Cowboy Charming

by Dylann Crush

  Dixie’s head spun. If Chandler had been asking about lodging, maybe Presley was onto something after all. Although she’d never stoop so low as to ransack a stranger’s room while he hopped in the shower. It was bad enough Mrs. Knotts was probably already wondering why in the world Chandler had returned with Dixie in tow. She didn’t need to give her a reason to start any gossip by accompanying the man to his room. Even the thought of such a thing had her heating up like she was suffering from one of those hot flashes her mama complained about.

  “Are you okay, Dixie?” Mrs. Knotts leaned forward, concern furrowing her brow.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Pulled from her thoughts, Dixie wondered how long she’d zoned out on the conversation.

  “I asked if you’re okay.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine. What were you saying?” Dixie promised herself she’d put any thoughts of Presley being right right out of her head.

  “I said my huckleberry cobbler recipe is a family heirloom. It belonged to my great-grandmother who came over from Germany. Why, my mother had a copy in my great-grandmother’s own writing. Isn’t that amazing?”

  Dixie nodded. Usually she enjoyed relaxing over a glass of sweet tea on a sizzling summer afternoon. But she needed to get a move on. Presley could only be expected to hold down the fort for so long, and she was bound and determined to get Chandler his tour around town. Not only did she want to prove Presley wrong about Chandler’s intentions, she also was eager to find out if that warmth she’d sensed between them might lead to something more. At least she wouldn’t have to battle the stick shift. Chandler said his uncle had loaned him his car to make the drive from California to Texas. Dixie had never seen anything like it. And after hanging out in Holiday for her whole life, that was saying a lot. Chandler didn’t know what year the vintage Cadillac convertible was, but that didn’t matter. Folks seemed to pay more attention to the baby-blue paint job and the three-foot longhorns mounted to the hood.

  Before she got caught zoning out again, Chandler sauntered down the front steps, hair still damp from a fresh shower. Dixie stood, glad for an excuse to escape the small talk with Mrs. Knotts. Chandler rubbed a hand behind his neck.

  “Sorry for keeping you waiting so long.” The half grin on his face erased the layers of anxiety that had mounted while Dixie listened to Mrs. Knotts. “You still have time for that tour?”

  Dixie stood. “As long as we make it a quick one, I should be fine.”

  “Good. Shall we?” He offered his arm.

  “Let’s.” Dixie linked her arm with his. An appealing blend of shower gel and shaving cream drifted past her nose. He smelled so…so…so unlike Presley. Forcing her disappointment down, she plastered on a smile. She’d make the most of her time with Chandler and see if she could get a handle on his intentions.

  “You two have a good time.” Mrs. Knotts picked the serving tray up off the table. “Make sure you show him the footbridge down by the river. It’s the best place to see the rapids.”

  Dixie’s face heated. The footbridge was a popular destination for couples who wanted a private place to canoodle under a canopy of weeping willows. Or at least it had been back in high school. She’d never been invited to meet a boy on the bridge—a popular ritual for many of her classmates on a Friday night after the football game, of course.

  The last place she needed to take Chandler was the footbridge, at least not until she’d figured out why he’d really come back to town. Although seeing him in a fresh pair of jeans and a chest-hugging T-shirt did give her pause.

  She shook the last thought out of her head. What had gotten into her lately? First the inexcusable dalliance with Presley and now this? Vowing to enjoy the man’s attention, if only for what remained of the afternoon, she gave Mrs. Knotts a tight-lipped smile and followed Chandler through the heavy door.

  * * *

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Presley cringed as his older brother Waylon came out of the house and crossed the gravel drive. “Had a problem with the pigpen. This is only a temporary thing, okay?”

  “This is a cattle ranch, dumbass. Not a pig sanctuary.” Waylon scuffed his boot in the dirt.

