Jackson: The McBrides of Texas

by Emily March

  And yet See that girl was there, ghosting around his head. Maybe this development had nothing to do with Mrs. Caroline Carruthers. Maybe the long hours spent on the motorcycle had done the trick, or perhaps coming back to Texas had made it happen. Maybe it was nothing more than getting the hell out of Nashville. He couldn’t know. His creative process was a peculiar thing, and he’d learned years ago not to question it.

  He did have to work at it, though. Except for rare occasions when magic happened, songs didn’t write themselves. He still approached songwriting like a job and put in regular hours at it, but he’d been spinning his wheels. His music had evaporated.

  Lately, he’d been thinking about getting a job, a traditional nine-to-five sort of thing. Between the legal bills and his creative dry spell, his bank accounts were on life support. He’d played a few gigs hoping to work himself out of his funk, and while the work had helped pay the bills, he’d known he hadn’t given the crowd his best. That only made him feel worse.

  An elbow jabbed him in the side. Boone asked, “Does that work for you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Calling it a night and making it an early morning.”

  “I’m whipped,” Tucker said. “Time-zone changes have caught up with me.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Sounds good.” Though of course, it didn’t. Jackson’s workday meant that ten p.m. was still middle of the day for him. His body clock ran on night-owl mode.

  An hour later, he was sitting in the dark on the balcony of his second-floor room watching the distant flash of lightning and enjoying the perfume of roses drifting up from the garden when he spied the lovely Mrs. Carruthers returning to the guesthouse. Muted lanterns and light from the nearly full moon illuminated the garden path that she strolled.

  See that girl. Crystal tears. Frozen smile. But there’s rage in her eyes.

  His cousins had been wrong in their assumption that he’d been hitting on the woman. He hoped that she hadn’t suffered under the same misconception, but he didn’t think so. That wasn’t the vibe he’d picked up from her. She’d been polite enough and maybe no one else had noticed, but she’d been distracted the entire time they’d sat together. He’d noticed her wedding band right away, of course, but the comment about her husband had been a shot in the dark. He scored a direct hit.

  He wondered why the woman was in emotional turmoil. His cousins might not have seen it, but to Jackson it much was obvious. “Takes one to know one,” Jackson softly murmured. Then he rose from his chair, went into his room, and took a seat at the desk to begin his nightly journal entry.

  He wasn’t allowed to text. Wasn’t allowed to call. Wasn’t allowed to send a damn snail mail letter. Not that he’d know where to send it since Sharon planned to haul her all over the world for the next six months. But by all that was holy, some day his daughter would know that he thought of her every damn day. He wrote the date and the words, “Dear Haley.”

  Chapter Four

  Morning arrived when a cold, wet towel landed on Jackson’s face. “What the hell?” he growled in a sleep-graveled voice. Dragging the towel off his face, he flung it at Tucker.

  “You suck at security, cuz. Left the connecting door between our rooms unlocked.”

  “Did not.”

  “Don’t call that little switch you flipped a lock. Didn’t take me five seconds to get past it.” Tucker swirled one end of the towel around in preparation of popping it.

  Jackson lowered his brows. “Do it and die.”

  Tucker laughed. “Move your ass, Jackson. The Jeep is loaded, and Boone and I are ready for Ruin.”

  Having tossed and turned most of the night, Jackson failed to recognize the allure of the ghost town at that particular moment. He shut his eyes and pulled his pillow over his head. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up later.”

  “Nope. The Three Musketeers ride together or not at all.” Tucker paused a moment, then added, “I have coffee and homemade pastries in my room.”

  Pastries. Coffee. Jackson looked at his cousin from beneath the pillow. “Maybe I won’t kill you.”

  “Like you could. You have five minutes.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  “Five.”

  He took a quick shower, eschewed his razor, and sauntered into Tucker’s room in eight minutes to find his cousins bent over a paper map. “Getting into the spirit of the weekend with old-fashioned technology?”

  “Better believe it,” Boone replied. “Manly men don’t screw with GPS.”

  Without looking up, Tucker added, “Can’t count on Google Maps working in the boonies.”

