by Nicole Snow
Holding in a chuckle, I pick up the strawberries to put back in her cart, but she wheels it behind her, safely out of my reach.
Damn, she’s good.
Inwardly groaning, I drop the berries back in my cart to keep the peace. “Bridge night? Don’t you mean Texas Hold ‘em?”
She gives me a dull look from beneath her lashes. False ones, I’m sure.
“I know Wilson,” I remind her. The old man who deals cards for the seniors at the center is also a regular at the Purple Bobcat, my favorite watering hole in town.
Shrugging, Granny nods.
“He’s an excellent dealer in all the games worth playing. I do believe he spent some time working one of the big casinos in Vegas years ago.” She turns and grabs the handle on her cart, spinning it around. “Come on, Tory! We have to get to aisle one before Thelma Simon gets all the good strawberries!”
“Sorry,” Tory mouths as she turns to follow her grandmother, so mortified she’s gone pale.
Hilarious.
“You can pick her up at seven,” Granny whispers loudly over her shoulder. “She’s never been to the new Purple Bobcat. Not since Wylie sold the place off and Grady made it his baby. Show her a good time, won’t you?”
“Gran!” Tory says louder as she slaps a hand against her forehead.
“You’re sure you don’t want to join in, Granny?” I ask, laughing.
“Nope. I have to be at the center by six thirty sharp with the strawberry shortcake I promised—if Thelma’s left any decent strawberries in the store.”
“All right then,” I say, wondering why my head feels like it’s spinning. “I’ll stop by and grab Tory around seven.”
Tory turns around and stares at me wide-eyed.
“Does Tory not have a say in this?” she asks. “Or am I the only one who realizes I’m standing here and last I checked, I’m still of sound mind.” Pointing at her lime-green t-shirt, she adds, “Tory. Right here.”
“I see you, Peach,” I say, lowering my voice so her granny can’t hear. “It’s just a couple drinks and an excuse to get out. What’s the harm? Might be fun to catch up like old times. I’ll see you at seven.”
Granny grabs Tory’s arm and pulls her along in her cart’s wake.
Another glowing example of why this town respects Granny Coffey. Including me.
The woman doesn’t slow down and take a breath for anything.
I’m also not sure she’s ever taken no for an answer.
I won’t either. If there’s one thing I know about Tory, even without knowing her for years, it’s that she looks like she needs a night out as bad as I do.
Plus catching up on life without any goats hanging around ought to be fun.
With more than I bargained for in my cart, I wrap up my shopping and check out. While loading my groceries, including the avalanche of fruits and vegetables Granny dumped on me into my truck, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
A bike.
A two-seater, with two women wearing matching bike helmets pedaling out of the parking lot.
It just falls out of me then. I laugh like a fool at how Granny’s bent over the handlebars, cycling away like she’s on the Tour de France, while Tory drags behind her.
Yeah.
One more reason she’s always been special.
Can’t think of anybody else who’d merrily go along with her grandmother’s quirkiness.
I pick Tory up at seven, and by seven twenty, we’re at the Purple Bobcat, a bar just a few miles outside of town, right off the highway.
Laughing nearly the entire way here about Granny’s antics—especially that damn tandem bike—she keeps apologizing for her grandmother forcing me to load up my fridge with plants.
I’m grateful for the distraction. Whether she knows it or not, she’s dressed to fucking kill.
First casualty being me.
The dude who’s not supposed to be casting lingering gazes at his friend.
Maybe I’m out of excuses, but you’d better believe I’ll blame it on the firefly pink she’s decked out in tonight.
It draws my eyes like magnets. I still can’t look away by the time we’re perched at our table, tall glasses of beer dripping condensation in front of us.
Her hair hangs loosely over her shoulders, down her back, and the pink highlights are the same shade as her short-sleeved sweater.
Her black jeans have pink stitching, and so do her heeled cowboy boots.
