The Braddock Boys: Travis

by Kimberly Raye

  She eyed him a few moments more. Then, as if she’d decided on a new approach, her expression softened and she smiled. “Doesn’t Brady look good? Thanks to those Weston genes, of course.”

  Brady stood stock-still beneath his grandfather’s disapproving gaze as the man swept him from head to toe. He knew what the elder Weston thought of his attire—the silk dress shirt. The expensive slacks. Yuppie, that’s what Zachariah Weston was thinking. His only grandson had turned into a yuppie.

  The sad truth was, he was right. Eleven years had taken their toll.

  But no more, Brady vowed for the umpteenth time. He was shedding his image and getting back to his roots. His past. His family.

  The old man’s gaze dropped to the dusty cowboy boots Brady had unearthed the day before he’d left Dallas.

  “Those are Weston boots,” he told Claire, obviously intent on giving Brady the silent treatment. “They’re my boots.” While Brady had inherited his sense of duty from his grandfather, he’d also inherited his mother’s spunk. “You gave them to me, remember?”

  “Tell this young man that, of course, I remember. I ain’t that old.” He eyed the boots again. “They’re still Weston boots.”

  “And I’m a Weston.”

  Zachariah didn’t say anything for a long moment. He simply stared and thought. Brady could practically see the wheels spinning as the old man decided his grandson’s fate in those next few tense moments.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” the man finally barked at Claire. “Get the boy a seat. He’s here. He might as well eat.”

  Brady let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, and the tension eased. Zachariah Weston didn’t eat with strangers. He only broke bread with friends, loved ones, family.

  A warmth filled Brady as he slid into a nearby seat, followed by a swell of regret. Regret for all the lunches he’d missed. For the family he’d missed.

  But he was home, and he was going to make up for lost time starting right now.

  “DOROTHY REALLY OUTDID herself.” Zachariah leaned back in his chair and puffed on his pipe. “Never had apples that tender.”

  “They were good,” Brady commented, but his grandfather didn’t so much as spare him a glance. He kept his gaze trained on his daughter-in-law.

  “Ask him why he left Dallas.”

  “Why don’t you ask him? He’s sitting right in front of you.”

  “I don’t belong there,” Brady spoke up before his mother could give the old man a piece of her mind. And she would. Claire Weston had never had trouble standing up to her husband when he’d been alive and the same went for his ornery father. “I never did.”

  His gramps didn’t say anything for a long moment. He simply puffed on his pipe and stared at Brady.

  “Ask him what his plans are,” he told his daughter-in-law.

  “Listen, old man, I’m not your puppet—”

  “I was thinking I might like to try my hands at making boots again,” Brady cut in.

  “Did you hear that?” Claire leveled a frown at Zachariah. “Or do you need to turn your hearing aid up?”

  “I don’t wear a hearing aid, little lady, and you’d do well to remember who you’re talking to.” He waved his pipe at her. “I can’t imagine he still knows anything about making boots or that he’s ready to give it his all.”

  “Just like riding a horse,” Brady said. “Once you’ve climbed into the saddle and taken a good ride, you never forget and I wouldn’t give anything less.”

  “Horse riding,” Claire paraphrased, obviously tiring of arguing with the old man. “You never forget and he’s dedicated.”

  The old man nodded and puffed a few more times before a thoughtful look crept over his expression. “I could use an extra pair of hands down at the factory. Not for some frou-frou position, mind you.” He motioned to Brady’s silk shirt. “I’ve got Ellie running the office and she doesn’t need a bit of help. She’s a whiz with numbers and loves every minute.”

  “I’m not an accountant,” Brady told his grandfather, who didn’t so much as spare him a glance. “I’m an ad man.” Was an ad man.

  “Tell him I ain’t got room for one of those either.”

  “Good.” Brady spoke up before his mother could open her mouth. “Because that’s not the type of position I’m interested in.”

  “It takes focus, not to mention he’s liable to get his hands dirty,” Granddaddy warned.