  “Don’t you have a super-secret decoder ring that has maps?”

  “Uncle Sam doesn’t like me bringing it along on vacation.”

  “Grab a cup of coffee and let me show you where we’re going,” Boone said. “I assume you’re planning to take your bike? You’re welcome to ride with me in the truck.”

  Jackson veered toward a tray of pastries and a paper cup of what he deduced was his coffee. “I’ll take my own ride. Knowing the way you camp, you probably can’t afford the space.”

  “True that,” Tucker observed as Jackson took his first glorious sip of coffee. “Boot always has liked his creature comforts. Remember that year we went to scout camp, and he packed his duffle so full that the zipper broke and his love letters from Annalise Mulvaney fell out?”

  “Oh, stuff it,” Boone muttered.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Tucker snagged a pastry from the tray and ate half of it in one bite.

  Jackson laughed, bit into a sweet roll, and turned his attention to the map of Texas spread out on the table. Boone traced the route with his finger. “We head south for a little over three miles, then turn north on this farm road for a mile and a half and then west for another two miles. I’m told the tricky part is finding the turnoff to the canyon. It’s on the left, a gravel road that’s not marked. If we reach the fourth cattle guard, we’ve gone too far.”

  “Better make Tucker point man,” Jackson suggested. “He never gets lost.”

  Tucker snorted. “If you only knew.”

  Next Boone gave Jackson a rundown of the supplies he’d procured. It was a ridiculous amount of gear, considering they planned to spend but a single night in Enchanted Canyon. Boone responded to Jackson’s questioning look with a sheepish grin. “I know. I packed like one of my sisters heading off for college. I swear I don’t know what got into me.”

  Neither did Jackson. While it was true that Boone liked his luxuries, he usually managed to acquire them on a budget. The man took after their grandfather, a notorious penny-pincher who liked to proclaim, “I’m so tight that I’ll squeeze a nickel until the buffalo squeals.”

  “Maybe the canyon’s enchantment got to you,” Tucker drawled.

  “From fifteen miles away?” Jackson pointed out. “Pretty strong mojo.”

  “Hey, at least we’ll be comfortable. Y’all ready to go? Daylight’s a-wastin’.”

  Jackson grabbed another roll and headed toward his room. “I need to throw my stuff in my bag and check out. Meet you downstairs in five.”

  Back in his room, he tossed his clothes and toiletries into his duffle. He made a final sweep of the area, then paused in front of the window and stared down into the empty garden.

  Caroline Carruthers with her Bambi eyes and glittering wedding band had said she’d ride out to Ruin today with the Chamber president. Jackson hoped she’d show. He wanted to discover why she of all people stirred his music.

  A few minutes later, he tossed his duffle bag into the back of Boone’s truck. When he started to sling his leg over his Harley, Tucker stopped him. “Hold it. You forgot your guitar.”

  Well, crap. He’d hoped they wouldn’t notice. “I didn’t bring one with me.”

  Boone and Tucker turned to look at him as if he had suddenly grown two heads. Boone asked, “You didn’t bring your travel guitar? How come? You always have that with you.”

  “Not this trip, I
don’t.” Jackson snapped, and then dismissed the subject by climbing on his bike, firing up, and revving the motor.

  Within minutes, they headed out. Tucker led the way on the H-D Road King he’d ridden from San Antonio, with Boone following in the pickup and Jackson bringing up the rear on his Harley Fat Boy. Traffic was heavy on the highway as visitors took advantage of the nice weather and fled the cities for the peace and tranquility of the Texas Hill Country. Even the farm roads were busy, clogged with cyclers and bikers and even a tour bus or two apparently hitting the vineyard tasting rooms early.

  Despite the traffic, they made good time, and twenty minutes after leaving Redemption, Tucker turned off the farm road onto a rutted, narrow dirt road. His cousins followed. Their tires stirred up dust, so both Boone and Jackson dropped back a bit allowing the space between them to lengthen. Jackson slowed to little more than a putter as he surveyed the surrounding land. Great-Aunt Mildred had been the crazy aunt, after all. This might not technically qualify as desert, but it surely was the next thing to it. Rocks and scrub vegetation. Rattlesnake land. No wonder Maisy Baldwin included snake boots in her wardrobe.

