sign advertising the establishment, past the vehicles, mostly pickups, parked in a random pattern.

He’d vowed never to return to the scene of his father’s crime, but some inexplicable something had drawn him back. Maybe his need for closure, which would be fitting considering the reason for his return to Calloway Corners. He’d been back several times over the years to visit his mother, and if truth be told, he was here now only because she’d begged him to come. His brother Daniel had made the trip for the same reason.

Jericho sauntered into the room amid a gaggle of gawking stares, elbows digging into ribs and an awkward sudden silence. He was reminded of another something that never changed—small towns, and their not-so-small prejudices. As he stepped toward the counter that ran the length of one wall, Jericho heard silence give way to scattered whispers. Everyone would know why he’d returned, for in a small town rumors traveled faster than spit could slide off a polished boot. But hey, what would the good churchgoing people of Calloway Corners have to talk about if not for his family?

As Jericho perched upon a bar stool, the bartender turned. Jericho! he said. Good grief, man, it’s good to see you.

There was no mistaking the genuineness of Duke Boyd’s smile, nor the sincerity of the handshake that followed. Jericho had always liked Duke, whom he’d heard had taken over the bar several years before. Big, husky, with a blond mustache that liberally swept across the space between nose and upper lip, Duke was younger than Jericho, probably in his early thirties, but the two had been neighbors and had often shot hoops together. Although both had lived in a poorer section of town, the Boyds had been respected.

How’re you doing? Duke asked.

Can’t complain. How about you?

Same here, Duke said, adding, Where you living now?

Santa Fe, Jericho said, but the job keeps me on the move a lot.

"Yeah, I guess it would. Heck, you’ve become something of a celebrity. Can’t pick up a magazine without seeing some of your photographs. My oldest boy had to write a report on the timber wolf, opened up a National Geographic and, lo and behold, there was your name big as life. My kid thought I was pulling his leg about knowing you."

Jericho smiled, although be was uncomfortable with the conversation. He didn’t like talking about himself any more than he liked being talked about.

I’ll bet all that traveling’s exciting, Duke said, more than a little envy in his voice.

Yeah, Jericho said.

But it was also tiring, he thought, and lonely. No matter how hard you worked at believing it, a suitcase wasn’t a home. No more than a small apartment in Santa Fe was. Neither offered someone to care about or to care about you. Then again, he wasn’t the home-and-hearth type; if he was his marriage wouldn’t have been so short-lived. Of course, that had been years ago, but not so long that he didn’t remember the toll that travel took on a relationship. But in all honesty, there’d been other reasons, too, for the marriage’s failure, reasons he wasn’t eager to discuss.

One thing for certain, he loved photography, which he’d stumbled upon quite by accident. He loved photographing nature: wildflowers in a field, animals in their natural habitats, the rain forest at dawn, the Serengeti Plain at sunset. And storms. He especially loved storms, with their violent beauty. He knew that he sometimes took reckless chances photographing the jagged streaks of lightning, the trees bending in a wayward wind, the gray grizzled curtain of a cold rain, the black feral funnel of a tornado, but it was the very danger that made it so compelling, so wonderfully addictive.

...Jericho Calloway...

Jericho angled his body toward the source of his whispered name and recognized a guy he’d gone to school with. He was sitting at a table with another man, both trying to look macho, which meant they weren’t if they had to try so hard, and two women, who merely looked embarrassed. Everyone else in the room, some at tables, some snuggled up to the bar, appeared expectant. Even Alan Jackson, who’d been singing about midnight in Montgomery, ended the song and seemingly waited along with everyone else. Jericho held the man’s dark gaze, his hand clenching into a fist, before turning back to the bar. He forced his hand to relax, thinking it odd that his reaction had been so instantaneous. Obviously old habits died hard.

Little by little, the room filled again with talk, and Alan Jackson was replaced by Vince Gil and Reba McEntire telling everyone that the heart didn’t lie. Relieved to have sidestepped an altercation, Duke asked, What can I get you?

Jericho glanced up at the huge clock on the wall behind the bar. It read a little after eight. It also showed the name of a well-known beer.

I’ll have a draft, Jericho said.