“What do you think? Granny picked out my outfit tonight,” she tells me, having caught me staring. “Believe it or not, we’re the same size.”
“I can believe it. Looks cute. Guess I’ll have to help you fight off the guys who’ll come sniffing around once the night crew rolls in. Fair warning: this town gets thirsty, girl.”
Another airy laugh falls out of her. I wonder if she senses what a liar I am.
She’s not cute.
She’s a certified destroyer of men.
I’d struggled dearly to keep my eyes on the road during the drive out here. Peeling my eyes off her ever since we sat down has been damn near impossible.
Tory gives me a smug grin and shakes her head. “I’d apologize for Gran again, but I’ve already done that—”
“Only a hundred times,” I say with a snort.
“At least.” She sighs and glances around the room while taking a sip off her glass. “So, this is the legendary Purple Bobcat. I thought it was a dive? This actually looks...serviceable.”
“Hey, duchess, it’s not that hipster crap from the Windy City, but it does the job.” I raise my glass proudly and she giggles. “You want something fancier, there’s Libations over on Main Street, but that’s more of a place for live music, special events, and family dinners. My pal, Grady McKnight, took this place over and turned it into something special. Every red-blooded man in town loves the vibe.”
“I mean, I knew it’d changed. Uncle Dean used to practically live here, always trying to glad-hand bikers and getting into trouble,” she says, fluttering her lashes at the memories. “Dad would lecture me to the nth degree every summer. Under absolutely no circumstances was I allowed to let Uncle Dean bring me here. If that happened, it was a guaranteed trip home, and he’d be very disappointed in me.”
Brutal.
Not that I can fully blame her old man for having a stick up his ass on this one. The old place was called The Den, and it definitely attracted a rougher crowd. Old Wylie, the owner then, kept a shotgun behind the bar, though I don’t think he ever put it to good use.
It dawns on me that the Tory back then and the one sitting here have one thing in common.
She always followed the rules to the letter, and she still does it now because she hates disappointing people.
That’s why I caught her that day at Gramps’ house, holding a half-broken stick with a runny honeycomb on the ground. Bawling her eyes out and blubbering apologies when I so much as asked what the hell she was doing with the bees.
“It’s a cooler bar now, even if it still attracts a younger, single crowd,” I say. “Grady worked his way up to owning this place not long ago after working here forever. He upgraded it into a real honky tonk. Not the wannabe biker bar it was before.”
“Big upgrade if the stories are true.” Shaking her head, she adds, “Seriously, though...it’s nice. I like the woodwork and the décor. Old signs and antiques and just a few off-color jokes. It’s pretty rustic. Fits nicely here in Dallas.”
“That’s what Grace does. Ridge’s wife. She helped Grady polish up the interior about a couple months ago.”
“Awesome. It shows.” She nods and then looks at me. “So, I almost called you this afternoon when I saw the bridge from the road to the gate while checking up on the goats, but...I figured you already knew about it.”
I nod and feel slightly odd, detecting she’s not real happy about the bridge.
“Did you try it out? Ridge just had it installed. Somebody couldn’t help but mention what a h
azard that ditch can be.”
“Oh, I did! So did Owl. It makes the job much safer, that’s for sure.”
“Good,” I tell her, taking a long, thoughtful pull off my beer.
Maybe that disgruntled hint in her voice earlier was just my imagination.
Tory glances around at the full tables and barstools. “Looks like the new owner is pulling in some good business.” Holding up her glass, she adds, “The beer’s good. Probably twice the amount you’d get back home for the same price.”
“I figured you for a wine gal,” I say, taking another sip of beer.
“I’m flexible. Literally. Before my injury, I used to be able to touch my shin to my head.”
Holy fuck.
Not the image I need right now.
It’s suddenly a feat to choke down my brew without spewing it everywhere.
“Nothing wrong with that,” I mutter. Ignoring my dick pulling at my jeans, I take another furious slurp off my beer. “When did you stop coming to Dallas, anyhow?”
