Texas Thunder

by Kimberly Raye

  He hadn’t taken her virginity.

  No, he’d taken something much more precious from her.

  She drew a deep breath, trying to ease the tightening in her chest and watched as he reached the door. He paused. Turned. His gaze collided with hers. For a brief second, something flickered in his eyes, as if he’d seen her and read the direction of her thoughts.

  But just as quickly, it was gone. He hauled open the white metal door and disappeared inside, leaving her to wonder if she’d just imagined the momentary connection.

  Brett.

  Here.

  Now.

  Crazy.

  A wave of anxiety went through her and her hands trembled while Hank sang about lying eyes and cheating hearts. Her own heart stuttered and she killed the music. She should march inside and throw Mr. PBR out on his cocky ass. He had nerve showing his face on a day like this. It was one thing for the distant Sawyer relatives to crawl out of the woodwork to nose around, but this was different. This was ground zero when it came to the big explosion.

  Brett had no business here.

  At the same time, he was the last person she wanted to see up close and personal. Him, and every other funeral attendee who’d come out to get an earful of juicy gossip.

  She eyed her reflection in the rearview mirror and noted the smudges beneath her green eyes. Her colorless cheeks. Her pale lips. She looked like hell and, even more, she felt like it. She was through making small talk and keeping up appearances.

  She was tired.

  Anxious.

  Sad.

  The last thought struck and she stiffened. Sure, she was sad. Sad she was stuck in such a shitty situation with zero money in the bank and the bills piling up. Sad that she had to worry about keeping a roof over everyone’s head.

  She certainly wasn’t getting all misty over the old man’s death. She’d seen it coming what with the way he drank and caroused and carried on as if he had nine lives.

  Ernestine was right. No one could flip off the big guy upstairs that often and not pay the price eventually. James had simply gotten his due and, like always, it was her job to clean up his mess.

  One last time.

  Her throat closed around a sudden lump and she gunned the engine. Shoving the truck into reverse, she crunched gravel and pulled out of the parking lot.

  And then she went in search of the biggest box of cupcakes she could find.

  CHAPTER 4

  She bought two boxes of cupcakes.

  It wasn’t Callie’s finest moment, but she had a feeling she was going to need more before the day was over and she didn’t want to make another run into town. That, and Brandy’s bakery was closed today for the funeral, which meant Callie was stuck settling for the next best thing.

  On her way past the drink cooler, she snagged two bottles of Diet Coke to balance out everything—the guilt, not the calories—and headed for the cashier. A few steps shy, she debated abandoning everything in her arms and heading for the door.

  Ivy Earline Sawyer-Hilstead sat behind the counter at the Pac-n-Save, her bright red hair teased into a perfectly coiffed beehive and her cat eyeglasses hanging from a chain around her neck. She was just this side of seventy and determined to stay there judging by the assortment of cosmetics bulging the pockets of her blue smock.

  Taking a deep breath, Callie braced herself and stepped forward. “Hey, there, Miss Ivy.” She dumped her contents on the counter. “How are you today?”

  “Hmph,” the old woman snorted. She reached for the first box of cupcakes. Sliding on her glasses, she eyed the goodies and then keyed in the price on the ancient cash register. “Looks like somebody’s got a craving.” Questioning eyes rimmed in bright blue shadow stared through the thick lenses. “Had plenty of cravings of my own when I was pregnant with my first—”

  “It’s my book club,” Callie blurted. “It’s my turn to bring the snacks.”

  “Book club, huh?” Ivy eyed her. “And just which book club might that be? I know ’em all, sugar, on account of I usually work the night shift and it gets mighty boring around here at three a.m. Books help me pass the time. So which one you into? Hunger Games? Fifty Shades of Grey? Eighty Psalms of Praise?”

  “Hunger Games.” Guilt welled, but she shoved it back down. Sure, she’d never read the book. But she had seen the movie on pay-per-view. Twice.