  “I know. I said temporary. It means not permanent, short-term. Right?” He stepped past his brother to reach the other side of the vehicle. Pork Chop couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if she’d tried. Her rump sat half on, half off the seat. She had her front hooves pressed against the dash, and her head leaned against the window frame. “How about we get you out of here, girl?”

  “Yesterday you brought over that demon boar, and today you’re saddling me with Pork Chop? I’ve got a problem with this, Bro. You need to find another solution.”

  Presley took his time turning around to face his brother. “Don’t you think I tried to come up with another solution already? You’re my last resort as it is.”

  “Well, find one that’s laster.” Waylon pressed a palm against the door of the Jeep, preventing Presley from opening it.

  “Laster?” Presley squinted up at his oldest brother. “You learn big words like that when you were off getting your master’s?”

  Waylon shrugged. “Figured if I dumbed things down maybe you’d get the message and get this damn pig out of here.”

  “That was a good one.” Presley clapped a hand around his brother’s arm, trying to knock it away from the door. Waylon didn’t budge. “Come on, I promise it’s only until I can find someone to fix the pigpen. Dixie did a real number on it, and I need to reset some posts. I wouldn’t ask you just for myself, but think of it as a favor for Charlie and Beck. How do you think they’re going to feel if they come back from New York and the whole festival imploded because Pork Chop didn’t have a place to stay?”

  “Two days.” Waylon’s arm fell away from the Jeep.

  Presley opened the door, and Pork Chop clambered down. “Two days, meaning have it done by Tuesday?”

  Waylon didn’t answer. His dark eyes glared out from under the brim of his work hat.

  “I just figured since today is almost over, that would give me Sunday and Monday to make the repair and then get PC resettled in her pen on Tuesday.”

  “You’ve got forty-eight hours.” Waylon spun around, his boot kicking up the top layer of dirt as he stalked toward the barn.

  “Well, that went better than I expected,” Presley muttered to the pig. “Let’s go see if we can find you a safe place to bunk down for forty-seven hours and fifty-eight minutes.” He led Pork Chop to an empty stall in the barn. “I think you’ll be comfortable here.” He filled up a bucket with water then figured he’d better find his brother and check in on Ham Bone before he took off.

  He found Waylon shoveling manure out of one of the horse stalls. Presley had never particularly enjoyed that part of ranch life. His brawny older brother was much better suited to it. Waylon actually enjoyed the ranch life so much he’d gotten an advanced degree so he’d be in a better position to expand the family compound and keep the Walker name going strong.

  “I got Pork Chop settled in.”

  Waylon grunted.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How’s Ham Bone doing?”

  “Why don’t you go see for yourself?” Waylon didn’t pause.

  “Yeah, okay, I guess I will.” Presley clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Thanks again. I’ll be back for Pork Chop faster than a goose can shit grass.”

  “You’d better.”

  Family. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live…well, Presley would leave it at that. He and Waylon had always had a contentious relationship. Being stuck in the middle hadn’t been easy. With Waylon, Cash, and Statler being older and Strait and Charlie being younger, he often bounced between the groups, picking sides based on whatever suited him best. Usually he tagged along with the older ones, seeing as how their antics were more fun.

&n
bsp; Dwight told him he’d left Ham Bone in the old pigpen. As Presley approached, the boar did a belly flop into a giant puddle of mud. Droplets splashed over the fence, splattering Presley’s already mud-covered shirt. “I see you missed me, big guy.”

  He patted down his pockets, searching for some kind of treat to give the pig. All he came up with was a protein bar. Hell, worth a shot. He peeled away the wrapper. Ham Bone’s ears perked. Presley pursed his lips together and made kissy sounds, trying to draw the boar close. Ham Bone appeared interested and tentatively inched near. In the light of day, the massive boar seemed even larger. What was Boss Hawg thinking trying to go on the road with an animal like that? Before he realized what he was doing, Presley reached a hand through the fence to scratch Ham Bone behind the ears. While the pig gobbled up the rest of the protein bar, Presley ran a hand over his coarse hair. How did he get swindled into caring for not one but two pigs this weekend? Waylon had always been better with the animals.

