He’d done just that.
He’d climbed onto the back of each and every bull and fought for control over everything in his life, and while he’d failed miserably at first, he’d eventually started to gain some measure of discipline. He’d held on a little longer each time until finally, he’d done it.
And he intended to keep doing it.
“He was doing okay when I came home,” Karen’s voice drew him back to the moment. “He remembered where I was going to school and my major. He was even talking about how you used to beat him at Go Fish.”
“Yeah, well, he let me win.” Pappy had let everyone win. Just as he’d let Berle beat him at cards every Friday night. He’d coddled and spoiled his only son to the point that the man had felt entitled. And he’d done the same with his grandson.
Not that Brett blamed Pappy for his own selfishness. The old man was just doing what he thought was right.
That’s all he’d ever done. He’d been a straight shooter. A good man who’d carried on the reputation his own grandfather had established after he’d given up the moonshine business and steered them into a legitimate line of work. Pappy didn’t deserve half the shit life had dumped on him, and he sure as hell didn’t deserve the Alzheimer’s.
Brett couldn’t change the hand he’d been dealt, but he could fix the ranch.
If he could figure out what the hell was going on and who might be stealing their cows.
“You know any of the boys Pepper’s got working for us?” he asked his sister.
“I know all of them.”
“No, I mean personally.”
She gave him a sly grin. “Let’s see, there’s Cade Willet, not the best kisser, but passable. And Danny Monroe. He’s a sloppy kisser, but I think with a little practice he could be halfway decent.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Yes, I am. You just don’t like the idea of your baby sister kissing anyone.” She ran her hands through her long dark hair and pulled the strands over her shoulder. “So what’s the sudden interest in the ranch hands?”
Brett thought about mentioning the missing cattle, but he wasn’t about to worry his sister. That, and the fewer people who knew his suspicions, the better. He wanted to watch the guys, to see what played out. He didn’t want anyone forewarned because Karen might whisper a sweet nothing while lip-locking with one of them. He shrugged. “Just wondering. I haven’t been here long enough to get to know any of them, so I thought I’d ask.”
“If you want to know about any of the guys, just ask Dolly.” She walked over to the bedroom closet and started fingering the old boxes stacked inside. “She feeds them all supper every evening out at the bunkhouse before she comes back here to Pappy.” She pulled one of the boxes free. “If anyone could fill you in on them, she might be able to.” She held up the familiar hatbox, a smile playing at her lips. “Remember this?”
Brett watched as she opened the box and pulled out the ancient straw Resistol sitting inside.
He stared at the worn Bud Light patch on the front and the various nicks and scratches. He’d worn that hat during every cattle drive back when he’d been a kid.
He’d worn that hat right up until he’d left Rebel, Texas, for good.
“Pappy had Dolly box it up and put it in here in case you ever came back home for more than a day or two. He just knew that someday you would want to hang up your buckles and be a real cowboy right here at the ranch. He always said this hat was more fitting for a cattleman.”
“Thanks.” Brett put the hat back into the box. “I appreciate it, but I’m no cattleman. I’m going back out on the circuit just as soon as I straighten things out here. I just got a new deal with Wrangler.” The biggest, in fact, of his career. He was going to be their spokesman for the next five years.
If he signed the contracts.
The notion struck and he pushed it right back out. When he signed, which he would do soon. Maybe tonight, as a matter of fact. All he had to do was pull out the documents and look them over as his lawyer had instructed. Initial a few changes, and bam, the deal would be done.
If Tyler McCall didn’t beat him to the punch.
Tyler was his cousin of a cousin of a cousin, who’d been on his ass ever since he’d started riding the circuit a few years ago. The man was young and hungry and hell-bent on catching up to Brett and beating him out for first place.
Not that Tyler was getting his chance anytime soon. Brett was going for buckle number three, and he was signing that deal. The deal of a lifetime.
“Wrangler, huh?” Karen smiled. “Talk about the big time.” She shrugged. “No way could you give that up.” She plopped the lid on top and set the box on the dresser before heading for the door. “Even if it’s only temporary, I’m glad you’re home now. Sleep tight, big brother.”
If only.
But sleep wouldn’t come.
Instead, he heard his pappy’s voice from down the hall, followed by Karen’s soothing words as she tried to calm the man down.
He had the gut instinct to go to the old man, to do something. But that was the thing—there was nothing he could do, not at the moment anyhow. Brett didn’t have the first clue how to deal with an irate Pappy. No, better to wait until the man calmed down and then Brett could talk to him, maybe try to figure out if his grandfather could clue him in as to who might be stealing cattle.
Yeah, and I’ve got some prime pastureland in the middle of the Sahara that you might be interested in.
The voice mocked, but Brett wasn’t giving up hope. Tomorrow would be a better day for Pappy.
In the meantime …
Brett grabbed a blanket and headed outside for some fresh air. Some freedom. Some blessed distance.
From the past.
The present.
He ended up down by the creek that flowed at the very back of their property, watching the play of moonlight on the mirrorlike surface, listening to the trickle of water and the buzz of insects. The sounds pushed inside his head and shoved aside his grandfather’s voice in favor of the soft, sweet whisper of water.