In due course, a beer, complete with a one-inch layer of frothy foam, was drawn and shoved across the counter. Jericho reached for it and took a long cool swallow. It had been a while since he’d had a drink of any kind. He seldom imbibed these days. Not that he hadn’t had his share in the past, of both liquor and women, but now he took them in small doses. He looked down at his scarred hand hugging the mug’s handle, thinking again how quickly that hand had knotted into a fist. He hadn’t had a fight in years, partly because he’d grown too old for that kind of nonsense, and partly because he’d learned to tame the temper that everyone said was just like his father’s and would ultimately lead him down the same road to perdition. Then, too, once he’d gotten away from Calloway Corners, there was no need to fight. No one knew about his past. Everyone accepted him for who he was, not for who and what his father had been.

Daniel was in last night, Duke said, dragging Jericho from the past to the present.

Jericho smiled, a warm feeling filling his heart. Many things had been wrong with his childhood, but one of the bright spots had been his brother. He’d talked to Daniel earlier in the week and so had known he’d be flying in on Wednesday. He himself had decided to make the drive to Louisiana in his van, hoping to see something en route worth capturing on film.

How is Daniel? Jericho asked.

Looking good. Pause, then, Gabe’s here, too.

Jericho halted the mug halfway to his lips. After talking to Daniel, he’d talked to Gabe, but had sensed that Gabe was uncertain about returning. In retrospect, he should have known Gabriel would. How is he?

He’s looking good, too.

Jericho’s warm feeling grew warmer. There was an unspoken code of silence regarding Gabe Butler. The whole town knew he was Jesse Calloway’s illegitimate son by Hannah Butler, born only a month after Daniel, but no one ever voiced that knowledge. It would’ve been hard to say when he’d figured out that Gabe was his half brother. Though Gabe had grown up in his mother’s house, from the get-go all three of them had hung out together at their father’s cattle-sale barn. Looking back, it was as if the knowledge had always been there. Truth was, he couldn’t have cared more for Gabe if he’d been his full brother, and he’d fought more than one fight for both of the younger guys. Even now, he still felt guilty leaving them behind that summer eighteen years ago.

This guilt, as much as the remembrance of why the three of them were in town—Duke tactfully had avoided any mention of the reason for their return—caused Jericho to order another beer against his better judgment. Duke refilled the mug and pushed it back across the counter. Jericho had just started to pick it up when he heard his name bandied about by the same guy as before, this time in a voice meant to be heard. There was also an accompanying slur about Jesse Calloway’s infamous branch of the otherwise famous Calloway clan. Again Jericho was surprised when his hand automatically tightened into a fist. That itchy urge to dim someone’s lights trickled through him.

Let it go, Duke said. The guy’s a jerk. Always was, always will be.

Yeah, Jericho said, thinking Duke was right. Everyone in the room would love to see him punch out this guy. Moreover, everyone expected him to. But he wasn’t that brawler any longer. He wasn’t the same man who had left town all those years ago. In short, he wouldn’t be giving them a floor show. At that, be turned his attention to his beer and to catching up on old times with Duke.

SUSAN QUINLIN listened with half an ear as her two friends talked about the movie they’d seen earlier, which had now segued into a discussion of the merits of Tom Cruise versus those of Brad Pitt. Susan had pulled silently from the conversation the moment the man had walked into the bar. She’d known that Jericho Calloway was coming to town, just as Daniel and Gabe had the day before, just as their father would the following day. Had she not known about Jericho’s return, she’d have recognized him, anyway, although the Midnight Hour was the last place she’d have expected to find him. The years had dealt with him fairly, leaving his hair the same flaxen color it had always been, leaving his face, which could never have been called traditionally handsome, an interesting arrangement of lines and planes. It was a brawler’s face, complete with scars and a slightly crooked nose, all trophies of his legendary fisticuffs.

Mercy, how he fought!

Not that she’d ever personally witnessed him fighting, but since they’d ridden the same bus, she to junior high, he to high school, she’d often seen him at the end of the day with an eye swollen half-shut, his face and bands cut and bleeding. Not that he would remember her. She’d been just a kid. And there’d been plenty of days he’d skipped school, and plenty more suspensions. What she remembered most, however, were those days when he’d chosen to walk the five-plus miles home rather than ride the bus. On those days, as the bus passed him, she’d simply stared out the window, thinking how very alone he looked, his broad shoulders slumped, his head bent, eyes measuring his every solitary step. Once he’d stared back, for just a moment, with a pair of eyes that were the bluest she’d ever seen. There’d also been a hint of sadness in them, along with a courageous defiance, which, even as a kid, she’d respected.

