Desperate to ignore it, he told himself that this was not his problem. And managed to climb into the cab before the guilt set in.
His mom had been small like that. A single mother, living in the city, with only her wits for protection. Not that her wits had been anything to sneeze at. But Tucker remembered the fear on her face when she’d come into their apartment after work one night. She’d stopped by the market, then cut through the alley because it had begun to snow. He could still see the dusting of white on her dark jacket, the flakes the same color as her skin.
Because two punks had mugged her as she’d cut through that alley. Luckily they hadn’t done much more than scare her before making off with her purse and what little cash she’d had left.
He’d been eleven. Too young, too damn small to make a difference.
But he’d grown. Hardened. And because he’d never forgotten his mother’s face, he’d also never stood idly by whenever someone smaller or weaker than him needed assistance.
Not that the Hawbaker woman necessarily needed his assistance. But he figured he’d mosey on into that bar, just in case.
He could stand a beer, anyway.
Tucking his keys back into the pocket of his jeans, Tucker headed toward the bar. The peeling letters on the window told him it was called McGruder’s. Tucker yanked open the door, and strolled in.
The first thing he noticed was the music. Something with a twang. Then after his eyes adjusted, he peered past the scuffed floor and worn tables toward the scene unfolding at the bar. The little brunette had her hand on a big, dark-haired man’s arm. She looked pleading. He looked drunk. Husband, maybe? Boyfriend?
When he lifted his arm to shake her off like she was no more than a gnat, Tucker decided it didn’t much matter.
He crossed the room, ignoring the hard stares of three rough-looking men seated at one of the tables, as well as the open appraisal from the deeply tanned waitress in very short shorts.
“Get you something?” the woman said, intercepting him before he reached the bar. She stood close enough for him to smell the suntan oil on her skin.
“Beer. Bottle.” He watched the Hawbaker woman struggle not to cry. The bald bartender stood at the opposite end of the scarred wooden bar, reading the paper, and didn’t even bother to look up.
“Brand?” The waitress leaned in to get his attention, putting her cleavage on display. Some other time he might have appreciated it.
“Something with alcohol in it,” he said.
She laughed, and Tucker began to move past her, annoyed when she snagged his arm. “You’re new here. You’re old Carlton’s heir, aren’t you?”
Annoyance quickly became disdain. “No.” Shrugging her off, he headed toward the pair in the corner.
And watched surprise take hold of the little Hawbaker woman’s face. “Um, hello. Tucker, isn’t it?” She shot an awkward glance toward the man slumped on his barstool. “Are you… staying out of the heat?”
“Trying to,” he said to go along with her conversational gambit. “But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Or rather, I put myself at a disadvantage. I didn’t stick around long enough the other day to catch your name.”
“Allison. Allie.”
“Allie.” He gently took her hand in his. “It’s nice to meet you. Since you were so generous to Mason the other day, why don’t you let me buy you a beer?”
“Oh. No. I don’t –”
“You can buy me one.” The man she’d been arguing with lifted his head from the bar top. Tucker immediately recognized his miscalculation. Eyes the same vivid blue as both the cop and Allison peered at him from beneath heavy lids. Only these eyes were bloodshot, and bleary.
“Harlan,” Allie hissed and the man said “What?” showing her his empty shot glass. “Liquor before beer, never fear. ‘S okay, Al. I won’t get sick on the dining room carpet again. Aubusson,” he said to Tucker in a stage whisper. “Big bucks. Nobody’ll buy it if it smells like puke.”
“Harlan.” This time his name was said in despair.
“You think I wouldn’t notice you were selling stuff off? Might be a drunk, but’m not stupid.” He laughed. “Although hell, I’m the one that lost all the money. I guess I am stupid, after all. I’m Harlan Hawbaker, by th’way. Who’re you?”
“Tucker Pettigrew,” Tucker said, and watched the affable drunk morph into something else entirely.
“Pettigrew.” The bloodshot eyes went cold. Maybe just a little bit dangerous. “Heard you’d blown into town. Come to check out your new property?”
“Harlan, don’t.”
