Aurora's Cowboy Daddy. Melinda Barron

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      Words failed her, again, so she just nodded in Hawk’s direction. Then she looked at Holt. He didn’t wink this time, which meant he wasn’t happy with her nod.

      To keep from talking, and looking around, Aurora picked up her knife and fork and started to eat. She moaned at the taste of the steak, and the twice-baked potatoes. The dinner conversation was sparse, and when she’d finally had enough she put down her fork. Her new friends were reloading their plates.

      “Are you finished?” Holt asked. After she’d nodded, he said, “Maybe you could tell us your story now while we finish our meal.”

      “Murder is not exactly dinner conversation,” she said.

      “We can handle it,” Hawk said. “Plus, we don’t want to ruin that delicious dessert Austin has waiting for us. And another thing, is it murder when it’s self-defense?”

      Austin didn’t respond, and neither did the other three.

      Finally, Wyatt said, “What were you convicted of?”

      “Involuntary manslaughter,” she said. “I received a three-year sentence. I was out in six months, and on parole for the remainder. They said I didn’t have to finish my sentence because of good behavior.”

      “Go ahead and tell us,” Holt said.

      “Consider us a jury of six, even though you’ve already been hired,” Wyatt said. She could tell by the tone of his voice he wasn’t happy with that fact. That’s why he’d glared at her.

      “I killed my husband because he threatened to kill me,” Aurora said. Even after all these years it was still hard to talk about it. Her hands shook just a little, so she picked up her tea and took a sip.

      “Tell it like a story,” Holt said. “Don’t just throw out little facts. Tell it like you’re telling a ghost story to friends sitting around a campfire.”

      She wanted to tell him she’d never done that, but instead she cast her mind back to her first days in prison. She’d told the story to new cellmates, and during group therapy sessions. After taking another drink from her tea she started.

      It was March 15^th, the Ides of March. She hadn’t made that connection until someone brought it up in prison one time.

      “I was thinking about what to cook for dinner,” she said. “Ben worked on an oil rig below Lubbock. He worked long, hard hours and he was usually in a bad mood when he came home. I always made sure I had cold beer in the fridge for him, but that day it just wasn’t cold enough for him, even though it had been in there all day.”

      She remembered her former brother-in-law, Stan, testifying at her trial.

       “She killed him because he wanted a beer.” He’d pointed a finger at her. “That was the only reason. There was never any abuse. She made that up.”

      Aurora took another sip. “I decided on pork chops, but I didn’t have any thawed. I had them soaking in cold water when he came home, early. He didn’t tell me why. I found out later he’d gotten into a fight with another roughneck and they’d come to fisticuffs and the two of them had been suspended for three days, without pay.”

      She stopped speaking for a moment as she remembered the pissed off look on his face when he’d come into the house. He started yelling at me. “You’re just now starting dinner? I’m fucking hungry, get it done.” He’d taken a beer out of the refrigerator and popped it open. Then he’d thrown it against the wall and said, “This isn’t even cold. You’re fucking worthless!”

      “That’s when he backhanded me and I fell.” Aurora picked up her tea once more. It was then she realized the noise of forks hitting plates had stopped. She glanced around the table and saw all six Coleman brothers were looking at her.

      Ben said, “I should just fucking kill you and be done with it. I’ll find me another bitch to fuck, one that probably knows how to cook, and gives better,” she cleared her throat and said, “head.”

      That’s not exactly what he’d said. It had been far cruder than that, but she didn’t want to say that in front of these men. She took another drink and fought back tears.

      “Go on,” Holt said, his voice gentle. “We’re all friends here. Remember what we do. We rescue women who have been abused, just like you were.”

      Aurora cleared her throat and continued, “He kicked me a few times, then went to the refrigerator for another beer. That’s when I ran for the bedroom.”

      Now she closed her eyes and repeated what he’d said, “You going for the gun? Less work for me. Make sure it’s loaded, you cunt.”

      “I hadn’t planned on killing him. I hadn’t even gone for the gun. I had dialed 911 by the time he got there. He’s the one who pulled the gun from the nightstand drawer. I realized what he was going to do, so I threw the phone down and fell to the floor just as the gun went off, or I should say just as he shot the gun.”

      Her hands were shaking now as the memory of the boom of the shot filled her mind. “I could hear the dispatcher screaming, shots fired, shots fired, Aurora are you there? Talk to me. Shots fired, shots fired.”

      She took one more drink. “Her name was Darlene. I’d called the police before because there had been problems before. She knew me by name. Ben hit me a lot. There were several police reports, and hospital reports to back up my claims of abuse. We lived different places, so we had reports from all over.”

      She waited for one of them to ask questions, to tell her to go on. Instead they had started to eat again, slowly, and she had the idea they were giving her time to collect her thoughts.

      “I rolled under the bed. He shot twice more. When I was under the bed I found the baseball bat. I could hear Darlene screaming at me to answer her. I could hear sirens. I rolled out from under the bed. He was still on the other side. He laughed at me and waved the gun and taunted me for bringing a baseball bat to a gunfight. One of the cops pounded on the front door. He turned his head and I threw the bat at him, it barely glanced off his arm, but it was enough for him to drop the gun on the bed.”

      Aurora closed her eyes and fought back tears.

      “Go on,” Holt said, his voice still soft and gentle. It was as if he’d wrapped his arms around her and held her tight as she told her tale.

      “The cops pounded on the door again. I lunged for the gun at the same time Ben did. I made it first, and I did what he’d taught me to do. I took up my stance and I shot him, twice, right in the chest.”

      Once again they were all silent until she said, “The coroner said he was dead before he hit the ground. I hit him twice in the heart.” She laughed nervously before she said, “He’s the one who taught me how to shoot. He said I had to be perfect at it so I didn’t embarrass him in front of his friends when we were out camping and they were shooting at bottles.”

      She thought back to the trial, to the jury staring at her, some of them in pity, some in anger. She remembered the prosecutor saying the fight was over when the cops got there, but she shot him anyway.

      “She’s a cold-blooded killer,” the prosecutor said. “She deserves to be in prison for the rest of her life for taking СКАЧАТЬ