“Right after I turned eighteen. I graduated high school and then went off to college in Chicago, because of dancing with the ballet and—” She clamps her lips tight and shakes her head. “Well, nothing too exciting.”
“Do your parents still live in the city?” I ask, wondering if that’s what made her clam up.
I know how hard they used to drive her. Her ma, especially, was a stickler for perfect grades and a list of extracurriculars so long it got exhausting just hearing about it.
“Oh, yeah, they’ll never leave while they’ve got a pulse,” she says, perking up. “How about your family? Are they still in Oklahoma?”
“Nah, Dad retired a couple years ago and they moved to Hawaii.”
“Beautiful place! How about your brother? Where’s he at now?”
I’m amazed she remembers so much about me. Alan never spent the summers here, but I’d mentioned him to her years ago.
Hell, I’d mentioned a lot of things. She’d always been so easy to talk to, not mean or judgmental like other kids. A true friend when I’d needed one.
I smile. “Guess my whole family just got sick of living in the lower forty-eight states. He moved up to Alaska a while ago. He’s a bush pilot now and loves it to death. Married with two kids.”
“Wow. Good for him.” She lays her chin on her palm, genuinely interested in my family’s boring moves.
Damn.
I’ve never felt unsure around Tory before, yet I’m beginning to sense this weird tension that wasn’t there yesterday.
“What about you and your dancing? I heard bits and pieces from Granny. Sounds like a hell of an accomplishment. Dancing with a prestigious ballet group and living your dream.” That’s the way her grandmother put it, anyway.
She shrugs. “Yes and no. It was my dream, but like everything else...dreams aren’t always all they’re cut out to be.”
“Is it your knee?” I venture, hoping it’s not a touchy subject. “I can see how that’d put a person out of commission, no matter how talented.”
She empties her beer and sets the glass down with a loud thump.
“Well, that, too...” she tells me, looking down.
Those blue eyes seem a shade darker, laced with sadness.
While I think about how to steer the conversation back to happier places, I decide another round can’t do us any harm.
Glancing at the bar to get the waitress’ attention, instead I see a big man waving.
Grady. He’s staring right at us, motioning me over.
Odd.
He wasn’t there earlier when we walked in, and the serious stone-like expression behind his thick, dark beard already has me concerned.
He’s probably just curious who’s with me tonight, I tell myself.
It’s not like I bring women around here regularly.
“Hold that thought and let me get us a couple more beers,” I say, sliding out of my seat.
Tory nods as I stand.
Feels bad because I sense there’s more behind her dancing issues, something she wants to open up about, but Grady won’t look away. “I’ll be right back.”
“Sure.”
I walk to the bar and ask the waitress to take two glasses of beer to our table before heading over to where Grady is near the end of the bar.
“I tried calling you earlier, Faulk,” he says, his voice a low growl.
I recall my phone going off, vibrating while I’d been checking out at the grocery store. I’d forgotten about calling him back and my voicemails.
“Sorry, man. Busy day. What’s up?”
“I see that.” He nods at Tory. “Listen, the last thing I want to do is get between you and a date, but—”
“She’s an old friend. Nothing crazy. You know Granny Coffey? Of course you do. That’s her granddaughter, Tory.”
“Got it.” He takes another long look, nods thoughtfully, then leans across the bar. “Well, a couple dudes dropped by here earlier. Stopped in for burgers around lunchtime, but they were asking about you. They were awful curious if you were here in Dallas.”
My gut churns, tossing my brain into confusion.
What he just said doesn’t make sense. Unless...
Oh, fuck. It can’t be. It better not be.
“Me? You’re sure, Grady? Why?” I whisper, running a hand through my hair.
“Can’t say for sure, but I got a bad vibe off them the second they started asking questions. My gut says someone’s fishing for info on you, Faulk. Maybe even trying to buy it. I told them I’d never heard of you, but I’m sure they’ll be back. They seemed pretty damn confident you’ve got roots here.”