Looking back, if fantasies of a young girl, many of which now made her blush, were any clue, she knew she’d had a crush on him. His bad-boy image, which also consisted of whispered goings-on with the opposite sex, had intrigued her, particularly his protective tendencies. In some adolescent fashion, she had made him into an avenging god, who always defended those he cared about, for rumor had it that many of his fights were waged for Daniel and Gabe. Her admiration had been in more youthful naive days, however, when she hadn’t fully understood the frightening nature of violence. She wondered if he was still violent. To his credit, he hadn’t risen to the taunting jeers of Buck Wallace, which was no mean feat considering that Buck could rub a person the wrong way simply by entering a room. But would Jericho’s restraint last?

Who is he?

Startled, Susan glanced over at dark-eyed, dark haired Cindy English. What?

Who is he?

Who’s who?

The guy you’ve been watching ever since he walked into the bar.

I have not been watching him.

Yes, you have, June Pantalion, Susan’s other friend, piped up. Not that I can blame you. He’s an eyeful, if you like tough-looking men.

So who is he? Cindy asked yet again.

Jericho Calloway, Susan answered, staring at shoulders wide enough to belong to a defensive back.

Whoa! One of the bad boys of Jesse Calloway? the dark-eyed brunette asked.

The oldest, Susan replied. The baddest of the bad.

June ran her fingers through her short blond hair, her gray eyes becoming sultry. With that kind of recommendation, I think I’ve just fallen in love. There’s nothing better than a bad man. The meaner, the better. The rougher, the better. The— June gave a how-stupid-of-me grimace as she looked over at her friend. I’m sorry, Susan. I wasn’t thinking.

Susan smiled. I know you’re kidding. The first guy who got rough with you would be picking up his teeth.

Yeah, you’re right, June said. So, how bad was this Jericho character?

Like I said, bad. He had a hair-trigger temper, just like his father, a chip on his shoulder, and was in one fight right after the other. I guess I can’t blame him, though. The townspeople—some of them—treated his family like dirt. And Jesse Calloway was far from a saint.

Most murderers aren’t saints. Cindy’s tone was wry.

Even before then, Susan said. He drank too much and, like I said, he had a terrible temper, plus everyone knew that he had this thing with Hannah Butler over in Sibley and that Gabe was their son.

Even his wife? Cindy asked.

That’s difficult to say, but I don’t see how she could’ve not known it.

And Jesse Calloway is getting out of Angola tomorrow? June asked.

Right. After eighteen years.

June shifted in her chair, as though the very thought of such a lengthy incarceration made her restless. And your dad testified against him, Susan?

It was part of his job. He was sheriff then, of course, and was the one called to the scene of the crime.

The murder took place in this very bar? June asked.

No, no. The fight took place here, but the fatal shot was fired in the parking lot.

How deliciously gruesome. June leaned forward. Tell us all the gory details.

Jeez, June, Cindy said, you’re sick.

And I guess you don’t want to know?

Cindy considered, then leaned forward, too. Tell us all the gory details.

Because Cindy English and June Pantalion weren’t from Calloway Corners, they knew little beyond the fact that the town was named after a Calloway family member, that it was located about two and a half miles from Haughton, and that it was still populated by some of the family. Cindy, a nurse at Bossier Medical Center and a resident of Bossier City, and June, a mathematics teacher at Captain Shreve High School in Shreveport, had met Susan at an exercise class several years before and become friends. Once a month, they met for a girls’ night out.

Actually, what happened was pretty straightforward, Susan said, and not terribly original.

Aha, a woman, June said in an all-knowing voice.

Sort of.

Susan went on to explain how a young Daniel Calloway and Becca Harris, the daughter of the Baptist preacher, had developed a thing for each other, and how Becca’s father, William Harris, had forbidden his daughter to see the son of the reprobate Jesse Calloway. But the kids had defied him, sneaking around whenever they could to be with each other. One time, Daniel had persuaded Becca to slip from her room in the wee hours of the morning, climb on the roof of her house and watch the sunrise with him. Apparently it had been an innocent assignation. They’d been caught, Daniel warned never to see Becca again, but once more the teenagers had ignored the warning.