A thin stream of smoke drifted from the trees in the distance and his nostrils flared with the warm, sweet scent of yeast.
Nix the idea that anyone was cooking up a few loaves out in the middle of nowhere. No, the cooking that was going on had nothing to do with bread and everything to do with corn liquor.
Brett had smelled more than his share over the years. Not because Pappy had still been into moonshine, but the ranch hands had always enjoyed cooking up a batch or two for their own personal consumption.
Nothing like his family’s infamous Texas Thunder, or so Pepper claimed. He was the only one old enough to have actually sampled some of the original back when he’d been a young boy and his grandpa had been a customer.
Nothing these days compared to the legendary brew.
Brett made a mental note to ask around and see who was cooking on his property, and put a stop to it. He didn’t need to add legal troubles to his financial woes.
He stretched out on his back and stared up at the sky, but he didn’t see the stars or the moon. He saw her. A halo of golden hair framing the sweetest, warmest woman he’d ever had the pleasure of touching.
Callie had fueled his dreams for so long, made him toss and turn and swell until he was rock-hard and desperate for release. Even when he’d slept with other women, she’d always been there, living in his memories, reminding him of his past.
Calling him back.
But he wasn’t going back. Sure, he was here now, but he was different. He’d come too far from that out-of-control, overindulgent asshole he’d been so long ago. He wasn’t going back.
Even so, he still wanted her with the same fierceness.
Tonight had proved as much. Every inch of him had ached with the want.
At the same time, he’d realized something very important—namely that he could be within a few feet of her and keep his hands off. No pulling her close, peeling off her clo
thes, and plunging deep, deep inside.
Not no, but hell no. He was keeping his composure and his control.
Even more, he was keeping his distance from Callie Tucker.
CHAPTER 13
“No pigs in a blanket?” Les gave Callie a hopeful stare as she unpacked the food trays and set them out across the granite countertop that separated a custom kitchen from the main living room at the Bachman house. It was early Saturday morning, the day after the funeral and another day into the deadline looming over Callie’s head.
Twenty-eight days and counting.
The sun blazed on the horizon, promising a sweltering afternoon. Luckily a cold draft blew through the house’s air-conditioning unit, effectively keeping Callie from melting into a puddle at that very moment.
Les, on the other hand, wasn’t holding up as well. Even with a short-sleeved royal blue polo and khakis, he had sweat dotting his upper lip. And the bald patch at the back of his head.
“I think you need an iced tea instead of a pig in a blanket.”
He touched his forehead. “Cripes, I’m sweating up a storm. Quick, give me one of those imprinted golf towels.”
Callie retrieved one of the small towels from the box she’d toted in just that morning. Thankfully, she’d unloaded most everything last night, which had left only the golf towels, the food, and a few miscellaneous items.
Correction—Brett Sawyer had unloaded everything.
The truth echoed through her, stirring a sizzle of awareness that made her stiffen.
Because the last thing—the very last thing—she wanted to feel was a sizzle of anything as far as he was concerned.
No awareness. No attraction. No like.
She’d gone that route once before and she’d learned the hard way that like was highly overrated.
And downright heartbreaking.
Callie gathered her control and focused on pouring a glass of iced tea from a pitcher. “Here,” she said, handing the glass to Les. “Forget about the pigs in a blanket. Jenna got to them before I could stop her, but I’ve got pimento cheese.” Callie indicated a platter. “And I picked up some muffin tops from Brandy’s bakery.”
“Now these should be a big hit.” He grabbed one of the ooey gooey blueberry treats that her sister was fast becoming famous for and took a bite before washing it down with a swig of ice-cold tea. “If I didn’t already have a mortgage of my own,” he said after another bite, “I’d definitely consider signing up with these as an incentive.” Setting his tea glass aside, he rubbed his hands together. “We might land a live one today, after all. Wouldn’t that get in Tanner’s craw? And speaking of the Sawyer clan, word around town is Bootleg Bayou is just this side of foreclosure.” His eyes gleamed as if he’d discovered there was a real Santa Claus. “Which means if Pappy Sawyer has any sense, he’ll settle for a short sale and put the property on the market before the bank has a chance to close in.” A serious light touched his eyes. “We need that listing.”
“Foreclosure? Are you sure?” Okay, she’d heard that things were bad. But that bad? An image of Brett from last night pushed into her head. She saw the worry lines around his eyes and the anxiety tugging at his features. “That’s a shame.”
“For Pappy. For us it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“But Tanner is a Sawyer. I’m sure Brett and his pappy will give the listing to their own.”
“Not if I can provide an interested buyer first. Foreclosure is time sensitive, which means it’s every man for himself. I want you to head over there first thing tomorrow and get some good pictures for me. Something to show prospective buyers. Maybe some scenic shots. A few of the outside of the house. A panoramic of the barn and corral. Enough to entice someone.”
“Isn’t that a tiny bit unethical without getting his permission first?”