“The only property I have in this town,” Tucker said evenly “is the one I’m living in.”
“That so? Well, when the old man kicks it you’ll be loaded… River’s End, the bank, a slew of rentals here in town. Plus, something that rightfully belongs to my family. Hope you enjoy it. You bastard.”
Tucker easily dodged the fist. But when Allie gasped, and tried to contain her brother, he toppled off the stool, falling on top of her. Since he had her by probably ten inches and a good eighty pounds, she went down hard, cracking her head.
Tucker hauled the other man off of her by his belt and his collar.
“Sonofabitch. Lemme go.”
Tucker reigned in the urge to slam the other man’s head into the wall. Not only had the trio of men and the bartender come to their feet, but Allie was struggling to sit, giving him a pleading look. And if he’d interpreted Harlan Hawbaker’s ramblings correctly, his grandfather had somehow screwed this family over. He couldn’t say he was surprised.
Shooting one hard look over his shoulder to let the local goon squad know that this really wasn’t their business, Tucker leaned in close to Harlan Hawbaker’s ear.
“I don’t appreciate comments like that about my mother,” he said quietly. “And I don’t appreciate men who are too stupid or too drunk to realize they shouldn’t hurt women. Are you all right?” he said to Allie.
“I’m fine.” She rubbed her head.
“Wha?” The man looked down, and to his credit, seemed horrified by what he’d done. “Al. Did I hurt you, honey? I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”
Tucker let him go, and he dropped to his knees.
While her brother apologized, and Allie patted him, the waitress carried a tray over with Tucker’s beer. “You certainly know how to make a first impression,” she said, and Tucker slipped a ten out of his billfold and slid it onto the tray.
“Keep the change. I’m afraid I’ve lost my taste for alcohol. Do you need help getting home?” he said to Allison.
“I’m fine. Really. I’m… sorry about that.”
“No sorrier than I am, believe me. And for the record? My grandfather is a world class bastard. You sure you’re okay?” he said when she offered him a tentative smile.
“I’ll help her get Harlan outside.”
Tucker looked up into the surly face of the bartender. “Seems to me you could have helped Harlan outside about half a bottle ago.”
The man’s grin wasn’t pleasant. “This is the south, son. Round here, we let people go to hell in their own way.”
“Good to know,” he said dryly. And after a moment’s hesitation, headed toward his truck.
That certainly had gone well. The late afternoon heat hit him like a damp, sweaty fist, and he took the punch with an indrawn breath, then fished for his car keys. He’d made at least one new enemy, inadvertently caused the woman he was trying to look out for to get hurt, and wasted ten bucks on a beer. Which he hadn’t even gotten to drink.
When he looked up, it was to see a blond man – a teenager, really – leaning against his truck.
“Can I help you?” he called, automatically scanning the vehicle for damage. It would be just his luck that some idiot hit him while he was parked.
“Tucker Pettigrew?” The kid sized him up as he straightened.
Instantly wary, Tucker said “Who wants to know?”
The smaller man swall
owed, but repeated his question. “Are you Tucker Pettigrew?”
“I am.”
“You’ve been served.” The little weasel thrust an envelope into Tucker’s hands, then hightailed it in the opposite direction. Tucker briefly considered giving chase, if for no other reason than to burn off some of his frustration. But the kid was only doing his job.
Tucker eased his thumb beneath the flap of the envelope. Read the contents with little surprise.
His grandfather really was a bastard.
CHAPTER FIVE
SARAH ran the spline roller around the edge of her new screen, and then sat back on her heels to survey the finished product. The little tool looked like a pizza cutter, but it seemed to do the trick. Her work might not be quite as professional as Noah’s, but at least the screen was fixed. She’d woken up to find Useless skulking around Tucker Pettigrew’s yard, and God knew she didn’t want a repeat of last week’s shower incident.
Of course, Tucker had hung a sheet over his bathroom window. The fact of which had been so surprisingly tacky that Sarah had experienced minor shock. But it gave them both some privacy, and she’d otherwise managed to avoid the man since then.
However, it was best for all involved if she simply kept her cat contained. The Dust Jacket would officially open for business in a matter of days, and she had too many other things to worry about.