  “See ya around, Ham Bone.” Presley made his way back to his Jeep. With Dixie running reconnaissance this afternoon, he needed to get cleaned up and head back to the Rose. Wouldn’t do any good to have her busting his balls if the items on her spreadsheet didn’t get crossed off before she returned.

  An hour later he sat at the bar, freshly showered, with a cold mug of Lone Star in his hands. Thankfully the Rose ran like a well-oiled machine. Even the temp help seemed to know what they were doing. With an hour to kill before his next emcee duties started, he leaned against the bar and took in the scene. Folks from all walks of life sat around chatting, drinking, enjoying their surroundings. Music from the outdoor band filtered in through the open screens. The ceiling fans spun around, creating a nice breeze, and Presley wanted to pat himself on the back for a job well done. Not that he’d had much to do with things, but still, he was on watch, and there hadn’t been any issues. That had to count for something.

  As his gaze drifted from group to group, he caught a glimpse of Leoni gliding through the crowd. What did a guy like Boss do to deserve a dame like Leoni? She must have spotted him. With a quick wave, she headed his way.

  “Hi there. How are you enjoying the festival?” he asked as she reached him at the bar.

  “It’s been great. Did you see how many chili competitors you’ve got out there?”

  “Impressive, right?”

  “Sure is. I don’t know how you’ll ever pick a winner.”

  Presley leaned closer. “Thankfully I don’t have to.”

  “Oh yeah?” Leoni grabbed a handful of the snack mix Charlie liked to keep on the bar. “Who’s the lucky judge?”

  “It’s a group. As far as I know, Dixie set it up. We’ve got Blanche Mayfield, the mayor of Holiday and two-time winner of the butter-churning competition at the Conroe County Fair.”

  Leoni giggled. “Really?”

  “Aw, you bet. She’s joined by her husband, Buster, whose fifteen minutes of fame came from the time he appeared on an episode of Dallas in the eighties doing duck calls.”

  “Real duck calls?”

  Presley nodded. “As real as it gets. And finally, the last judge they got is Grady Groveland, the cook at the diner downtown. You wouldn’t expect it, but his chili has won worldwide awards.”

  Leoni wrapped a hand around his arm. “I had no idea I was surrounded by so many celebrities.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Holiday may not be a big mark on the map, but we definitely leave our mark on the state of Texas.”

  She took a loud slurp through her straw, signaling the end of her drink.

  “You need a refill there?” Presley motioned Shep over.

  “That would be great. Margarita on the rocks, please.”

  Shep nodded then moved away to fix her drink.

  “So when are you going to show me this mysterious fiddle you’ve created?” she asked.

  Wow, she remembered. Presley’s heart surged. “Oh, anytime. I’d love for you to check it out.”

  “How about tonight?” She took a sip from the fresh drink Shep set in front of her.

  “Tonight?” Presley gritted his teeth. He’d promised Dixie he’d stick around the Rose and keep an eye on things until she got back. But having an acclaimed fiddle player try her hand at his hand-hewn creation would be a dream come true. “Don’t you have a set scheduled later?”

  “Sure do. But I can meet you here after if you want me to take a look.”

  “That would be…wow, that would be great if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m looking forward to it already.” She set her half-full glass on the bar. “Meet you here after my set wraps up?”

  Presley nodded. Dixie would be back by then. She’d owe him an hour or two off since he’d been keeping things in check during the day. A little fiddlin’ would definitely improve his day, and having the chance to get Leoni’s opinion would let him know if he was onto something with his wish for a career change or if he’d be better off sticking to liquor sales.

