Page 17 of Lone Star Longing
“Sure, but in case there is, I didn't want to drive all the way back into town to buy a new one.”
“Throwing your money away. It better not be one of those low-flow toilets.”
“Now where have you gone that has a low-flow toilet?” he demanded.
“The church installed them. Said we were being environmental. Have to flush three or four times to get everything to go down.”
He was pretty sure she was exaggerating.
“Not low-flow, though that wouldn't be a bad idea. Why don't you go to the bathroom before I get started? I don't know how long it’s going to take, and I have to turn the water off.” He needed to find the shut-off valve, first. Shouldn’t be too hard, if he followed the water lines.
“Have you had lunch?” she asked.
He’d thought about stopping, but didn't want to get something when he didn't know if she’d eaten. “Nah. I thought we’d go get dinner after I’m done in here.”
Her brows snapped together. “You’re pretty confident in yourself.”
“Maybe. Maybe I’m going to have to put you up in the motel tonight, too.”
“I’m not going to stay there. I already told you.”
“And you’re not staying out here without water,” he countered. “Let me find the shut-off valve and get to work before we head into town.” He walked back out the door.
God, this was going to be a nightmare, he realized when he stood in the tiny bathroom where he and his siblings had taken so many baths, spent so much time when they were younger, just for some privacy. Technically, he should take out the vanity, too, but he didn't have another to replace it, and the sink was mounted to it. He was just going to patch the floor, replace the toilet. That was all he could do before he headed to Las Vegas tomorrow.
He wasn't even going to bother tearing up the linoleum. He just struck at the soft point of the floor and punched a hole in it, then pried up the board, which pretty much splintered into dust.
Hell. This was going to be worse than he thought. He punched another hole to widen it enough for his hand, and when he knelt to pull it up, he heard it.
Rattling. Under the floor.
“Shit!”
“Don't you cuss in my house, Mister!” his mother shouted from down the hall.
Fascinated, but smart enough to keep his distance, he pried up more boards until he saw the space under the house. He pulled out his phone and flicked on the flashlight to illuminate the space.
The ground was moving, and occasional glint caught the light as the snakes—yes, plural—moved around, disturbed by the construction.
“Shit shit shit shit!”
“Beck!”
“Mom, bring the gun.” But no, he didn't want her coming in here, and freaking out. “No, I mean, call an exterminator. One who takes care of snakes.”
“What in the world are you doing?” His mother’s heavy footsteps made their way down the hall.
“There’s a nest of goddamn rattlers under your bathroom!” His pulse was racing, his palm itching for a gun.
She smacked the back of his head, moving faster than he expected. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain in my house.”
“Mom. Snakes. Under your floor. Gun, please.”
But he decided not to wait for her to bring it to him, pushing past her down the hall to grab it from its rack himself.
*****
LACEY PARKED THE CARin front of the Conover house just as a shotgun blast roared from inside, echoing off the walls of the bluff.