Light speared through the trees to lie in golden circles on the ground, making her realize the morning was wasting. She needed to shower and dress. Sarah stood up, dusted her hands on the seat of her jeans… and was promptly tipped sideways into a dramatic and graceful dip.
Her cry of alarm was muffled by a resounding kiss on her lips.
She opened her eyes to find herself looking up into laughing blue ones.
“Branson Hawbaker.” She swatted his arm before giving up, grabbing his cheeks and kissing him lustily again. “Now let me up before you drop me on my ass.”
“And what a fine ass it is.” He held her at arm’s length, then made her do a little twirl, sending her curls flying. “Damn, woman. I’d make a comment about shithouses if it wasn’t so appallingly crass. Whatever you’ve been doing, keep it up.”
“Are you sure you’re still gay?”
“Are you sure you’re still a natural redhead?”
Sarah chuckled. Then sobered, pulling Allie’s twin brother into her arms. “God. It is so good to see you.”
He smelled just like she remembered. Clean and expensive. “I’ve missed you. But I’m sorry you had to come home.”
She felt more than heard his sigh before he released her. “I could say the same to you.”
She took him in from his stylish dark head to the soles of his snakeskin loafers. Lean and elegant, Bran could give Mason a run for his money in the looks department.
Sarah shrugged. “She needed me.”
Shaking his head, Bran stooped over to pick up two Styrofoam coffee cups from where he’d set them on the ground. He’d obviously been in to see Josie before he’d headed back here. “I didn’t realize things had gotten quite so bad. With Dad. Or Harlan. That bitch Victoria,” he growled as he handed her a cup. “Me, a pair of scissors and five minutes with her designer wardrobe. That’s all I ask. And then Wesley…” Bran gave her a pained look. “Allie led me to believe the broken engagement was a mutual decision.”
Sarah pried the lid off the coffee, weighing exactly how much of the actual story to spill. Bran would get all of it out of Allie eventually, but she figured that was Allie’s place to tell. “Wesley threw a temper tantrum when he realized that she’d used her inheritance to help hold onto the house.”
“Damn money pit.” The money pit in question had been in their family for two hundred years. A former rice plantation, it was one of Sweetwater’s two major antebellum mansions that remained intact as private residences. The other, of course, being River’s End, which was in a significantly better state of preservation. “It probably would have been better if they’d just let it go. Maybe they’d finally get out of this damn town without that albatross around their necks. I’m sorry.” He held up a graceful hand. “Considering Will’s the Chief of Police and you and Allie are about to launch a business, that was a jackass thing to say.”
“No one blames you for leaving,” she said quietly. Long before Bran had even identified himself as gay, he’d been taunted and teased for being different. Artsy. Dramatic. Refined. It was only the power of his family name and the fact that he had two protective older brothers who were both superb athletes that had kept his childhood from being unbearable.
He gave her a sad smile, full of understanding. Poor, redheaded, one parent dead and the other too reliant on a bottle, Sarah’d had to deal with her fair share of bullies, too. Austin Linville chief among them. But Austin, at least, was in jail.
And neither she nor Bran was an easy target any longer.
“Thank you for the postcards, by the way. Your theater troupe really got around. Although I nearly had a heart attack when I got the one from Amsterdam. I didn’t realize that was even anatomically possible.”
He grinned and sipped his coffee. “Thought you’d appreciate that.” He studied the screening tool she’d tossed down just before he’d kissed her, and gestured toward the porch. “You did this yourself?”
“The repair, yes, the construction, no. That’s a little bit beyond my skill set. Noah put it on for me.”
Bran shook his head. “I still can’t believe you’re living in Aunt Mildred’s shed like some crazy relation in a Faulkner novel. Although.” He wiggled his eyebrows toward the house next door. “I hear the view isn’t so bad.”
The image of a naked, wet and dripping Tucker Pettigrew flashed into her head before Sarah could stop it.
“The friend – Mason – is both gorgeous and temporary. Tucker Pettigrew is a pain in the ass.”
“Uh-oh.” He took in the two houses’ proximity. “No neighborly chats over the backyard fence, huh?”