  “Just the way I like them.”

  “We’ll see,” Zachariah said as he puffed on his pipe and gave his only grandson one long, slow look. “We surely will.”

  “THIS IS BULLSHIT,” Ellie declared later that afternoon as she pulled her Jeep Wrangler into the parking lot and braked to a halt. “You should be in charge of operations instead of hammering soles onto a bunch of cowboy boots. Hammering, of all things. I can’t believe he’s starting you out at the bottom. You might as well be just another—”

  “—guy off the street,” he finished for her. “Right now, I am. He doesn’t trust me and I can’t say as I blame him.”

  “What?”

  “I betrayed him.”

  “You stood up to him. There’s a big difference.”

  “Not to him, and until I prove myself again, then this is the way it’s going to be. Lots of hammering and lots of silence.”

  “And that’s another thing. Have you ever seen anything so juvenile as him talking to you through other people? He’s crazy. That’s all I have to say. And mean. And I have every intention of telling him so. Not that he’ll listen to me either, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

  “Let it go, Ellie. If putting me through my paces and giving me the silent treatment will make him feel better, then that’s what I’ll let him do.”

  “You’ve got a college degree, for Pete’s sake.”

  “And he’s got a lot of resentment towards me. He needs to vent.”

  “So you’re going to be his whipping boy until he comes to his senses, is that it?”

  “I’ll do what I have to do. I knew what I was facing when I left Dallas.” And he’d been eager to get back anyway. To escape the daily grind and put the past eleven years behind him.

  “But it’s still not right,” she persisted. “You shouldn’t be doing something you hate. No one should.” A faraway look crossed her eyes and Brady had the distinct impression that she’d died her hair green, then purple, not to make a fashion statement, but to make a personal one. Namely that she wasn’t as happy hiding behind those ledger books as his grandfather apparently thought.

  “Maybe not.” But it felt right. Brady had worked in the hammering department as a teenager and he knew the work. What’s more, he liked it. The heavy weight of the hammer in his hands and the scent of leather in his nostrils. “Trust me, I’m looking forward to every minute. You don’t know how much I missed this place.” He stared through the windshield at the large brown building that sat on the far edge of the Weston Ranch.

  Once a barn, the structure had been expanded throughout the years and bricked over to accommodate the growing boot company. A small gravel parking lot sat to the right of the building. Brady trained his eyes on the patch of trees just beyond and glimpsed a large corral in the distance. He didn’t need a closer look to know that the place stood empty. Gone were the animals that had once put muscle behind the large machinery used in the leather process when Brady had been a small boy. He’d been barely four when his grandfather had converted to the much cheaper and more convenient electricity. The massive tanning machines operated at the flick of a switch. Ovens that had once been fired up every morning by hand now had temperature knobs.

  His grandfather had been determined to keep Weston Boots competitive in the ever-changing market place. Factories pumped out more and more and so the man had been hellbent on doing what he could to compete. And he’d succeeded. Somewhat.

  The company was holding its own, but it wasn’t moving. Ellie’s books had indicated a steady pr
ofit over the past six years and while the numbers weren’t dropping, they weren’t increasing to represent the changing economy. The company needed a boost. He pushed the thought aside, however appealing. He wasn’t an ad man. He made cowboy boots. End of story.

  “Don’t get me wrong.” Ellie’s voice pushed past his thoughts and drew his full attention. “I’m glad you’re home. Damned glad. But after living in Dallas all these years, I wouldn’t be surprised to see you go stir crazy over the next few days. This place is hardly the Exxon Towers.”

  “No,” he agreed, “it’s not even close.” Which was the point exactly. The fading structure was completely opposite from the sixteen stories of steel and concrete he’d grown accustomed to. “Accustomed,” as in tolerant. But he’d never developed a true liking for the skyscraper, much less the surrounding big city.

  This he liked. The smell of grass. The sight of trees. The feel of the sun beating down on him, making sweat run in trickles from beneath the brim of his faded Resistol.

