by Riser, Mimi
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ALL FIRED UP
Madcap Comedy Romance, Texas Style
The STARDUST Series
Book #2 (rated PG)
MIMI RISER
www.mimiriser.com
Copyright 2013 by Mimi Riser
All rights reserved.
Cover by Melissa Alvarez
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Also, this ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
[Disclaimer: This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.]
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All Fired Up
Chapter 1
One broad main street and a handful of smaller ones, the whole connected by a weed-trimmed tangle of dirt alleyways… houses sprouting between the paths like tomato plants, some well-staked and tended, some abandoned and toppled into decay… a scattering of businesses dotted among them, clinging to their vines like last season’s forgotten fruit… a quaint white church with clock chimes you could hear all over town. And beyond that? The sun, the wind, and the ever-present dust. Just a tiny twinkle of humanity floating on a sea of rugged open range beneath a bottomless blue bowl of a sky.
It was Star, Texas – a southwestern hamlet that knew exactly what it was and had no silly pretensions to be anything else – quiet, friendly, and blissfully free from the ravages of progress. Some people enjoyed its small size and slow rhythm.
But Winslow Larkin wasn’t one of them.
The chimes of the church tolled the dreary hour of four as Slo slammed the backdoor of his grandmother’s house and stomped out into the summer sunlight. To him, Star was a boil on the backside of nowhere, a hot, dry, dusty dead-end. With each visit the place seemed to have shrunk, gotten shabbier, dustier, more dismally dull. He’d been back less than a day this trip – had two weeks to go – and was already bored out of his gourd. It was like Chinese water torture, without the water. Tedium dripped onto his head with merciless mounting force.
But this was the last time, he promised himself. When he left this time, the reason for his visits would be leaving with him – whether she liked it or not – and he’d never be choked by “stardust” again.
Angling through the vegetable garden on his way to the back gate, he accidentally flattened a few of his grandmother’s prize tomatoes – an unforgivable sin, but at the moment he didn’t give a damn. Good. She wouldn’t need this shit where she was going. Let it rot. With a sudden flare up of the temper that had plagued his teen years, Slo deliberately trampled several more tomatoes, then some cucumbers and squash, a couple of cantaloupes—
An ominous click sounded behind him.
He’d been spotted.
And the spotter would be boiling mad. But she wouldn’t yell. His grandmother rarely yelled – didn’t have to. Ina Lorene Dixon was the best shot in the county and owned an heirloom Winchester, affectionately dubbed Betsy.
That click was the rifle being cocked.
Ignoring the gate, Slo vaulted the fence and ran. He felt like an idiot over the escape, and the tantrum that prompted it, but that’s what Star did to him. Half a day in his hometown, and he was fifteen years old again and climbing the walls.
“Ina Lorene almost got you that time, Winslow.”
The call and its accompanying cackle came from the ruddy faced, tobacco chewing Earl Goodman three doors down.
Slo winced at the “Winslow,” but skidded to a halt and retraced his steps to the old man’s yard, scraping some cantaloupe pulp off his boots in a weed patch en route. “Nah, she threatens, but she wouldn’t really shoot her only grandkid.”
Earl grinned and spat, narrowly missing the black biker boots Slo had just finished cleaning. “Probably not, boy” – another name geared to annoy – “but she might fly a little birdshot past your tail. What y’all been fussin’ about this time?”
As if it’s any of your business, you old coot.
Then again, in this nosy community, it was. Privacy in Star was a contradiction in terms.
“Same old argument. I want her to move to Houston where I can keep an eye on her. She’s too old to live by herself.”
Earl winked. “And I bet she thinks you’re too young to.”
Perceptive son of a gun, wasn’t he?
“You got that right.” Slo had left at the age of eighteen to attend art college in Houston – and stayed. For ten years he’d lived in the city. He had a successful business established, earned good money, but his grandmother still considered it an adolescent pipedream, still expected him to settle down in Star.
“Well, you can watch her here as easy as there, can’t you? Why don’t you just move home, Slo?”
Why don’t I just whack myself in the head with a hammer?
“My home is in Houston. My work is there.”
“Heck, there’d be plenty of work for you here. A good mechanic never goes hungry.”
God, would he ever be able to explain to these people that he was an artist, not a mechanic? All they understood was that he “worked on cars.” The concept of elaborate custom paint jobs for vehicles was as comprehensible to them as the Stock Market was to a band of chimpanzees.
“Um, thanks for the idea, but everything has already been arranged. I’ve listed the house here with a realtor and found her a nice apartment in one of those assisted-living complexes. She’ll be happy as a Junebug once she’s there.”
“Don’t you mean if you can get her there?”
“Not this time. She’s going if I have to rope and hogtie her.”
Earl chuckled. “Now that is something I’d dearly like to see. You be sure and give me a holler if it comes to that, won’t you? I still got the bulletproof vest from my sheriff days. Be happy to lend it to you.”
“Thanks” – Slo smiled in spite of himself – “but it would probably be easier to just hide her Winchester after she goes to bed.”