Shit.
My blood ices over. “Did they say a name? Who’s trying to get in touch with me?”
“No, but it’s not good news, is it? If you need help, I’m right here.”
Guilt rocks through me in a sudden flash so hard I lay my hand on the countertop for balance.
“Nah, nah, nothing like that. I’ll follow up, though. Don’t you worry, big guy,” I tell him, forcing a smile as I slap a friendly hand on his shoulder.
He’s always been good to me.
Grady’s a solid friend, a single dad to two girls, a person I know I can trust. And someone I don’t want to see hurt.
Not by skeletons hell-bent on crawling out of their closet.
There’s only one thing that makes sense with men asking around.
It’s the whole reason why I left the FBI—so no one else would get hurt thanks to my botched job—and it needs to stay that way.
There’s only one asshole I can think of who’d be after intel on me.
Bat Pickett.
Angry regret sours my blood as I glance over my shoulder at Tory.
Like it or not, if this is what I think it is, I have to take her home right now.
And then I have homework, making sure Bat’s still rotting away in an Oklahoma prison where he belongs. He’d sworn revenge the day he found out what happened to his brother.
I just didn’t think he’d ever be in a position to make good on it.
3
Goat To Be Kidding Me (Tory)
I have no good reason not to trust Quinn Faulkner.
He’s Quinn for crying out loud, the most honest man I’ve probably ever known, but somehow...
...I still have this ragey-sad-awkward pit in my stomach.
It started when Granny nearly put me in his grocery cart along with the fruits and veggies back at Filmore’s grocery store.
Poor Faulk didn’t have much choice in buying them.
He also didn’t have much choice in bringing me here tonight.
And maybe when I saw that brand-spanking-new bridge stretched over mini Royal Gorge, the pit in my stomach got bigger.
I know he was just being nice, but I wonder...did he ask Ridge to build it so he wouldn’t have to help me load the goats up once they’re finished clearing that field?
If so, I can’t totally blame him.
He’s a busy man who’s clearly done big things with his life, even if I don’t understand why he’d ever go on sabbatical from something as intense and prestigious as the FBI.
The last thing he needs is helpless old me calling him up, begging for a hand like some kind of demented Bo Peep with scraggly goats instead of adorable sheep.
Some things never change, I guess.
If he still sees me as that awkward little girl with her hand caught in the honeycomb, or the awkward teenager who planted her face in a freaking pie, is he wrong?
It’s just a shame he’s too much of a gentleman to come out and tell me.
Quinn Faulkner is far too easy to talk to. I almost spilled the beans on just how disappointing my dance career was even back in college.
Yes, it was my big dream then, but half the time, I felt like it was Mother’s.
Some dreams are infectious. They just get their hooks in and there’s no time to stop, think, and consider what’s in it for you.
The show must go on.
I didn’t have a choice.
I’ve never told anyone that.
Just like I’d never told those stupid kids I was allergic to bees way back when they’d dared each other to steal a honeycomb out of Farmer Faulkner’s beehives. The kids kept teasing me about being a ‘fraidy-cat city girl’ who was terrified of bees.
They were right.
I was a city girl with good reason to be scared after Mother lectured me for years, letting me know one itty bitty sting could kill with the wrong allergies. But I’d been determined to be one of the group that summer.
I hadn’t made any friends in Dallas yet besides Bella Reed, and her own visits to her oil baron grandfather’s ranch didn’t always line up with mine.
So off to Farmer Faulkner’s we’d ventured. His place was just on the edge of town, it wasn’t miles, but I remember feeling like we’d walked at least ten miles that day. Straight to his place and down by the pond where he’d kept his bee boxes.
The other kids saw the tall, awkward, pissed off kid coming before I did that day, and took off running. I’d taken their stupid dare, trying to win a smidge of respect.
There I was, stick in hand, ten feet away from certain death by honeybees.
