by Carly Bloom
Now that both Honey and Lisa were gone, and Travis Blake was back—stealing landscaping accounts instead of mending fences—Maggie had gleefully revived the battle in true Hatfield and McCoy style. “I won’t have Blake cows destroying Honey’s apple orchard,” she said. “It’s mine now, and I intend to defend it against all enemies.”
Maggie walked to the window and squinted in the direction of the Happy Trails’ ranch house. A patch of cedar trees blocked her view, which was just as well. Honey had said the place was pretty run down. It was more than Lisa had been able to keep up with on her own, even before she’d gotten sick.
“I hear he’s really cute now,” Claire said, joining Maggie at the window.
“I’d forgotten he even existed,” Maggie said. He’d been a couple of grades ahead of her, and it wasn’t as if she’d had a social life. Not unless you considered cow tipping with the Future Farmers of America a social life. She’d been the only girl in Big Verde High’s FFA program.
“Listen, there’s something you should know,” Claire said, chewing on her fingernail.
Nothing good ever followed Listen, there’s something you should know. “Spit it out.”
“Travis did the new landscaping at the Village Chateau.”
The Village Chateau was the nicest hotel in town and the venue for the night’s gala. More important, it was Maggie’s landscaping account.
“Are you sure?”
Claire nodded while twisting an auburn strand of hair around her finger. “I’m sure. He started doing the upkeep a few weeks ago, and when they expanded the courtyard, they asked him—”
“But we have a maintenance contract with the Chateau. That’s our job,” Maggie insisted.
“We never had a contract.”
They should have had the Chateau under contract. They’d been careless and overly confident.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I wanted to! But I knew it would make you all splotchy…”
Maggie glanced in the mirror above the dresser. Dammit. “I can’t attend a party at the Chateau—an account we just lost—dressed like a hooker.”
Claire pulled a shiny red cape out of the Halloween store bag. “You’re not a hooker. You’re Little Red Riding Hood. And the fact that we just lost an account is the very reason you must go. We’re going to make sure Petal Pushers wins Anna’s project. Not Travis Blake.”
Maggie crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the costume. She might as well be going as a sexy nurse or a French maid. “More like Little Red Riding Whore.”
Claire snorted. “You’re going to look sexy as hell while kicking ass. Maybe you’ll even have fun. And JD will be there.” She looked at Maggie as if she’d just said checkmate.
Maggie had chased after JD Mayes, with pigtails flying, since she was ten years old. Honey had always said, “You’re like a dog chasing a pickup truck, Maggie. If you catch that boy, you won’t have the slightest idea what to do with him.”
At twenty-seven, Maggie knew exactly what to do with JD. If she ever caught him. Unfortunately, he was like all the other guys in Big Verde and saw her only as a friend. A good friend, which made it even worse. She held the corset up again, scrutinizing her image in the full-length mirror. She didn’t look awful. Even with her grubby jeans on the bottom.
“You haven’t seen the best part,” Claire said.
What could possibly top the micro-miniskirt, corset, and snappy little cape and hood?
“Ta da!” Claire held up two shiny red boots. “You didn’t think I was going to let you get by with garden clogs, did you?”
Well, no. But Maggie had thought maybe her red Converse high-tops would work in a sporty Red Riding Whore way. But these boots were better. “There’s only one more fashion accessory I need,” she declared.
“Earrings?”
“No.” Maggie took the boots from Claire’s hand. “A cowboy to wrap these around.”
Chapter Two
Travis put Henry’s hamburger and fries on a plate and squirted ketchup onto a saucer, so it wouldn’t touch the rest of his food. The kid was weird about that.
“Henry!” he shouted. “Come eat.”
Henry was settled in front of the television, not budging, and prying him away from it would be a bigger battle than Travis had the energy for. He popped a TV tray up in front of Henry, set his food on it, and went back in the kitchen to get his own burger. Maybe he’d eat in front of the TV, too. He didn’t even care what was on.
