by Lori Wilde
Jesse.
The taste of him lingered on her tongue, his smell loitered in her nose, her skin still sizzled from his touch, her ears hummed with the sound of his rich and sinful voice. When had he so completely captivated her?
Who was she kidding? She’d never gotten him out of her system. All this time she’d been using her mother’s illness, her father’s problems with alcohol, and raising her siblings as an excuse to avoid saying yes to Beau, because deep down inside she’d always been in love with Jesse Calloway.
The full realization of her feelings hit her. This was more than a schoolgirl crush. She’d been trying to deny it for ten years, but she couldn’t deny it any longer. Flynn didn’t know whether to throw her head back and howl at the moon, or giggle until her side ached. In the end, she did what she always did. She stuffed her own emotions to the side and did what needed to be done to help others. Inside Froggy’s she found her father and Carrie ankle-deep in water with mops in their hands.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Ground must have shifted,” her father said. “Central pipe in the kitchen burst. I knew the soil under the pier was eroding, but I didn’t realize the foundation under Froggy’s was so shaky.”
Flynn suppressed a groan. This was going to cost a mint to fix, and insurance probably didn’t cover it.
“Thanks for coming so quickly, sweetheart, but I managed to find the main cut-off valve,” her father said, clearly proud of himself. “Imagine, I’ve owned this place for almost twenty years and I never knew where the water valve was located.”
“Good work, Dad, now where’s the wet vac?”
“We have a wet vac?”
“We do and it’ll make the cleanup go much faster.”
“Well, what do you know, I had no idea we had a wet vac.”
Flynn bit her tongue to keep from saying, That’s probably because you were soused to the gills when I bought it, but her father was doing his best. No need for sarcasm at this stage of the game.
“Keep mopping,” she instructed. “I’ll go in search of the wet vac.”
After slogging on tiptoe through the drenched dining area, she headed out the back door toward the storage shed. She pulled the key ring from her pocket, unlocked the door, flipped on the switch, and stepped over a stack of plastic buckets that had seen better days.
Okay, so back to Jesse. How did he feel about her? That was the scary part. Not knowing if she was just a good-time fling for him. Or worse, was she just a tool with which to gouge Beau?
Ouch. That thought hurt. Especially since she’d just admitted to herself she was in love with him and that time and distance had done nothing to change her feelings. Was she being stupid? Was she just asking to get her heart broken?
Ah, there was the wet vac. She reached down, grabbed it by the handle, and lugged it toward the door. She’d just stepped out of the storage shed and was busy snapping the lock back into place when it happened.
The bang was so loud it rang her ears as if she were a punchy heavyweight who’d taken a hard fist to the temple. The windowpanes rattled. The ground vibrated. Were there earthquakes in Texas? Shocked, she spun around to see the river behind her light up in a crazy clap of over-the-top fireworks.
She wheezed in air. Blood slithered through her veins suddenly gone ice-cold. She was frozen, welded, watching. Seconds later she was in motion, abandoning the shop vacuum and sprinting at a dead run to the water’s edge. Mouth agape, she watched burning debris rain from the sky.
It took a moment for it all to soak in.
The old Twilight Bridge—the place where she’d spent some of her happiest hours as a kid, the place where she’d had her first kiss (and her first orgasm at Jesse’s wicked hands)—was gone.
Her mind sprinted. Her pulse skittered. She sucked in the acrid smell of burning timbers, watched the iron railings collapse, leaving only the brick and mortar support columns.
Someone had blown up the Twilight Bridge!
Instantly she was in motion, her hand reaching around to unclip her cell phone from her waistband, calmly punching in the numbers 9–1–1. Even as she functioned outwardly, inwardly her thoughts tumbled back to the past.
To that other night. To that other time. When Jesse had blown up the bridge. She recalled the exact moment he lit the match to the M80, grabbed her hand, and yelled, “Jump.”
She’d never done anything so wild before or since. She’d taken his hand, taken a leap of faith, and jumped.
