Brodie: Texas Rascals Book 8

by Lori Wilde

  Brodie sidestepped, and Kenny crashed into the porch swing.

  Bellowing like a bull charging a matador, Kenny turned and dove at Brodie again. Calmly, Brodie wadded up his fist and punched Kenny squarely on the jaw.

  Crumpling like cellophane, Kenny sank to the porch.

  “I’ve never seen you this bad off, big brother. What’s happened to you?” Brodie asked, squatting beside Kenny.

  Despite the harshness in his voice, Deannie could tell Brodie still loved his brother. Just as she had loved her father despite all of his failings. How different things would have been if her mother hadn’t died. Daddy probably wouldn’t have turned to alcohol to soothe his emotional pain, and he would never have lost Willow Creek. She would have been raised by her adoring parents and supportive community. She would have been invited to the prom and gone to college.

  Instead, she’d spent most of her childhood in shacks and bars. She’d suffered cruel taunts at school and endured her father’s drinking binges. She’d never had a boyfriend, nor even many friends. Her education had come from the school of hard knocks. Learning to play poker to win back Willow Creek had become all-consuming.

  Deannie stood in the shadows, watching the drama between the two brothers unfold. Even though she was an outsider, she had a vested interest in the outcome. If the Trueblood men made peace with each other, she stood a good chance of having Kenny expose her as a conniving

  schemer just when she was getting Brodie on her side.

  “What in the hell is wrong with you?” Brodie asked his brother.

  “Emma,” Kenny said with a strangled cry. Grunting, he maneuvered himself into a sitting position. “I went to see her at the hospital. Emma told me she wants a divorce.”

  “Can you blame her?”

  “When she walked out on me two weeks ago, I thought this would blow over. That being nine months pregnant and hormonal had put her in a snit. Especially when she came to stay with you. I asked myself how mad could she be if she chose Willow Creek instead of going to her parents in Midland.”

  “You’ve pushed her to the limit.”

  Maudlin tears misted Kenny’s eyes. “She looked so pretty sitting up in the hospital bed wearing that pink housecoat I bought her when she had Angel. Emma’s always looked gorgeous in pink. She was nursing the baby when I came in, but she wouldn’t even look at me.”

  “You’ve put her through a lot, Kenny. A woman can only take so much.” Brodie extended his hand and tugged his brother to his feet.

  “Mama never divorced the old man.”

  “Is that your excuse? The old man acted like a creep, and Mama kept taking it, so you thought you’d try it on Emma?”

  Kenny’s bottom lip trembled. “I love her, Brodie.”

  “You got a damned funny way of showing it.”

  “Well, everyone can’t be Mr. Holier-Than-Thou like you,” Kenny snarled. “This is all your fault.”

  “How do you figure that?” Brodie sank his hands on his hips and glared at his older brother.

  Deannie stepped away and pressed her back against the cool wood of the farmhouse. Neither of them seemed to notice her. She understood their pain, but she did not want to empathize with the Truebloods. She couldn’t afford to care about them. She had to feed her anger to do what she had to do.

  “If Rafe hadn’t deeded you the ranch in his will, Emma would never have left me,” Kenny mumbled.

  “I didn’t ask Rafe to leave the whole thing to me. I was as surprised by the inheritance as you. In fact, it would have been just like him to shut me out completely.”

  “That’s not true. The old man was damned proud of what you did with this ranch. Why else do you think he left it to you? He knew I’d lose it the same way he stole it.”

  Brodie snorted and turned his head. The look on his face told her he was fighting some intense emotions.

  “I’m a screw-up,” Kenny said glumly. “I’ve lost the best thing I’ve ever had.” Tears slipped down his face.

  Moving across the porch to cover the short distance between them, Brodie laid a comforting arm across Kenny’s shoulder. “I can help you,” he said. “Dammit, Kenny, I want to help you. I’d hate to see you drink yourself to death at fifty-five the way the old man did.”

  Kenny clung to his brother. “Would you do that for me?”

  “You bet. But you’ve got to do exactly as I say.”