  “Hunger Games, huh?” Ivy pursed her lips. “My daughter Louella leads that one and she insists on homemade snacks. She don’t cotton to all those preservatives they use in this store-bought stuff. Why, she’s liable to kick you out on your keister if you show up with this—”

  “The other one,” Callie blurted. “I forgot. It’s the other one.”

  “Which one—”

  “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m in a really big hurry. I’ve got to get back over to the church. For the funeral,” she added, just in case Ivy had missed the front page of the Rebel Yell, which had detailed the fire and James’s sudden demise.

  The old woman looked as if she wanted to keep drilling, but if there was one thing that could kick nosey’s ass in a small town like Rebel, it was the death of a loved one. “Mighty sorry for your loss,” she murmured grudgingly before clamping her lips shut and reaching for the second box of cupcakes. “That granddaddy of yours sure could cook a mean moonshine. Not that I tasted even a sup myself,” she rushed on, “but folks talk and I hear everything. ’Course it wasn’t nearly as good as the original, but word is it ran a close second.”

  Close, but not quite there.

  The story of James Harlin’s life.

  She’d heard the sentiment time and time again while growing up. James complaining about his lot in life. James complaining about the Sawyers. James warning her about the Sawyers. James cursing the Sawyers.

  He’d nearly had a fit when Brett had shown up to take her to the prom that night. He’d even pulled out his shotgun, but luckily her father had taken it away before James had managed to do anything more than fire off a few warning shots.

  Callie’s father hadn’t been too thrilled with her choice of escort, either. But he’d been a decent enough man to keep his thoughts to himself and let her make her own choices. He’d simply given her a hug, a concerned smile, and a “Be careful.”

  That had been the last thing he’d ever said to her.

  “… Earl over at the VFW Hall said your granddaddy was brewing up some really good stuff these past few months. Really good.”

  “I’m sure he would have been happy to hear that.” Callie busied herself opening her wallet while Ivy finished ringing her up.

  “Cain’t say as I’m surprised about what happened though,” the woman added as she handed over Callie’s bags. While she might have quit prying, she wasn’t about to give judgment a rest. “It’s a wonder your granddaddy didn’t blow himself up a long time ago. Those stills are unpredictable, ya know. That’s why I never let my Robert get himself mixed up in any of that.”

  No, Robert hadn’t done any cooking himself. Instead, he’d been one of James Harlin’s biggest customers. At least that’s what Callie had figured since she’d seen his old truck pull around back every Friday afternoon, along with a stream of other cars that had all paid her granddaddy a visit for their weekly fix of his brew. The sheriff had dropped by on occasion, as well, although for much different reasons. She’d gone to high school with Sheriff Hunter DeMassi. He’d been a grade above her, but in a small place like Rebel, everyone knew everyone. He was a good man and had tried on more than one occasion to shut James down. But Callie’s granddaddy had been cooking far too long to get caught so easily. Every time Sheriff DeMassi had come sniffing around, he’d never managed to find any evidence. No liquor. No still. Nothing.

  And so James had stayed under the radar.

  “Why, my Robert was the picture of health,” Ivy went on, “right up until the day he suffered a massive heart attack. Natural causes, of course.” Her gaze collided with Callie’s. “My Robert wa
sn’t one to pollute his body. Not like that James. The man practically pickled himself.” She waggled an arthritic finger. “I hope you and your sisters are smarter than that. It’d be a shame to see you all follow in that old coot’s footsteps.”

  “We’re definitely smarter,” Callie mumbled as she took her bags.

  “So I guess that means you won’t be carrying on the family tradition?” Ivy tried to look nonchalant, but Callie didn’t miss the sliver of hope that lit the old woman’s eyes.

  “No, we’re all too busy with our own jobs to start brewing moonshine. Our own legal jobs.”

  “Happy to hear it,” Ivy said even though she didn’t look the least bit happy. “I always knew you girls were decent. Even for Tuckers.”

  Callie opened her mouth, but then thought better of it. Telling off a woman like Ivy accomplished little. The woman was old and set in her ways. Even more, she wasn’t worth the extra cupcake it would take to calm down after Callie got into it.