One evening Daniel had stolen into her bedroom and was caught lying on the bed with the girl, which netted him being tossed from the house. Then, in an attempt to end the matter once and for all, William Harris had confronted Jesse Calloway at the Midnight Hour, telling him to keep his son away from his daughter. Jesse had been drinking, and the preacher, his temper flaring, had struck him. A fight had ensued, with both men being thrown out of the bar.

One thing had led to another. Every witness seemed to have a different version of what happened next, but they all agreed that at some point, amid a continuation of the fight, Jesse Calloway had gone to his truck, taken his hunting rifle from its rack and without hesitation, with total deliberation, shot and killed William Harris.

He was found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to twenty-five years, Susan finished, then took a sip of her soft drink.

Twenty-five years? Cindy asked. I’m no lawyer, but isn’t that a long time for manslaughter?

Yes, Susan said. I’ve often thought Jesse Calloway was sentenced for more than what happened that night. And I’m not sure the judge and jury were even aware they were making him pay for past transgressions.

He served eighteen years of a twenty-five-year sentence? Cindy asked. Doesn’t a prisoner usually serve less? Mercy, the prisons are letting people out ten minutes after they put them in.

Good point, Susan said. Jesse Calloway was up for parole after twelve years, but he got into a fight and almost killed a guard.

As she spoke, Susan glanced back at Jericho Calloway. He sat perched on a tall stool, presenting her with his profile. She could see his stubborn jaw, his set chin, the wary protective way he carried himself. Those defensive-back shoulders, encased in a white shirt that was neatly tucked into a pair of jeans, were held at an angle that shielded him from others. She could understand that kind of need to protect yourself. As she watched, he smiled in response to something Duke had said. Even with his guarded stance, the smile bad come easily and looked at home on his lips. It also looked sexy, which surprised her a little because she wasn’t much into noticing such things—at least not these days.

She was still watching, and half listening to her friends’ discussion concerning the inequities of the judicial system, when she saw Duke slide another beer in front of Jericho. She couldn’t tell whether he’d asked for it or not, but he did take a couple of swallows. She wondered if he still drank too much. She wondered, too, if Buck hadn’t already had one too many, for he was growing louder, with an occasional profanity thrown in, and kept looking over at Jericho, with Jericho casting covert glances back at Buck.

There was going to be trouble, unless she was sadly mistaken.

SOMEWHERE INTO BREW number three, Jericho heard Jack Daniel’s whispering in his ear. To his credit, he told old Jack to take a hike. Old Jack said no way, he wanted to remind him of just how mellow tasting he was, how he could make life better, more tolerable. He even got sentimental and told Jericho how much he’d missed him, how hurt he’d been when Jericho had turned his back on him. He promised to dull Buck Wallace’s voice, to take away the pain at being back in Calloway Corners. In the end, old Jack knew that Jericho never stood a chance,

Three bourbons later, Jericho strongly suspected he was no longer sober. Life had begun to blur and blend, and there was a gauzy glow to the world. Curiously, though, his senses had been heightened, as if he’d been shot with a sensory enhancer. He began to notice things in the bar that had eluded him before: a pinball machine in the far back that was plinking out a happy inviting sound; two video poker machines, their colored lights flashing, each guzzling a customer’s hard-earned money; a guy, wearing boots, dragging a gal, wearing the same kind of boots, onto the tiny space designated as a dance floor. In a far corner he saw a table of three women, talking and laughing. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought that one looked his way. Nearer at hand, hanging on the wall above the bar, right next to the clock, was a signed poster of E.Z. Ellis, the famous rock star who was married to Jo Calloway.

For the first time in a long while, Jericho thought about his cousins—Mariah, Jo, Tess and Eden. He knew from his occasional visits home that the women still lived in Calloway Corners with their families, all except Jo, who lived with E.Z. on nearby Lake Bistineau. As a lobbyist in Washington, however, she traveled almost as much as her famous husband. Thinking of his four cousins unsettled Jericho; not that he hadn’t liked them, but it reminded him, painfully, that they’d been the legitimate portion of the family. As daughters of prominent Ben Calloway, they’d been embraced by the community, not shunned by it.

Leave it, man, Jericho told himself. It was ancient history. Hoping to lift