  “I’ll try,” Kenny said, clasping the hand Brodie extended. “What do I have to do?”

  “First, you’ve got to quit drinking.”

  Kenny nodded. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “No,” Brodie said, “your best shot won’t do. You’ve got to stop.”

  Rubbing his bleary eyes, Kenny considered his brother’s words. “All right.”

  “Second, move in here where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I can’t move in here,” Kenny protested. “Emma’s staying here when she gets released from the hospital. She’ll leave if I stay.”

  “Emma won’t have to know you’re here. Not until you’ve had time to get your act together and find a job. Tonight, you can sleep in the bunkhouse with the hands. Tomorrow, we’ll clean up the cabin on the back forty and you can move in.”

  Papaw’s cabin. Deannie had forgotten about the old place. It was the first house her great-grandfather built at Willow Creek in 1925. A tiny one-room cabin constructed for him and his new bride.

  “Deannie will see to it you get your meals.” Brodie jerked his thumb in her direction. “I just hired her as our new housekeeper.”

  Kenny swung his gaze in her direction, surprise on his face as if noticing her standing in the shadows for the first time. “Hey,” he said, pointing a finger. “You’re the one who wiped me out of seven hundred dollars.”

  9

  Looking hangdog, Kenny went back to his truck, and drove to the bunkhouse.

  Hands clasped behind her back, Deannie eased toward the door. She wanted to get away from Brodie as quickly as possible before he quizzed her about what Kenny had said.

  “Wait. I want to speak with you.” Brodie’s voice halted her.

  “Can’t this wait until morning?” She faked a yawn. “I’m exhausted.”

  “No, it can’t. I’ve got to close up the barn. Please wait for me in the kitchen.”

  “Okay.” Deannie gulped, a thousand fearful thoughts racing through her mind. At least he hadn’t told her to pack her bags. Not yet, anyway.

  She waited in the darkened kitchen, her arms crossed over her chest. Moonlight spilled in through the open window, and the breeze stirred the curtains. The clock on the wall chimed eleven. Her moment of truth had arrived.

  Ask not for whom the bell tolls.

  The floorboards creaked, riveting Deannie’s attention to the doorway. Brodie stepped into the room, his face cloaked in shadows. He flicked on the light switch, and Deannie blinked against the glare that shone brighter than an interrogator’s lamp.

  Her pulse thumped.

  “Who are you?” Brodie demanded.

  “Wh-what do you mean? I’m Deannie McCellan,” she said. Did he suspect she was actually Deanna Hollis? Was her game over before it started? Deannie gulped, terrified that she was about to be unceremoniously kicked off the grounds of Willow Creek.

  “You’re a professional gambler, aren’t you?” Brodie’s tone was icy. He pushed his fingers through his hair and sighed. “That’s why you were in the Lonesome Dove last night. You were hustling poker.”

  Deannie opened her mouth. This might be the time to come clean. To at least admit to some truth. “I’m not a professional gambler.”

  “If you can take my brother for that amount of money, then you’ve got to be damned good.”

  “I’m not too bad.”

  “You lied to me. You told me you were so broke you couldn’t afford to have your car repaired.”

  “I didn’t lie. I am broke.”

  “What did you do with Kenny’s money?”

>   “I gave it to charity.”

  Brodie glared at her. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Give me one good reason to buy that story.”

  Deannie stared at her feet. She couldn’t tell him why she’d given her ill-gotten winnings to July Haynes at the homeless shelter.

  “There’s not a job waiting for you in Santa Fe, is there? You made that up, too.”

  Miserably, she shook her head.

  “You seem pretty adept at lying and gambling. I can tell you’ve spent your fair share of time in bars.” He grasped the back of a chair with both hands. “I’ve got to say, Deannie, that concerns me.”

  How much could she tell Brodie without giving herself away? She had to say something, or he would show her the door.

  “I learned to play poker from watching my father,” she said. “He had a gambling problem. Drinking problem, too.”

  “So, you’ve followed in his footsteps.”