  A smile tilted his lips as he climbed from the passenger seat and followed his sister toward the building. Familiarity rushed through him as he touched the rusted wagon wheel that hung on the front door of the building—the same wheel that had been hanging on the door since Weston Boots first opened back in the late 1800s.

  “I keep telling Granddaddy to get rid of that,” Ellie said as she came up behind him. “But you know better than anyone how stubborn he can be.” She drew in a deep breath. “We’re running with a skeleton crew since it’s Saturday—Granddaddy’s only day off—so you’re not likely to get the real feel until the place is packed and all departments are up and operational. That’ll be first thing Monday.”

  “That’s okay. It’ll give me a chance to get the feel of things again without worrying about slowing down production.” He pushed open the door for his sister, then followed her inside.

  “No problem, but do it fast because I’ve got a surprise planned for later.”

  “What surprise?”

  “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise, now, would it?” She smiled as if she held a big secret. “Let’s just say, it’s not every day the prodigal brother comes home. The occasion definitely calls for a celebration.”

  “As in a party?”

  Excitement lit her eyes as she nodded. “As in an intimate party with the old gang.”

  He returned his sister’s smile. “You never could keep a secret.”

  “How could I when you practically stuffed haystack needles under my fingernails to get me to talk?”

  He grinned and let the door rock shut. Nostalgia rushed through him, along with a sense of peace and he simply stood there in the doorway, absorbing the sight and sound and smell of the place.

  “What’s wrong?” Ellie asked, her brow wrinkling as she studied him.

  “Nothing,” he said, sliding his arm around her as he guided her inside. “Everything’s right. For the first time in a long time, everything’s right.”

  “I’MAFRAID I’VE got bad news and good news,” Merle, still clad in overalls and T-shirt, told him after Ellie dropped him off at the service station to check on his car later that afternoon.

  “Give me the bad news first.”

  “I cain’t exactly do that. It really is bad news and good news all rolled into one. See, Janie Gingrich— she’s the lady that used to rent the room above the garage before she married Trent Mulberry—had this nasty crow that got loose and took up residence in the tree just in back of the shop.”

  “Is this the good news or the bad news?”

  “Both, I told you. Bad news because the critter’s been living in the tree behind the shop. Only comes out when he hears my wrecker pull up. Came squawking by when I pulled in with your sports car and pooped all over the hood. I shooed her away.” He waved his rolled-up issue of Popular Mechanics. “But it was too late. She scratched the paint before I knew what had happened.”

  “And that’s good news, too?”

  “Sure enough. I’ll have to wait until Monday to get the paint from Austin, but good because I’d have to have the car until then anyway so’s I can take a look at that cracked engine block and look for any permanent damage. I know, I know,” Merle said when Brady started to talk, “it’s not in keeping with my twenty-four-hour guarantee, but this being Saturday and all and Sunday not counting, it’s technically only twenty-four work hours.” He eyed his nephew. “You’re not mad about the poop, are you?”

  “Not if you’ve still got that room above the garage.”

  Merle grinned and fished in his pocket. “It’s yours,” he declared as he handed over a slightly bent key. “It ain’t much, just a one-room with a kitchen, but it’s clean. Maria sees to that.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Brady took the key and retrieved his bag from the backseat of his Porsche.

  “Mighty pretty car,” Merle said as he trailed his hand along the door. “Minus the poop, of course.”

  “Yeah, it is nice.” Nice was an understatement. It was the best, like everything else in his life. Sally never would have settled for less. Even when they’d been dead broke, she would spend the last dollar to buy one gourmet cookie that lasted all of a few bites, rather than a loaf of bread to last them all week.

  The dollar days had passed and he’d gone on to bring home more money, which she’d promptly spent. Always buying the best, from clothes to cars to fifty-dollar decorative handsoaps that he hadn’t been allowed to use. They’d been for show like everything else in her life. Status had meant everything, and so she’d moved on when someone with more status had come along.