  “You take care,” Ivy added, sliding the final bag across the counter.

  “You, too.” Callie turned and made it two steps before her phone rang. Shifting her bags to one arm, she shoved one hand inside her purse and rummaged for her cell.

  “The reverend is asking for you,” Brandy blurted the moment Callie managed to say hello. “He’s got a golf game at two and he wants to pray with us before tee off.”

  “I’m on my way.” She pushed through the glass doors. “Just sit tight and I—hmph!”

  Her breath caught as she came up hard against a solid mass of warmth. Her heart stalled. Her phone took a dive for the floor. Her purse hit with a solid thunk. Her bags crashed and the contents scattered.

  “I’m so sorry,” she started. “I didn’t see—”

  The word you lodged behind the sudden lump that blocked her throat. Her head snapped up and her heart stalled.

  Brett Sawyer’s eyes were even bluer than Callie remembered. Deeper. More unnerving.

  Especially up close.

  They pulled her in and sucked her under like the cool, clear water that filled nearby Rebel Creek. Sensation washed over her body, lapping at her ultrasensitive skin, sneaking into every hot spot until she felt completely submerged and temporarily paralyzed and …

  Uh oh.

  The moment of doom struck and she stiffened, desperate to get a grip. “I—I should have been watching where I was going.”

  And how. Then she could have slinked out the back or hidden in the paper goods section—anything to avoid a face-to-face today of all days.

  As if he read her thoughts, his brow wrinkled and he murmured, “Shouldn’t you be over at the church?” His voice, so rich and husky, slid into her ears and prickled the hair on the nape of her neck. Her attention shifted to his mouth.

  He’d always had great lips. Slightly full on the bottom. Sensuous even. Just right for kissing, or so she’d thought every time he’d folded himself into the desk next to her in freshman English.

  “I needed a break. Too many people.”

  He nodded and she saw a glimmer of understanding in the deep blue depths of his eyes. As if he’d dealt with his own share of heartache.

  As if.

  Brett had no idea what it meant to sacrifice for someone else. He had money, a career, his freedom.

  Especially his freedom.

  She’d always envied that.

  Then and now.

  She pushed aside the notion. There was nothing to envy. She was this close. A heartbeat away from the rest of her life and nothing—not even a monstrous tax bill—was going to stand in her way. She had a portfolio she’d been building over the years, filled with all of the pictures she’d taken and all of the stories she’d written, and while most of it was out of date, she’d done a few recent pieces for the Rebel Yell in her free time. She’d covered Sam Hardy’s retirement party last year and the local eighth grade car wash back in the fall. Hardly front-page news, but it still showed her skill. Enough to land an entry-level job at a bigger paper should she ever get around to sending out tear sheets and some zip drives.

  She would. It was just a matter of time. Once she had everything under control here, she would get her work out to every major newspaper in the great state of Texas, and then it was adios Rebel.

  “Listen,” his deep voice slid into her ears. “I just want to say—”

  “Brett Andrew Sawyer,” Ivy’s voice rang out, cutting him off midsentence. “Why, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you!” She motioned to him. “Get on over here and give your great-aunt Ivy some sugar.”

  “Just a second,” he called out as Callie took the momentary distraction to reach down and gather up her stuff. “Here, let me—”

  “I’ve got it. Really.” She snatched up her bags and purse and then scrambled for her cell before he could lend a hand. “You go on.” She sidestepped him and pushed through the doorway. The bell tinkled in her wake, and just like that, the run-in was over.

  Without her reciting the revenge speech she’d worked up a long, long time ago after he’d abandoned her down by the creek postprom and she’d been stuck making a two-mile trek to the nearest house in her first pair of sky-high pumps.

  You blew it, buddy. Now you suck. Your truck sucks. Your dog even sucks.

  But then she wasn’t twenty pounds lighter, which she most definitely was in her best revenge fantasy. Nor was she a prime-time anchor for CNN. And she certainly wasn’t dressed to the nines in a killer red dress and three-inch heels.