  “No.” She hated for him to believe that of her.

  Arching an eyebrow, he waited for her to continue. Skeptical, but giving her a chance at least.

  “I drink hardly at all, and I don’t have a gambling problem. Sometimes when I run low on cash, I get into a poker game, but that’s it. I know what you’re thinking, Brodie, and you’re wrong. I don’t have a problem.”

  “You know,” Brodie said, “I should probably fire you.”

  She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “What’s that?”

  “My father was a professional gambler. I saw firsthand what he did to himself and the people that loved him. He denied he had a problem. He refused to reform. That’s why I’m willing to help Kenny. He really wants a better life. And that’s why I’m willing to give you a chance too.”

  “Brodie…”

  “I will insist on one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I won’t tolerate lies. From now on, be honest with me.”

  “All right,” she promised, even knowing that she was headed for one hell of a fall.

  BRODIE DIDN’T KNOW whether to believe his head or his heart. His head urged him to forget Deannie, to run as fast as he could in the opposite direction, but his heart cried out for him to accept her at face value.

  Feeling oddly untethered, he sat at the kitchen table, his hands clasped together in front of him. From the moment his family moved in at Willow Creek Ranch, the kitchen had been his favorite room. His mother loved to cook, and that’s how he remembered her best, standing at the oven creating delicious dishes for her family.

  Taking a deep breath, Brodie closed his eyes. He could almost smell her fresh-baked apple pies cooling on the sideboard. If he lingered long enough in the memory, his tongue would tingle with the taste of cinnamon, sugar, and flaky crust.

  Melinda Trueblood made this house a real home for him and Kenny. She’d sewn curtains for the windows and stenciled the walls with a floral design. She’d cut fresh flowers from the garden and placed them in vases around the house. She set the table with dishes from Dollar General, the best she could afford, and scheduled the supper for six-thirty, hoping to create a normal family routine.

  But Rafe had never cooperated, and Kenny was soon following after him, disappearing for days at a time, returning with smug grins and no explanations for their behavior. Mostly it had been Brodie and his mother dining alone at the big table built for twelve.

  Sorrow pushed at the back of his eyelids. Brodie swallowed hard and choked off the emotions. There was nothing he could do about the past. He couldn’t resurrect his mother, nor could he save his father. The most he could do was make sure he lived a decent, moral life.

  And the only way to ensure that was to avoid women who’d spent their time in bars playing poker.

  You shouldn’t judge her. You don’t even know her. He heard his mother’s kind, forgiving voice in his head and immediately felt guilty for making assumptions. Give her a chance.

  Brodie opened his eyes and cradled his head in his hands. He was bone-weary, but sleep evaded him. Why was he so attracted to the one person who could cause him the most grief?

  DEANNIE GAVE an unladylike snort and flopped over onto her side. She punched her pillow for good measure. Who was Brodie Trueblood to pass judgment on her life? He didn’t even know who she really was.

  Calm down, Deannie, getting mad won’t solve anything.

  With the current turn of events, Deannie sorely regretted playing poker with Kenny. It had set her back in her goal of winning Brodie’s heart. Had she known that Rafe would die so young, Deannie wouldn’t have wasted her time training to be an ace poker player. If she’d known Brodie would be so damned good-looking, that he loathed gambling and that he’d inherited Willow Creek instead of Kenny, she would have set her cap for him from the beginning.

  But the past was past. She had no choice but to deal the hand fate dealt her.

  The worst thing she could do at this point was crowd Brodie. She had one option—assume her housekeeping duties, stay on her best behavior, and avoid being alone with Brodie. But just because she had to maintain a professional relationship with the man, it didn’t mean she couldn’t use every other seductive tool in her arsenal.

  Deannie smiled in the darkness.

  She would cook the best meals he’d ever tasted. She’d care for Buster and Angel as if they were her own kids. When Emma came home from the hospital, she would befriend the woman and become indispensable to her as well. She would clean, she would sew, and she would do her best to prove to Brodie that she could be the rancher’s perfect wife.