  “Wonder if we could get our rooms back at the B and B?” Jackson grumbled aloud as he approached a bend in the road. Rounding the curve, he instinctively slammed on his brakes. The earth had fallen away. Below him stretched Enchanted Canyon.

  Whoa.

  In that moment an elemental knowledge drifted over him, surrounded him, seeped into the marrow of his bones like a cold mist on a winter day. It was ancient and primitive and beyond understanding. Jackson couldn’t have explained where it came from or how it worked had his life depended on it. All he knew for certain was that in that instant, his life had irrevocably changed.

  It’s like another world.

  * * *

  It was as if God had plunged his fingers into the flat, barren land, ripped it asunder, and breathed life into it. Rock walls rose hundreds of feet above a canyon floor green with lush vegetation. Big cypress trees and huge, ancient pecans hugged the river bottom where the spring-fed ribbon of green flowed wide in some spots and narrow in others. Jackson watched a red-tailed hawk launch from his perch halfway up the north-facing wall and beat his wings majestically once, twice, three times before settling into a circular sail, a predator on the hunt.

  When Boone climbed out of the truck and walked toward the drop-off, Jackson and Tucker both switched off their motors and followed him. The three men stood side by side by side in the silence of the morning and stared down into the canyon.

  Tucker blew a soft whistle. “I don’t think I’ve seen so much green since my last visit to Ireland.”

  “Why am I suddenly thinking of the Garden of Eden?” Boone observed.

  “Because it’s verdant.” A smile flirted on Jackson’s lips as he turned in a slow circle. “Maybe you’ll run into a naked Eve—whoa.”

  Surprised at his reaction, his cousins shot him a look. Then they, too, spied the breathtaking site rising above the far end of the canyon. “Now I understand how the canyon got its name.”

  Enchanted Rock. The massive pink-granite dome rose majestically above the canyon, a solid, steady, unyielding sentry guarding the playground.

  And once again, Jackson’s music stirred.

  Boone said, “Okay. I’ll admit it. I’m stoked about this new asset of ours. Let’s go explore, shall we?”

  Tucker nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  Jackson didn’t speak. He wasn’t certain he could.

  The road down to the canyon floor was narrow and full of switchbacks. Jackson could see why Wild West outlaws would have used this place for a hideout. Plus, the men of Redemption must have had a powerful thirst to brave a visit to the Last Chance Saloon and brothel. Jackson tried to recall the last time he’d ever been that thirsty. Maybe that road trip he’d taken with Tucker and Boone when they’d lost their virginities in that cathouse in Nuevo Laredo.

  Halfway down, Tucker braked to a stop and pointed toward what at first glance Jackson thought was a cave in the limestone cliff. Not a cave, though. He identified a slag heap. “A mine?” he called out above the rumble of their motors.

  “Hey, maybe we inherited Jim Bowie’s lost silver mine!” Boone called.

  One of the tall tales in Texas history was that some years before his death at the Battle of the Alamo, Jim Bowie worked alongside a tribe of Lipan Apache to mine a rich vein of silver somewhere in the Hill Country. In a region of non-mineral-bearing limestone, fortunes and lives were spent chasing the chimera.

  “Boone McBride. A legend in his own mine,” Jackson quipped.

  The cousins continued on their way to the canyon floor. As the road widened, Jackson spied a trio of buildings set on a rise above the river. One was a typical Queen Anne Victorian–style house, three stories tall with towers and turrets, wraparound porches on both the ground and second levels, and gingerbread everywhere. Freestanding next to it was a two-story structure with the word “Saloon” built into its brick front edifice. As intriguing as Jackson found that, what captured his attention was the third building.

  Faded and peeling white paint covered a clapboard exterior with a two-story middle section and single-story wings. Positioned in the center, three wooden steps rose to a screen door hanging crookedly from a broken hinge. The eave of the high-pitched tin roof protected the sign that Jackson read aloud: “Last Chance.”