That explosion hadn’t been nearly as loud or as forceful as this one, but in her sixteen-year-old mind, it had been just as spectacular. They’d hit the water at the same moment the powerful firecracker detonated. She gulped in air as they plunged deep into the Brazos, Jesse’s hand still clinging tightly to hers. They surfaced in unison, bobbing up, falling back, floating with their eyes to the sky and their blood slipping quicksilver through their veins.
Together, they’d stared up at the gaping, smoking black hole. Something had nudged her elbow, and she realized it was a wooden plank knocked from the bridge’s runners. The railings trembled like vibrating tuning forks.
She’d sat up treading water, realizing other planks surrounded them. The river was littered with planks. In the pale moonlight, they looked like long bones blanched ghostly white. Sadness rushed over her then as it was rushing over her now.
That blast had rendered the bridge undrivable. It had been closed to cars and unofficially designated as a footbridge. But this…this blast…was different.
The bridge that had held so many memories had been completely destroyed.
Along with the rest of the concerned crowd, Patsy stood on the Twilight side of the river’s edge, immersed in the foggy midnight dampness, staring agog at remains of the town’s beloved landmark, shivering in the knitted sweater she’d thrown over her pajamas.
Firemen bustled around them, dragging their big hoses back to the trucks. On both sides of the riverbank, red, white, and blue lights from the highway patrol cars strobed against the darkness. The air lay thick with the smell of charred timbers. Several people coughed against the smoke.
The old Twilight Bridge, built on the very spot where the original Twilight Sweethearts had met fifteen years after the Civil War had torn them asunder, was nothing but a pile of smoldering rubble. Looking at the ruins sent Patsy’s stomach scraping along the bottom of her house slippers. She’d spent many childhood hours on that old suspension bridge—swan-diving off into the Brazos, picnicking with her friends and gabbing about boys, experiencing her first kiss with Hondo, escaping up there to sob her heart out when she lost their baby. Now it was gone, like so much else in her life.
She didn’t expect it, this knife to the chest, but she knew her emotions were not just about the destroyed bridge. All around her people were shaking their heads, speaking in low, hushed voices about their memories of the bridge and the influence it had had on their lives.
A wake, we’re having a wake.
Tears burned her eyes; blinking, she turned away. The acrid smoke was making her dizzy and nauseated.
A new batch of onlookers arrived and the tone of the conversation changed as the initial questions cropped up again.
“What happened?”
“Dunno.”
“Pulled me out of a deep sleep. Set my dogs to barking.”
“Who could have done something like this?”
“Had to be dynamite. Something much stronger than when Jesse Calloway set off that M80.”
“Jesse is back in town.”
Several heads swiveled to glare at Patsy. A ripple of apprehension raised the hairs on her forearm. This could turn ugly quick. Where was Jesse? She had to find him, let him know what was going on. Fishing her keys from her pocket, she headed toward her car parked haphazardly with dozens of others on the nearby boat ramp.
She sensed him before she saw him, his face in the crowd—hard-jawed, dark-eyed, all male.
Hondo.
He was in
his paramedic uniform, crisp white shirt, blue slacks, stethoscope dangling from around his neck. She should have expected him to be here. There’d been an explosion. Of course he would have come with the fire crew to check it out, make sure no one had been harmed in the blast.
He sauntered toward her. Patsy gulped, reached for her door handle, and then froze when she realized she was completely blocked in by a minivan. She couldn’t run away from him without drawing attention to herself. She was cornered.
Resolutely she squared her shoulders, took a fortifying breath, and met his steely gaze.
“Patsy,” he said with a sharp nod as he rounded the bumper of her Crown Vic.
“Hondo.” It took every ounce of courage she possessed not to flinch or glance away. Why had she come here? Curiosity killed the cat.
“Can we talk?”
“What about?”
“Jesse.”
“Oh,” she said, not really sure what she’d expected him to say. “What about him?”
“He didn’t do this.” Hondo waved at the downed bridge sticking up out of the water like some hellish bouquet of ebony bones.
“I know he didn’t.”
“You and I are the only ones.” He was within two feet of her, closer than he’d been in years. “Everyone else thinks he did it.”