His phone rang as he grabbed a plate. It was the realtor, George Streleki. “Hey, George,” Travis said. “What have you found out? When can we get this place on the market?”
“Well, that depends,” Streleki stated simply.
“On what?”
“Your brother—”
“Scott and I inherited Happy Trails when our dad died. And we both want to sell.” Was Scott’s latest incarceration the problem? The idiot had been caught with drugs at the Mexican border.
“I believe you,” George said. “But I’ve got to get something from your brother stating his intent to sell.”
Travis should be able to get that. It would be unpleasant—every interaction with Scott was—but not difficult. “No problem.”
“And did you know there’s a lien against the property?”
This was news. “A lien? Why? How?” Shouldn’t he have known about something this important?
Maybe if you’d ever bothered to check on your brother’s wife and son, you’d know what the fuck was going on.
After their dad died, Travis had told Scott that he and Lisa could live on the ranch for as long as they wanted. What did Travis care? He didn’t want it. All he asked was that they take care of the cattle to hold on to the agricultural tax exemption and…pay the fucking property taxes. He swallowed. Hard. Scott had been busted shortly after that conversation.
“You’ve got some back taxes built up,” the realtor said. “You’ll get a hell of a lot more money for the place if you can pay those off. Otherwise, folks will just be looking to take advantage of you.”
The knot Travis had swallowed rose back up.
“Shit,” Travis said. “I’ll get back to you, George.” He slammed down the phone.
“What’s wrong?” Henry asked. He was covered in ketchup.
“Nothing.” Everything.
He was going to need real money to pay off the taxes. There was no point in hitting Scott up for it. And the change he was bringing in mowing lawns was putting food on the table, but that was about it.
He chewed his lip. Where the hell could he come up with a big chunk of money? The check he was expecting from the Army most likely wouldn’t cover it. He stared at the invitation to Anna’s costume party resting on top of the mail, the one she’d handed him as he left the Village Chateau. The Dia de los Muertos skeletons and their taunting, garish grins stared back.
“Henry, I’ve got to go out tonight. Will you be okay if Mrs. Garza comes over?”
Henry’s eyes lit up. He’d seen the party invitation in the truck. “You’re going to the costume party? Can I go?”
“Believe it or not, it’s just for grown-ups.”
Henry shot past him and ran up the stairs. “I’ve got a mask for you!”
Travis wasn’t going to wear a mask. He dumped his hamburger in the trash and went upstairs to the bathroom. He needed a shower if he was going to the party. He sniffed a pit. And even if he wasn’t.
While Henry scrounged around for a mask Travis had no intention of wearing, Travis stripped and stepped into the shower. He turned the water on full throttle, nice and hot, so it could pummel his sore shoulders and back.
God, he dreaded this party. He’d intentionally kept to himself since moving back to Big Verde. He hadn’t exactly made a ton of friends here as a kid. And of all people, it sucked that it was Anna holding this power over him. But there was a chance her landscaping project would pay enough to take care of the back taxes.
&n
bsp; He snorted, remembering himself at seventeen. He’d been a clueless, puny bookworm, and Annabelle Vasquez had never paid him any mind until he started mowing her family’s lawn. He could still see her standing at her bedroom window, curling a strand of shiny black hair around a finger and licking her lips while she watched him work.
She’d been his first crush, and it had been a thrill. But after doing an awful lot of Anna’s homework assignments, he’d realized he was being used. He’d tried to end things as politely as possible, but it was Anna’s first taste of rejection, and she hadn’t much cared for it. She accused him of stealing a bracelet out of her car. Her father had even filed a police report. Nothing had come of it. There had been no witnesses, and of course, Travis hadn’t stolen the damn thing. But he was embarrassed by it.
He’d worked so hard to be the Good Blake Boy. But he and his family were outsiders in Big Verde. Folks had believed Anna, their hometown girl, and everyone suddenly claimed to have seen it coming:
Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Poor kid didn’t have a chance.
How else was he going to turn out?