“We’ve chatted, all right,” she muttered. “Let’s just say we have very different definitions of neighborly.”
“Is that… a sheet over his window?”
Before she could answer, a loud repetitive beeping assaulted their ears. Sarah peered around Bran’s shoulder to see a big truck with the words Stratton Construction Rentals painted on the side. It was backing a very large, very ugly brown dumpster toward them.
“Hey!” Sarah called and the truck stopped just before it took out the bed of lantana she’d recently finished planting.
A dark head popped out the passenger window of the cab, and Doug Stratton pushed up the bill of his ball cap. “Hey Miz Sarah. Oh, and hey Bran. Heard you were coming back. Sorry about that.” Rainey’s older brother gestured toward the flowers. “Truck got away from Jimmy a little bit.” A freckled arm waved from the driver’s side window. Jimmy Stratton, presumably. “Don’t you worry. We’ll fix it.”
The truck pulled forward, correcting its crooked path, and Bran murmured “My God, they’re letting infants drive now?”
“Doug’s twenty, and Jimmy’s been able to buy beer legally for a couple years. We’re getting old, Bran.”
“Shit. Don’t remind me.”
“What really concerns me is where they’re putting that dumpster. Surely not…” Sarah trailed off as the truck stopped again. And this time the hydraulic mechanism that controlled the flatbed began to rise, preparing to deposit the dumpster exactly where it would be the most obtrusive.
“What?” she practically yelled. “No! No, no, no. No.”
“This should be good,” Bran chirped, strolling behind her as she darted toward the truck.
“Doug. Jimmy, stop. Stop.” She held up her hands, and Doug climbed out of the cab. He ambled closer, but pulled up short, his eyes going wide as platters.
“Um.” His cheeks turned red. “Something wrong, Miz Sarah?”
“You can’t put that dumpster there.”
Puzzled, the young man pus
hed up the brim of his cap to gaze at the clipboard he carried. “Says here it’s supposed to go to one-one-one Boundary Street. This is the Pettigrew place, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but –”
“Is there a problem?”
Sarah cringed at the sound of the voice. Deep and gravelly with sleep, it skittered across her nerves like loose rocks tumbling down a mountain. She turned in time to see Tucker Pettigrew step off his verandah. He’d hitched on jeans and a rumpled shirt the same color as his eyes. Barefoot and wearing yesterday’s beard, he looked like a conquering Scottish warlord who’d just rolled off the last village virgin.
Putting that thought out of her mind, Sarah took a breath, determined to keep this civil. “I was just suggesting to Doug here that this might not be the best place to put your dumpster.”
Tucker stopped on the opposite side of the crushed oyster shell drive on which the truck idled. “This is my property.”
“And this.” She forced a tight smile. “Is my property. You’ll notice how close the dumpster would be if you put it over here.”
Tucker scratched the dark stubble along his jaw. “This is my driveway. And that,” he pointed toward the shiny black pickup Sarah had seen him driving the past few days “is my truck. If I put the dumpster over there, I won’t be able to move my truck in and out of the driveway.”
“That,” she pointed to the Dust Jacket’s back porch, strewn with their charming new bistro tables “is my business. This,” she gestured to the dumpster “is an eyesore. If you put that eyesore right next to my business, it’ll be like a big, steaming pile of dog doo right in the middle of the parlor rug.”
Behind her, Bran snorted out a laugh, which he quickly turned into a cough when Tucker glared at him. Jimmy Stratton leaned out of the cab of the truck. “Are we puttin’ this dumpster down or not?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Tucker transferred his glare to Sarah.
“Look, I’m not trying to be unreasonable,” she said in what she hoped was an equable tone. “But our grand opening is next week. We’re bringing in extra tables to take advantage of the garden, and surely you can understand that a big construction dumpster isn’t exactly the kind of ambience we want to convey. Now, if you put it over there in that pine straw, on the other side of that tree, you can get your truck in and out, you won’t have to worry about it killing your grass, and it’ll still be convenient for your people to get to.”
Mr. Write (Sweetwater) Page 5