“Good luck on that. She sleeps with Ol’ Betsy.”
She did?
The smile fell into a frown. Was his grandmother feeling threatened? Why? The thought of her in any kind of danger made Slo’s gut clench.
On the other hand, if she’d become nervous about living alone, it would be easier to move her out, right?
The frown relaxed. “When did this start?”
“Danged if I know.” Earl scratched the bald spot on top of his head. “A month maybe, not long.” He turned toward a plump figure in red slacks and floral print top, who’d just burst out of the house and was huffing forward at a jerky trot. “Faye might remember.”
“Faye remembers everything,” the figure said. “But Faye ain’t speaking to you, old man, ’cause you don’t remember nothin’.”
“I forgot our anniversary again,” Earl whispered to Slo. “Wishful thinkin’, I guess.”
“I just came out ’cause I heard my honey,” Faye announced. “How you doin’, handsome? Saw you pull in this morning and been waitin’ for a visit all day. How long you gonna be home?”
Before he could escape, Slo was crushed in a big bosomed, heavily floured hug. Faye had been baking, but he hoped it hadn’t been for him. Her eyesight was failing, and she kept mistaking the iodine bottle for the vanilla extract.
“Jus…just till the end of the month,” he coughed
out. “Sooner, if I can get the house packed up before then. I’m moving Gran to Houston.”
Faye backed off and squinted long and hard at him. “So I hear. Ina Lorene just called and blistered my ear with the news. She’s madder’n a wet hen. And she wants you to eat all them vegetables you mashed, before they spoil.”
“What? They’re already spoiled. Most of them weren’t even ripe to begin with.”
“She says that’s your problem. You mash it, you eat it.” Faye shrugged, sending a puff of flour into the air. “You know how your grandma hates to waste food.”
Yeah, he knew. Slo groaned. He also knew he’d be up all night with indigestion.
“You sure you’re doin’ the right thing, honey?”
Uh-oh. Faye was going serious on him. Slo hated it when she did that. The woman was a walking, talking Poor Richard’s Almanac, stuffed to the gills with quaint country sayings and outdated advice.
“Real sure. She’ll love her new place once I get her settled in. The complex has all kinds of organized activities. There’ll be so much for her to do, it’ll give her a whole new lease on life,” he said to derail the feared lecture.
But Faye was already stoked and ready to roll. “Your grandma don’t want a new life, honey. She’s happy with the life she’s got, and she has plenty to do right here.”
Too much. Gardening, preserving, cooking, cleaning, house repairs… She insisted on doing it all herself – had more energy than a person her age had a right to – and refused to quit.
“I appreciate your concern, ma’am, but Gran has worked hard her whole life. It’s time for her to relax and have some fun now.”
“But that’s the point, ain’t it? Work is all she knows. It’s too late to shift her now. It’d be like tryin’ to transplant an old tree. Her roots are too deep. A move might kill her.”
Slo’s teeth gritted, but he kept his voice level. “Gran’s not a tree, and I’m certainly not trying to kill her.” Quite the opposite. Slo had lost both parents when he was small. His mother’s mother had raised him, and she was eighty-seven now. She drove him crazy, but he loved her like crazy, too – couldn’t stand the thought of losing her. He wanted her to last for years, but couldn’t see that happening at her current pace. “She’s going run herself ragged here. I just want her to slow down a little.”
Faye squinted at him a moment more, then sighed in surrender. “Well, I always did say you were as stubborn as Ina Lorene. If anyone can dig her outta Star, I guess you can.”
“If she’s started taking her rifle to bed, I’d say she’s ready to leave. I don’t think I’ll have to dig too deep.”
“Oh, she ain’t really scared, just bein’ cautious. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” Faye quoted. “Your grandma thinks somethin’ funny might be happening next door at the Jones house.”
So what else was new?
The Joneses were Yankee transplants from New Jersey. They had moved to Star after Slo had escaped it. Actually moved here. A deliberate choice on their part. And if that didn’t tell you something about them, nothing would. The whole family was nuts.
“Something funny is always happening at the Jones’s,” he said.
“This is…different.” Faye lowered her gaze.
Slo felt a weird tingle down his spine. “How different?”
“I…I don’t know exactly. Ina Lorene won’t say. But it’s just been the last few weeks or so – since that new girl moved in. Roxy Sinclair. She’s Lydia Jones’s niece.”
Roxy?
Slo felt another tingle – a warm one, deep in his abdomen. There was something about the name that tickled his fancy, fired his imagination. Maybe because it rhymed so smoothly with foxy. And if the girl belonged to the Joneses, the adjective might be very appropriate, too. All the Jones women were eye candy. It was the family’s one redeeming virtue.
Foxy Roxy…
Staying at the house next to his grandmother’s.
Maybe the next two weeks wouldn’t be so boring after all.
Chapter 2
Star…
Such a perfect name, full of sparkle and hope. People often wished on stars, but in this case the star itself was the answer to a wish.