  Then it would only be a matter of time before Brodie longed for the other things a wife could offer. By then, she’d have him hook, line, and sinker, and she would take her rightful place as mistress of Willow Creek Ranch.

  Deannie shivered at the memory of his kisses and hugged herself.

  Come on, Deannie, you’ve got to stay in control. How can you hope to manipulate Brodie into marriage if you don’t stay in control?

  Manipulate. Such an ugly word. But that was exactly what she was doing.

  As if Rafe Trueblood hadn’t manipulated your father.

  Daddy had been vulnerable after Mama’s death, and Rafe preyed upon his weakness.

  Brodie isn’t his father.

  Maybe not, but he was the owner of her home. Deannie fisted her hands as the old memories swept through her. Memories that fueled her need for revenge. Memories powerful enough to throttle her guilt.

  She remembered that long-ago night as vividly as if fifteen minutes had passed instead of fifteen years. Bile rose in Deannie’s throat, hot and acidic. She had been sleeping in the room down the hall from this one. The room where Buster and Angel now slept.

  Back then that room had been decorated in shades of pink, from dusty rose to cotton candy to bubble gum. She had a canopy bed with a dainty pink coverlet and lace curtains to match. She recalled the rocking chair Daddy had carved by hand, a massive doll collection including twenty-two Barbies and tons of accessories.

  A little girl’s dream.

  A dream that had shattered into a nightmare when her daddy had come stumbling into her bedroom, tears streaming down his face.

  “Deannie, honey, wake up,” he’d said.

  Since Mama’s death six months earlier, life had become unstable and insecure. Daddy, who used to rise early in the morning and work the ranch by dawn, now lay in bed until noon. Often, he would forget to eat or even take a shower. He stopped taking Deannie to church and refused to see friends when they tried to visit.

  He’d once been a cheerful man who whistled and sang. Now he frowned frequently and rarely spoke. He began selling off the cattle to pay his gambling debts, and he let most of the ranch help go.

  Deannie saw her father less and less. He left her in the care of a housekeeper, occasionally for days at a time.

  Back then she hadn’t really understood what was going on. It was only later she came to realize he’
d been gambling and drinking those nights when he disappeared into Rascal.

  “Deannie.” Her father had shaken her and turned on the bedside lamp. The muted light sent shadows jumping across the room. “Come on now, wake up.”

  Clutching her teddy bear to her chest, her heart pounding, Deannie had scooted up in the bed. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she’d stared at the man who’d become a stranger to her. Fear, very similar to what she’d felt when her mother had been killed, clamped a cold hand over her trembling body. Something awful had happened. She knew it.

  “Daddy! What’s wrong?”

  He looked terrible. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, his clothes rumpled. His hair was in disarray, and he smelled funny. Deannie remembered crinkling her nose in distaste, torn between the desire to hug her father and the repulsion over his stench.

  “Get up. Get dressed.”

  “Why, Daddy? Did someone die?”

  “No.” Her father threw back the covers. “Get up, Deannie, right this minute.”

  “Are we going somewhere?” That thought had cheered her temporarily. It would be nice to go on a trip, just her and Daddy.

  “Yeah.” He’d nodded grimly. “We’re going somewhere.”

  “Where?” Her fear had momentarily slipped away. “To the beach?”

  “No.”

  “Disneyland?”

  “No.” He got on his hands and knees and lifted the dust ruffle on her bed as he searched beneath it. Deannie remembered peering down at him from the bed and noticing the bald spot on the top of his head she’d never remembered seeing before. He pulled out her pink suitcase. It was covered with dust. “Pack your favorite clothes and toys.”

  His harsh tone brought the fear rippling back.

  “Daddy,” she’d whispered, curling a hand to her mouth. “You’re scaring me.”

  That’s when she’d heard a noise at her bedroom door. Boots scraping the hardwood floor, spurs jangling.

  The memory slowed and narrowed in focus. Deannie’s throat constricted at the old vision so vivid in her mind. A scene as sharp and clear at this moment as it had been the night it played out.