“Based on what?”
“Past history.”
“He was seventeen, he knocked a couple of holes in the aged runners with a powerful firecracker. He was a rebellious kid, having a lark. This is…” Patsy nodded toward the river. “Malicious destruction.”
“Still, first time he comes to town he shoots off fireworks, causes the bridge to be closed to car traffic and turned into a footbridge. Now, the second time he comes back to town after spending time in the state prison. The explosives are bigger, the damage beyond salvage…”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Jesse’s. I’m merely pointing out what the rest of Twilight will be thinking.”
She wanted to ask him why he cared about Jesse so much, why he’d visited him in prison and loaned him the money to buy the motorcycle shop, but she was afraid of the answer so she avoided it, as she had for years.
“Especially Beau Trainer,” Hondo said.
“Speak of the devil,” Patsy muttered as Beau drove up.
“Are we the only people in town who think that pup is too big for his britches?” Hondo asked.
“Jesse,” she said. “And Flynn.”
“What’s going on between those two?”
“Flynn and Beau or Flynn and Jesse?”
“Either, both.”
Patsy sighed. She’d wondered the same thing herself. “The girl’s conflicted. On the one hand she’s got the lawman, on the other, the outlaw. One leads you to safety, the other straight to hell. Question is, which one is which?”
“Sounds awfully damn familiar.”
Their gazes met, and for a flash Patsy saw pain in his eyes so stark it made her chest ache and her throat close off. “Yeah.”
“Mrs. Cross, may I have a word with you?” Beau called to Patsy.
“Someone under thirty shouldn’t have that kind of authority,” Hondo muttered.
“Once upon a time you said trust no one over thirty.”
“Yeah, well, once upon a time I was a dumbass.”
They smiled at each other then; it was slight and fleeting, but it was a smile. A tentative truce after all these years? Patsy’s heart fluttered.
“Patsy, a word,” Beau repeated.
“I’ll go find Jesse and warn him what’s coming,” Hondo murmured. “You keep an eye on little Big Britches.”
“Thank you.” She said it so softly she wasn’t sure Hondo even heard her, but then he reached out, took her hand, and gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze.
One bridge had come down tonight, but was another unexpectedly being rebuilt?
She felt awkward and self-conscious, but she squeezed his hand in return. She thought of their past. Thought of her husband lying in a nursing home, crazy with Alzheimer’s. Thought of her dead sister, Phoebe. Thought of Jesse and Flynn and Beau. Thought of the stupid things people did in the name of love.
Stupid, destructive, irrevocable things.
“Where’s your nephew?” Trainer asked Patsy.
Jesse had been running along the river when he heard the explosion. He’d been jogging, trying to sublimate his physical needs and thinking about Flynn. But the noise and bright flash of light had jolted right through his bones. After that all he could think about was getting to Flynn and making sure she was okay.
He showed up just in time to see Trainer pestering his aunt.
From his place in the shadows, Jesse could see the stress on Patsy’s face as she stood underneath the vapor flood lamp beside the sheriff. His pulse pounded. He knew who was going to be blamed for this. He also had a sneaking suspicion who’d blown it up. But no one would believe him. Reflexively, Jesse touched his black eye.
“I don’t know,” Patsy answered.
Jesse stepped from the darkness. “Quit badgering my aunt. I’m right here, Trainer. What do you want with me?”
Trainer whirled around and drew his service weapon. “On the ground, Calloway. You’re under arrest for the bombing of the Twilight Bridge.”
Moe called an emergency town council meeting to discuss the fate of the Twilight Bridge. Just before six P.M. on Monday evening, the movers and shakers of Twilight crowded into city hall. The air boiled with discussion of the downed bridge and speculation on whether Jesse Calloway was the culprit.
Flynn took a seat near the front beside her father and Carrie. She kept looking over her shoulder, watching the door, waiting to see if Jesse was going to put in an appearance. She’d learned through the grapevine that Beau had arrested Jesse the night before and that Patsy had hired a high-powered lawyer from Fort Worth who’d gotten him out on bail. Jesse hadn’t come into the motorcycle shop that day, and when she tried calling him, his cell phone went to voice mail. Was he lying low on advice from his attorney?