He groaned as the shower head did what it was supposed to, and his muscles melted beneath the pounding stream. He’d work up a bid for Annabelle as soon as he got out of the shower. How hard could it be? It wasn’t as if you needed a damn degree in landscaping to move dirt or plant shrubs. Although some people seemed to think so.
Mary Margaret Mackey had gone to A&M and earned a degree in landscape architecture. Travis knew this because he’d stalked her LinkedIn profile after damn near every business in town had told him Petal Pushers did their landscaping: a college degree, an internship at a big company in Fort Worth, followed by a questionable move back to Big Verde, where she obviously hoped to impress everyone with her vast knowledge of potted plants. Petal Pushers—what the hell kind of name was that? Did she flounce around in a pink sundress and fancy hat?
He turned off the shower and shook his head like a dog as Henry pounded on the door. “Uncle Travis!”
Travis ran a towel over his body and wrapped it around his waist. He didn’t trust the old lock and didn’t need another bathroom invasion resulting in an awkward conversation about the size of his penis.
“What is it, Henry?” It could be something as simple as wanting a cookie. But it could also be the beginning of a fit. Travis hadn’t spent any time around Henry before Lisa died. He didn’t know if the fits were typical shenanigans for a five-year-old kid, or if they were the result of loss. Either way, he dealt with them. He seriously doubted his idiot brother could do half as well. He’d had little more to do with Henry than Travis had.
“I found the mask!”
“That’s awesome, buddy,” Travis called back. “But I’m not gonna wear a costume.”
Holding the towel in place, Travis opened the door. A disappointed face met him on the other side, but it didn’t appear Henry was about to go ballistic.
“I’ve decided to go to the party as a ruggedly handsome man, so I don’t need a mask.” He gave Henry his best cheesy smile and puffed out his chest.
Henry didn’t laugh. “I don’t think people will know you’re dressed up in a costume. You’ll just look like yourself, and you’re butt ugly.”
Travis laughed and mussed Henry’s hair, and Henry threw his skinny little arms around Travis’s waist. Travis took a step back at the sudden display of affection, dragging Henry with him. Then he patted Henry’s back, feeling the tiny shoulder blades poking against his Spider-Man T-shirt. The contact was getting a little less awkward each day.
“You always tell it like it is, Henry.”
“That’s because you’re not supposed to lie.”
Travis peeled Henry off and squatted so he was eye level. “You going to be okay with Mrs. Garza tonight? I might be late.”
“Yes,” Henry said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “But you have to tell her about my bedtime problem.”
“You mean how you’re a very sound sleeper and sometimes don’t wake up to go to the bathroom?” Changing sheets and pajamas in the middle of the night was a pain in the ass, but Travis refused to shame Henry about wetting the bed. His own dad had been an asshole about that sort of thing, and Travis wasn’t going to follow suit.
Henry nodded.
“I’ll tell her. But go to the bathroom before she puts you to bed, okay?”
“It don’t help,” Henry said.
“It doesn’t help,” Travis corrected.
“That’s what I said.”
Travis sighed. “I wish I didn’t have to go to this stupid party.”
“Stupid is a bad word.”
“Did your mom tell you that?”
A watery expression floated across Henry’s face. Travis hated bringing Lisa up, but the lady at school who provided Henry with grief counseling told him he shouldn’t avoid it.
“Mom didn’t like the word stupid.”
“I’ll try not to say it so much then.”
Henry’s little eyebrows turned down for a frown. “I wonder when my dad’s gonna come get me.”
Henry couldn’t have many memories of Scott. He’d seen him only a handful of times, and Henry had been awfully young. “Remember what we talked about? Your dad can’t come to Big Verde right now.”
Henry’s lower lip began to tremble. “He don’t want me.”
“He doesn’t want—” Travis shut his mouth. “You know what, big guy? I think you’re right. I need a costume. Let’s see that mask.”
Just like that, Henry snapped out of it. “I’ve got three little piggies and this.”
Two yellow eyes and a pair of wicked fangs.
Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
Chapter Three
Maggie watched through the windshield as Claire picked her way across the Village Chateau’s parking lot on stiletto heels. The full October moon lit up the witchy silhouette, complete with broom and pointy hat.
Maggie flashed the Jeep’s lights to get Claire’s attention, and then got out and leaned against the door. She ran her hands over the corset, barely recognizing her own shape. It was as snug as she and Claire could get it, and came just below her breasts, which were probably supposed to be pushed up and out, but Maggie owned no contraption capable of achieving such a feat. Instead, she wore a stretchy bandeau bra beneath the white off-the-shoulder blouse because it was the only strapless bra she owned. The boots were above the knee, and the red fishnet thigh-high stockings stopped about four inches from the bottom of her skirt.
She felt both sexy and silly.
A truck pulled into the parking lot, shining its headlights in Maggie’s face. She squinted as it swung around before backing into the space in front of her. She rolled her eyes at the bright blue “bull balls” hanging from its hitch, swinging obscenely to the bass beat of a Rascal Flatts song. Why did guys hang scrotum sacks on their trucks?
The music stopped abruptly as Bubba Larson opened his truck door and climbed out. “Howdy, Mighty Mack.”
When would guys stop referring to her as Mighty Mack? It had been cute in high school, when she’d earned the nickname by being the only kid in FFA who could get Mini-Might, a two-thousand-pound Brahman bull, into the chute. But now it was just childish and unwomanly and didn’t go with her new corset.
The lighting was too dim for details, but it seemed Bubba had poured his portly self into something tight. In fact, it looked like he might be wearing tights.
A light breeze blew Maggie’s cape open.
“Goddamn, girl,” Bubba said. “I’m Superman, but what are you supposed to be?”
“She’s Little Red Riding Hood,” Claire said, arriving just in time to give Maggie backup. “Isn’t she cute?”
Bubba raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know that cute is the word I’d use.”
Humiliation crept in, and warmth spread across Maggie’s cheeks. They were probably the same color as her cape, which she quickly yanked closed. Why had she let Claire talk her
into wearing this outfit? She felt like a little girl who’d been caught in her mother’s lingerie. She must look laughable! Since feeling humiliated was not something she enjoyed, she became pissed off instead. “Listen here, Bubba. You’re one to talk. I mean, if anybody looks more ridiculous than me—”
“Who said you look ridiculous?” Bubba asked. “You look smokin’ hot, Mighty Mack.” He nodded at Claire and added, “You, too.”
Claire curtsied with her broom, but Maggie shifted nervously from foot to foot. Bubba looked as serious as a large man with a muffin top over his tights could look, so she let go of the cape.
“Come on,” Bubba said, offering an arm to each of them. “Let’s light this place up.”
“Isn’t Trista coming?” Claire asked.
“She’s already here,” Bubba said. “Came early to help out.”
“Is she a superhero, too?” Maggie asked, taking Bubba’s arm.
“Nah. She’s dressed as a nun.”
Claire laughed. “She must be at least eight months along by now.”
“Seven,” Bubba said. “Baby is due around Christmas. She just looks like she’s about to pop. Don’t tell her I said that.”
“Do you know whether it’s a boy or girl?” Maggie asked.
“We’ll find out when it gets here. I figure it’s another girl.”
Bubba and Trista had three daughters. As Bubba liked to say, his swimmers wore skirts. He worshipped those baby girls, though. He and Trista had been together since high school.
Maggie’s heel hit a pebble and she wobbled. “Don’t let go of me.” She might look smokin’ hot leaning against her Jeep, but walking turned her into a spindly-legged newborn calf.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” Claire said. “Just try to walk normally.”
“Which one of you is going to cut a rug with me?” Bubba asked. “Trista can’t do it. Not unless we want this party to get a lot more exciting than it should.”
Maggie loved to dance. But she’d break her neck doing it in these boots. “I’m just learning to walk in these,” she said. “No way I could keep up with you on the dance floor.”