“No more so than Tanner taking pictures behind my back and finding a buyer for the Mitchell place before I could even pick up my fliers from the printer. That was low.”
“So is this.”
“Exactly. Tit for tat.” He nailed her with a stare. “I’ve got a couple in Austin that’s contacted me looking for a place like Bootleg Bayou. I need you out there first thing tomorrow so the pics are ready by Monday. Now,” he glanced at his watch, “you get all of this food unwrapped and set up while I go outside and put out the Open House sign. Did you pick up the balloons?”
“They’re in the cab of my truck.”
“Good girl. See, you’re detail-oriented, Callie. That’s what I like about you, and the main reason you really should consider getting your license. You’d make one hell of a Realtor.”
Her real estate license had been a point of contention between them for the past year, since she’d started taking some real estate classes at Les’s insistence—to be a good Realtor’s assistant, she needed to know the ins and outs of the business. He’d even offered her a small raise to take the classes, which, of course, had been the only reason she’d said yes. She’d needed some way to pull in more money to help with taxes and bills. While folks liked James’s moonshine, and he’d made a nice little amount off of it, he hadn’t made nearly enough to keep up the property and support a family. He’d barely paid for the gas in his truck and his own supplies.
Callie had been responsible for the rest. And the taxes.
She damned herself again for giving him the money. She should have gone to the bank herself.
She would have but she’d been so busy with a prospective buyer and James had been only five minutes away. And sober at the time. He’d insisted that he would go straight there.
“I don’t need a goddamned babysitter, girlie. I’m a grown-ass man. I can handle business myself. Besides, it’s my name on the deed. I have to be the one to hand over the money or give you permission to act on my behalf, and I ain’t doin’ that. I ain’t no motherfrickin’ invalid.”
His name had been on the deed and so she’d caved.
But the grown-ass man part? He’d been lying about that because no mature, responsible adult male would have made the decision to forfeit his family obligations and throw the money away on a pie-in-the-sky dream. But then that had been his plan. He’d known all along that he was going to use the cash to try to remake that damnable Texas Thunder that had ripped the town apart. A recipe divided between two stubborn men who’d no doubt taken the knowledge to their graves.
Ah, but her great-great-grandfather had passed his part on to James and she had the proof written on the crumpled paper in her purse.
Had Elijah Sawyer handed down his to Pappy? To Brett?
The question stirred in her mind for the hundredth time that morning since she’d woken up with Texas Thunder and ten thousand dollars dancing in her head.
The question kept nagging at her—what if Elijah had passed his part of the recipe on to Pappy? And Pappy had handed it over to Brett? What if both Sawyers knew the whereabouts of the missing half? What if the answer to all of her financial problems was simply a matter of asking Brett?
Fat chance.
At the same time, she couldn’t help but wonder. And while Brett Sawyer was the last person she wanted to approach for help, she would do it if it meant finding the rest of the recipe and getting on with her life.
He certainly might know.
That’s what she told herself when she left the Bachman open house just after lunch and headed through town toward the county road that led to Bootleg Bayou. Les could handle the small stream of potential buyers filtering through the house while she went after more muffin tops, or so she’d said. She needed to talk to Brett while she had her nerve up.
The Sawyers were too smart to throw away the source of their initial wealth. Brett would know and while he might not want to offer up the information under normal circumstances, he was just as hard up for cash as she was.
Desperate.
She held tight to the thought and hung a left at the center of town. She was just about to turn toward the county road when she
spotted his truck parked in front of the Law Offices of Creek and Munson.
She put on the brakes and swerved into a parking spot just a few cars away. Taking a deep breath, she retrieved Mark’s card from her purse, gathered her courage, and opened the truck door.
Gone was the extra half-hour drive during which she’d planned to map out her exact plan. She had no clue what she was going to say or how, she just knew she had to find out if they were both feeling angst for nothing. The answer to her financial prayers could be just a conversation away.
Her feet hit the pavement and she rounded the bumper and stepped up onto the sidewalk. She stopped near the shiny black four-wheel-drive pick-up truck and peered into the window. The cab was empty.
Another deep breath and she started for the front door of the law office.
She made it two steps before she heard the deep rumble in her ear.
“Looking for me, sugar?”
Electricity sizzled through the air and zapped her at the base of the spine. Her hands tingled and her knees trembled.
“As a matter of fact,” she managed after she’d gathered her courage and turned to find Brett standing behind her, “you’re just the man I’m looking for.”
“How’s that?” He arched a dark brow, his gaze drilling into hers.
For a split second, her courage fled and she wanted nothing more than to turn and walk the other way. That or press herself up against him and beg him to finish what they’d started that night so long ago. They’d been so close. He’d had his hands on her thighs and his lips pressed to hers and she’d been so ready to feel him right there …
But this wasn’t about getting physical and detouring from the long road of celibacy. It was about saving her home. Her dreams.
She stiffened, gathering every bit of courage she could muster, and stared him square in the eye. “I really need to talk.” She swallowed against a sudden lump and tried to control the quiver in voice. “I’ve got something that could make us both very, very happy.”
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