At six sharp, Moe and Patsy took the podium.
Beau strode in, threading his way through the overstuffed aisles, marching right straight up to the front. He didn’t sit, but stood with his back against the wall, arms folded over his chest, surveying the throng. His gaze lit on Flynn’s. His eyes narrowed, his lips thinned, and he gave her a slight, curt nod. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week.
Flynn saw the wounded pride in his eyes. Her stomach churned.
Patsy called the meeting to order. “First off, Sheriff Trainer has asked to speak to our collective.” She moved aside. “Sheriff.”
Beau stepped up to the microphone. “I’m issuing a formal announcement. The old Twilight Bridge has been condemned. It’s a crime scene and it’s been cordoned off. I don’t want to see anyone hanging around.”
“Exactly what happened, Sheriff?” Vida Lewis called out.
“We heard you’d arrested a suspect,” said the hardware store owner, Mr. Ivey.
“I heard it was Jesse Calloway,” someone else muttered. “That kid’s been nothing but trouble ever since Patsy dragged him into Twilight.”
“Is that true, Sheriff?”
Flynn’s muscles tensed.
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” Beau said. “But I want to make it clear the bridge is off limits to everyone. We’ve already had people going down looking to take pieces of brick as souvenirs. My men have better things to do than chase off looky-loos.”
“So that’s it?” asked Dotty Mae. “The bridge that’s been a mainstay of this community is gone. Phhttt. Just like that? Where will the young lovers go to neck? Where will the kids go diving in the summer? Where will the swallows nest?”
“Perhaps you should ask those questions of the person who decided to blow up the bridge.” Beau’s gaze fixed on the doorway.
All the heads swiveled in unison. Flynn was struck by how choreographed the moment fe
lt. Like an exaggerated musical production. Yes, we got trouble. Right here on the Brazos River. And her head turned right along with everyone else.
Jesse slouched at the back of the room, shoulder braced nonchalantly against the doorjamb, that familiar laconic smile tugging at his lips.
A ripple of exclamations ran through the crowd.
Flynn’s heart somersaulted.
“Anybody got something to say to me?” Jesse asked. “You best speak your mind now or forever hold your peace.”
A dropping straight pin would have detonated the stillness of the room loud as a sonic boom.
“What?” Jesse sauntered forward, his gaze landing first on one person and then another. “No one wants to accuse me of anything?”
Several people studiously stared at their feet.
“What about you, Mrs. Qualls? I remember when you accused me of beheading your garden gnomes. You couldn’t believe that it was your very own grandson, so you sent Clinton Trainer over to bust my chops. Remember that?”
The snooty Mrs. Qualls shook her head, her tight bun wobbled, and she splayed a hand to her throat. “I don’t recall that at all.”
“’Course you don’t. Selective memory loss. Nice to have.” He moseyed down the aisle toward the front of the room. With each step forward that he took, Flynn’s pulse quickened.
“What about you, Mr. Ivey? You accused me of shoplifting. Light bulbs, I think it was. And darn if you didn’t have your poker buddy, Sheriff Clinton Trainer, shake me down. And wasn’t it odd that when you later found those light bulbs in your storeroom, you didn’t bother exonerating me.”
Mr. Ivey’s face paled. “How…how did you know I found those bulbs later?”
“I dated your daughter Missy for a while. She told me.”
Mr. Ivey’s complexion flamed from ashen to florid. “You? You dated my Missy?”
“More accurately, she dated me. She was the one throwing pebbles at my bedroom window, not the other way around. She’s some kisser, that Missy. You tell her that the next time you see her.”
Flynn felt simultaneously hot and cold. She knew Jesse was simply taking up for himself, the way he hadn’t been able to do as a confused, troubled teen, but it made her uncomfortable. If she was being honest about it, she didn’t want to hear that he’d enjoyed kissing Missy Ivey.