Roxanne Sinclair’s mother had died when Roxanne was an infant, and the wealthy father who’d provided for her had been a supercilious, cold man who felt he’d sired a freak and treated her accordingly. He had given her the best care money could buy, but not in his house. For years Roxanne had wished for a real home. Now she had one. Here.
She loved the town and the Jones family she’d recently joined. A big family that currently consisted of Roxanne’s Aunt Lydia and Lydia’s grown children: Jileana and her new husband Jack, the twins Sam and Delilah, and the triplets Muffy, Buffy, and Duffy (twins and triplets – imagine). The latter were musicians, a professional jazz trio, and Delilah was a professional dancer with her own troupe. They all spent a good deal of time on the road, touring, and were gone at present, but they used their mother’s home as a base camp. Jileana and Jack were away, too, on their honeymoon. Sam was an artist who lived in this building here on the main street of town, a few blocks from Lydia’s house, while Roxanne now lived with Lydia.
The Joneses had always been her family, of course, her mother having been Lydia Jones’s sister, but Roxanne had never had any contact with them while her father lived. He hadn’t liked his wife’s relatives, apparently, and had cut all ties with them after her death. For sure he’d never spoken of them to Roxanne – never spoken to her much about anything. He hadn’t liked her either. Not that she could blame him. It must have been difficult for him having a daughter like her – must have been hell – even though Sam insisted her father had been wrong to think so.
If only she could believe Sam on that.
Her cousin was so clever about everything else. It was amazing what he’d done with some sawhorses and plywood, a few carefully angled planks, and a long swath of sky blue satin.
Balanced on the balls of her feet on the platform, her back arched and braced against one of the satin covered planks, and her arms spread wide, Roxanne didn’t feel like she was flying. She felt like a crucifixion victim, every muscle tensed and aching from the strain of holding the pose. But when Sam’s painting was finished, she would look like she was soaring effortlessly above the clouds on wings of feathery flame. She would be a fire angel. That was art for you.
The thought made her frown slightly. What was the difference between art and life anyway? She knew so little about either, but she suspected the distinction was more nebulous than many people presumed.
“Roxy? Everything okay? We can call it quits for the day if you’re tired.”
Damn, he’d caught the frown. She’d have to watch that.
Glancing down at the tall blond poised behind his easel, she flashed him a smile. “I’m fine. Just thinking too hard, I guess.”
“Ah, and I’ve warned you about that. No heavy thoughts in here, angel. They’ll pull you through the clouds, and you’ll crash.” Sam spoke sternly, but his expression was pure devilment.
Roxanne loved it when his eyes sparkled like that. But then those blue eyes of his were always sparkling, weren’t they?
“I want you to think only light, airy, frivolous things,” he instructed.
Her smile soured. “I don’t know any light, airy things.”
“Sure you do. You know feathers, don’t you? Haven’t you ever gotten a feather stuck up your nose?”
Roxanne felt a giggle building, but bit it back. “No.”
“No nose feathers, huh? Too bad.” His brow furrowed in thought. “What about marshmallows then? Ever dump out a big bag of fluffy marshmallows and walk around on them so they squish between your toes?”
The giggle erupted. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Sure is.” Sam grinned. “It’s also much better.” His gaze moved back and forth from her to the canvas – studying, comparing – then he squeezed a few new blobs of color
onto his palette and plunged back into the business of creating a masterpiece.
Terribly impressed, and proud of her own contribution to the artistic process, Roxanne scrutinized the expert way he worked. Not that she had ever seen an artist in action before Sam, but he certainly seemed to know what he was doing. Samson Jones was one talented guy whose paintings hung in collections the world over and sold for thousands of dollars.
Roxanne had been raised in luxury, but ironically never had a dime of her own until her father’s investment firm crashed, leaving him destitute and dead of a heart attack from the shock. With no more funds to keep Roxanne where she had been living, the owners of the place had searched for a new place to dump her and located Cousin Sam, who’d been happy to claim her – who’d given her a life – and acted as though she were doing him a favor. He was paying her to model, for godssake, but still worried about the difficulty of the pose. Like she was supposed to care if her muscles cramped or went numb? Hell, she’d have cheerfully lain on nails or hung upside-down in a snake pit if he’d asked her. She owed him everything!
“No, you don’t,” Sam said, never missing a beat with his brush. “You don’t owe anyone anything. This is what family is for. You never should have been in that place to begin with. If I’d had any idea what was going on, you’d have been out of there years ago.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. Precious few people knew that Sam and his twin were psychic, but Roxanne had sensed it right off the bat, and they had debated it a lot since then – had speculated the trait came from their mothers’ family. A very mixed bag, heredity.
“Sammy, are you reading my mind?”
“Didn’t have to. Your expression was an open book. As long as we’re on the subject though, let me offer a little advice. The trick with telepathy isn’t knowing how to read minds, but how not to, otherwise you’ll drown in brainwaves.”
“I don’t have that problem. I’m not that telepathic. I just get little snatches of things here and there, but never much and never for long.”