  He’d been getting restless. Seeing his siblings make lifelong commitments and start families of their own had made him realize he wasn’t necessarily destined to be a Peter Pan playboy who never wanted to grow up. When he’d found his granddad’s woodworking equipment and started messing around with it, he’d discovered a part of himself that wanted more than to work all week and party all weekend. Once upon a time, his granddad’s fiddles had been used worldwide. But without someone to carry on the name, the company had died alongside him. If Presley had his way, he’d resurrect it and rebuild the reputation his granddad had worked so hard to attain.

  But all of that hinged on whether what he’d created was any good. Hopefully Leoni could shed some light on that question. And hopefully Dixie would be back in time with some answers of her own about SoCal’s plans. Convinced that the evening would provide all kinds of enlightenment, Presley took another swig of his beer. Charlie had nothing to worry about. He had things well under control.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dixie pointed out the sights to Chandler as they passed through town. “Whitey’s Western Wear is over there, and the Armadillo Antique store is on your right. I used to live in the apartment upstairs until I had to move in with my gram.” The words shot out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Great, that made her sound like a real vixen. Every femme fatale she knew lived with her grandmother…not.

  Thankfully Chandler either didn’t notice or chose not to acknowledge her revelation. “How about dining options? Where do the fine folks in Holiday go if they’re in the mood for a nice night out?”

  “Oh, there’s the diner. It serves incredible pancakes. And the barbecue place next door does an okay job on its brisket. Although the best meal in town is definitely at the Rose. Angelo’s received awards for his ribs.”

  Chandler eased the car to a stop in front of the diner. “What if a guy wants to impress a gal with a fancy dinner out?”

  Dixie’s heart skittered around in her chest like a pat of butter on a hot skillet. “You mean a place with chairs instead of benches?”

  He grinned. “That’s the idea. Maybe a little candlelight.”

  She folded her hands together, trying to keep herself still. “And cloth tablecloths?”

  “An extensive wine list.”

  If she was reading the signs right, he fully intended on asking her to dinner. “Gosh, the closest place around Holiday would have to be in Farley. They’ve got the Farley Inn right downtown. Of course, San Antonio and Austin aren’t that far away either.”

  “The Farley Inn.” Chandler nodded. “Sounds like the place to take a beautiful woman I’d like to impress.”

  A flush crept up her neck. She tried to will it away, but the burn swept over her cheeks and up to her hairline.

  “So what else is there to do around Holiday?” He eased the car back onto the road. “I haven’t noticed a bowling all
ey, any kind of entertainment venues, or clubs. Where do the kids hang out?”

  “There’s a teen center not too far away. We also have a bowling alley right next door to the Suds Club. There are only a couple of lanes, but most people don’t mind waiting since it’s attached to the bingo parlor too.”

  Chandler laughed. “Sounds like fun.”

  Was he mocking her? She couldn’t tell, but she felt the need to defend her little town. “We have a ton of festivals all year-round. The Jingle Bell Jamboree, the Father’s Day Fajita Festival, the Founder’s Day Parade. There’s always something going on in Holiday.”

  “That’s how I remember it. Seems like it could use some additional entertainment venues though. So where to next?”

  What did he mean about needing more entertainment venues? Dixie wanted to believe Chandler only had the best of intentions. But Presley’s suspicions crowded between them like a third wheel on the big bench seat, and she vowed to get to the bottom of them. “Let’s head out of town, and we can drive by some of the bigger ranches. Have you been back by your old place since you’ve been in town?”

  “Not yet”—he navigated the big boat of a car onto the two-lane road out of town—“but it’s still in the family. My grandfather passed, but my dad owns a share along with my great-uncle.”

  “The uncle who owns this car?”

  Chandler nodded. “He loved it here. Then he joined a country and western band and moved to Nashville. Now he’s retired and lives out in California. But he’s been talking about moving back.”

  “Then we should drive by and take a look at his place.” Dixie twisted her torso to face him.

  His hands gripped the steering wheel hard. “That’s okay. I’m not sure I remember exactly where it is.”

  In a move she didn’t think she had the guts for, she reached out to pat his shoulder. “We’ve got time. If you’re here all week, maybe we can go later on.”