  No, now wasn’t the time for The Speech, and so it was actually a blessing that she hadn’t thought to lay into him.

  She would have. She’d have given him the chewing out he so rightly deserved, the one she’d never had a chance to deliver, but he’d just been so … close. And she was so tired and, well, that alone explained everything.

  That, and the fact that she hadn’t had an actual date in two years. And sex? Well, that came in at a whopping six years.

  Six years of deprivation could make any woman forget how much she hated someone, even when faced with said someone, who just happened to be the most conniving, coldhearted womanizer to ever walk the face of the earth.

  Her mind traveled back to the church and the gigantic plant he’d pulled from his front seat.

  Okay, so maybe he wasn’t that coldhearted.

  Before she could dwell on the unsettling thought, her phone buzzed. She hauled open the truck door, tossed her bags inside, and retrieved her cell.

  “I’m climbing into the truck right now,” she told Brandy when she finally managed to answer. “Be right there.”

  She hit the END button and settled behind the wheel. Keying the ignition, she let the engine idle and reached for a box of Hostess.

  Cardboard ripped and paper crinkled and soon the first bite exploded in her mouth and … ahh. The morsel wasn’t half as decadent as the jumbo chocolate nirvana cupcakes that her sister Brandy whipped up, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  Halfway into her chocolate fix, she glanced up to see the Pac-n-Save door swing open. Brett strolled out, a bottled water in one hand and his keys in the other. He crossed the parking lot, his strides long and sure, and hauled open the door of his pickup parked at a nearby gas pump. His gaze caught hers and she came so very close to flipping him off.

  Really.

  But for some reason, she didn’t seem to have the energy. The cupcake was too good, soothing her anxiety and easing the anger and frustration she felt toward Brett Sawyer.

  That, and there was just something about the way he looked at her, his blue eyes gleaming with an emotion achingly close to regret. As if he wanted to undo that one disastrous night even more than she did.

  Impossible, of course. She’d lost everything that night. Her date. Her parents. Her future. Done.

  The truth echoed in the heavy thud of her heart and she averted her gaze, concentrating instead on the scroll of text messages blinking on her phone.

  Three from Brandy telling her
to hurry the flip up. One from Jenna telling her that Eliza Louise Mills had brought yet another flipping/fudging/insert-your-favorite-F-word-here egg salad. And one from an unknown source sending prayers for her sudden loss.

  She stared at the unknown number. An Austin area code. She couldn’t recall anyone in Austin. At the same time, she knew at least a dozen Haverty clients who lived nearby, but had out-of-area cell numbers. Maybe one had heard about James’s death.

  The truck revved nearby, drawing her attention. She set the phone aside and turned up the volume on the ancient radio. A nearby AM station played a popular Florida Georgia Line song and she tried to concentrate on the thumping beat rather than the monstrous truck engine.

  Black flashed in her peripheral vision and just like that, the noise faded and it was just sinfully cute Tyler singing about rolling his window down and cruising down some deserted back road. Relief washed through her and she drew a deep breath.

  Stuffing the rest of the cupcake into her mouth, she gunned the old truck’s engine and headed back to the church to power through what was quickly turning into the longest, most miserable day of her life.

  CHAPTER 5

  He’d ran smack dab into Callie Tucker.

  Of all the shitty luck.

  The truth echoed in Brett Sawyer’s head as he turned onto FM 123 and sent his pickup gunning the twenty miles outside of town to his family’s ranch.

  Sure, he’d known there was a possibility of a face-to-face when he’d made the decision to pay his respects, but it had been a chance he’d been willing to take. Because it had been the right thing to do, and Brett had already spent way too much time doing the wrong thing where Callie Tucker was concerned.

  Even so, he’d made sure to stop by well after the main service to avoid just such a situation.

  Not because she’d been the last person he’d wanted to see.

  Just the opposite.

  The truth stuck in his head as his mind riffled back through the past, to all those afternoons in high school where he’d sat across from her while she’d attempted to teach him the ins and outs of senior calculus.