  They pulled to a stop in front of that third building and cut their engines. Boone asked, “Is it a church, you think?”

  Tucker responded. “Next door to a saloon and brothel? I doubt it.”

  Jackson thought he knew the answer, and it gave him a jolt of excitement. He asked Boone, “Do you have keys?”

  “I do. Look at this.” Boone leaned into the truck and pulled a large brass key ring containing half a dozen ornate keys from the center console.

  “Reminds me of the fake skeleton key you had when we were kids,” Tucker observed.

  “The pirate key. I remember that,” Jackson said with a laugh. “It had a skull and crossbones on the top.”

  “I still have it,” Boone said. “Maybe I’ll add it to this key ring. Seems like it belongs. This whole adventure has a make-believe feel to it.”

  Tucker nodded. “Makes me feel like a little like a kid at Christmas. So, gentlemen, where do we start?”

  “The house,” Jackson responded and headed in that direction. For some reason, he wanted to save the mystery building for last.

  “Watch yourself,” Boone said to him as they climbed the front steps. “That second step looks to be almost rotted through.”

  He hadn’t noticed. Jackson stepped nimbly around the soft section of the board then took a closer look around. The porch appeared to be in decent shape, though he spied three different shades of paint where weathering had occurred.

  Boone tried five different keys in the front door lock before one worked. Then the three McBride men stepped across the threshold and into the dusty, musty past.

  The staircase dominated the entry, beginning proudly with an elaborately carved newel and rising to a landing where a stained-glass window depicted Eve in the Garden of Eden. Sheets covered furniture in the parlors opening off to either side. Jackson strode to the nearest piece and tugged the covering. Dust rose in a sneeze-producing cloud as a rosewood sofa upholstered in red damask was revealed. It remained in surprisingly good shape.

  “Wonder if all the properties remain furnished,” Tucker mused. “If so, it’s possible we could have a small fortune in antiques.”

  Boone pulled a second sheet aside to reveal a player piano. “We will have to get an expert in to evaluate.”

  Upstairs they discovered bedroom after bedroom furnished only with a bed frame and a single, simple chest. Jackson was relieved they wouldn’t have to deal with mattresses, although a quick peek into the attic revealed a space packed to the rafters, so his assumption could yet prove to be wrong.

  With the initial cathous
e tour complete, they headed next door to the saloon where again, Boone sorted through the ring of keys to find one that fit the lock on the oversized double doors. The McBrides stepped inside and halted in reverent wonder. “It’s right out of a movie set,” Jackson murmured.

  The bar was carved wood, brass, and mirrors and still held a handful of glass bottles, though all stood empty. An ornate metal cash register decorated the center. Ladder-back chairs surrounded a dozen round tables scattered around the room.

  “Look at this,” Tucker said, striding toward a cabinet set against one wall where wooden poker chips stood alongside decks of playing cards. “If this isn’t the coolest damn thing. I remember seeing a cabinet like this in a museum.”

  “This whole place is a museum.” Jackson wandered toward the opposite side of the room where an upright piano stood against the wall. He opened the lid and pressed an ivory middle C. It sounded surprisingly in tune. He tried a few more keys that didn’t fare as well, the notes jangling in his ear until Boone’s exclamation summoned his attention.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Jackson glanced around to see his cousin standing behind the bar. He held a glass stopper in one hand and a bottle half full of amber liquid in the other. “Jack Daniels Old Number Seven.”

  “That is not leftover booze from the eighteen hundreds.”

  “No. But there’s a newspaper dated nineteen fifty-eight beside it. Bet it was somebody’s stash. Kids, probably. But I smelled it. I think it’s the real deal. I think we need to give it a try. What do you say?”

  Jackson and Tucker shared a look and a shrug.

  Boone strolled outside and returned a few minutes later with three red plastic cups. He poured two fingers of whiskey into each and passed them out. “Who’s gonna be brave enough to go first?”

  “All at the same time,” Jackson said as he held up his glass in salute. “Un pour tous, tous pour un.”