  Thankfully, she’d finally done what he couldn’t because of his damned conscience. She’d ended their marriage. Cut him loose. Sent him on his way so she could climb higher on the social ladder.

  Or was that why she’d left?

  I need a real man who can satisfy me.

  He pushed aside the words as he headed up the stairs to the one-room efficiency. He wasn’t dwelling on the past. He was living for the moment. For right now. And right now involved taking a shower so he could meet his younger sister and the rest of his old buddies for a much-needed drink.

  “Look out, Cadillac. Here I come.”

  3

  “I NEED A screaming orgasm in the worst way.”

  “You and me both,” Eden told the woman who plopped down at the bar later that evening, a near empty glass in hand.

  Dottie Abernathy was a regular Saturday-afternoon customer and one of the few who didn’t give a fig about Eden’s reputation.

  Then again, Dottie had had her own reputation to contend with before she’d married the local fire chief and made a respectable woman of herself. Bib boobs—and Dottie had been blessed with two Double D’s—equaled an even bigger reputation, and so the woman understood what Eden had had to endure. She was in her late forties with graying red hair and a die-hard makeup habit that made the town’s only Avon lady the number-one-ranked salesperson in Texas. Dottie had a few too many gray hairs and her crow’s feet were deepening, but in her prime she’d stirred her fair share of gossip.

  “I know why I need one,” Dottie said, taking the very last sip of her drink. The woman was referring to the outrageously named beverage, while Eden had an entirely different orgasm on her mind. “James is at home planted in front of the TV and I’m here alone. But what’s your excuse?”

  Withdrawal. That’s what had stirred Eden’s hormones into a frenzy the moment she’d spotted Brady Weston. Sure, he was handsome and sexy, but he was still just a man. A walking Y chromosome. Nothing to get all excited about, unless the woman getting excited had been so busy the past six months working and worrying over the future and Jake Marlboro and what new stunt the slimeball was going to come up with to screw up her business that she’d completely neglected her personal life.

  No wonder she’d been hot and bothered since walking into the Pink Cadillac after dropping Brady off at Merle’s. She was deprived. Desperate. Du
e.

  Yep, she was definitely due for a good, quality orgasm.

  Not that she’d ever had anything close to a screaming one. Sure, she’d whimpered. She’d sighed. She’d even moaned a time or two. But no man had ever made her scream. Despite the rumors circulating around the small town.

  Rumors. That summed up Eden’s life to a T, at least from the tenth grade up. She was one great big rumor. Her past. Her present. Her future.

  Rumor had it that she’d slept with the entire football team her sophomore year, and that she was presently sleeping with every elk over at the ledge, including Homer Jackson who, everyone in their right mind knew, preferred bulls to heifers any old day. As for the future? She would probably sleep her way through the city council, or maybe boff every police officer on the ten-man force.

  Rumor. That’s all it was, with the exception of one really cute elk Eden had met last New Year’s Eve at the annual holiday party. They’d dated a few times and slept together once, and that had been the end of it. He’d been a horse trainer for one of the nearby ranches, and once breaking season had ended, he’d left for New Mexico and another ranch.

  She’d moaned with him. Not so much because the sex had been great. Looking back, she could objectively qualify it as so-so. But she’d been coming off a long dry spell after her last fling nearly four years ago at a bartending convention in Austin, and even so-so had been an occasion for moaning.

  But a bonafide scream? Not this girl. Not with any of the handful of men she’d actually slept with, much less the hundreds that filled her make-believe résumé since Jake Marlboro had lied about her and made her the scarlet woman of Cadillac, Texas.

  “Eden?” Dottie waved her empty glass. “Are you still with me?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I guess I zoned out for a little while. It’s been so hot out.” She turned and twisted the air-conditioning knob a few notches cooler.

  “You’re telling me. Hit me again.”

  Eden had nothing against a woman quenching her thirst, but she wasn’t in the habit of contributing to the delinquency of friends. Particularly when she sensed an underlying motivation propelling Dottie toward a second drink.