CHAPTER 14
He wasn’t kissing her again.
That’s what Hunter told himself the next day while he met with the mayor to go over security for the upcoming jalapeño festival scheduled for the following month. After that he handled a missing persons call when Walt Johnson lost his way home from the Piggly Wiggly thanks to his Alzheimer’s. And then he went over the pics from his surveillance of Cole and Monty’s still site.
Not that it was theirs. Gator was right. The Mayweather boys weren’t smart enough for such a setup.
But it belonged to someone and Hunter meant to find out who.
Tonight.
After he checked on Jenna and dropped off the door he’d promised her.
Construction or not, he’d given his word and he meant to follow through.
Keeping his promise. That’s what he was doing. He was looking in on her. Alleviating his worry for her safety because he’d put her in the line of fire in the first place. And replacing her door. Then he was gone. No packing up boxes or staying even a moment longer than necessary.
In and out.
The thought struck and just like that, he saw Jenna’s naked body beneath him, her silky legs wrapped around his waist, her lips eating at his as his body plunged deep into hers …
Forget in and out.
He was stopping by and then moving on. One quick stop. Fast.
And if she tried to kiss him?
He ignored the question, along with the rush of excitement that it stirred, and hardened his resolve. He drew an easy breath as he slid the photos into an envelope and picked up a phone call that beeped on his desk.
“Sheriff DeMassi. How can I help you?”
“You can bring me an extra-large vanilla-bean Frappuccino from the new Starbucks, a slice of lemon loaf, and my shotgun.”
“Hey, Mimi.” Hunter slid the envelope into his bottom desk drawer. “First off, you know you can’t have an extra-large vanilla-bean Frappuccino or a slice of lemon loaf because of your diabetes.”
“What about the shotgun?”
“That would be a no.”
“Just because I have cataracts—”
“It’s not because of the cataracts, though you really ought to reconsider what the doctor said and look into the surgery. It’s because the Rebel Royal Arms doesn’t allow weapons of any kind. That’s why they confiscated those nunchucks.”
“They weren’t nunchucks. They were Chubby Chucks. I got them off QVC during their burn your way to a better bod week. I inherited your great, great, great-grandmother’s flabby arms and now I can’t even think about wearing a sleeveless shirt. A few moves with those babies every day and I would have been in a tank top in no time.”
“You don’t wear tank tops.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I would if I had my nunchucks.”
“You mean Chubby Chucks?”
“Whatever. If you can’t bring my shotgun, then at least bring me a pellet gun. Even a water gun will do. Just so long as it looks real. Stella Blankenship is creeping on Paul Parker and I need to put a stop to it.”
“Why don’t you just talk to her?”
“It won’t do any good. See, Paul Parker is the only eighty-eight-year-old male in here with all his teeth. He’s a hot commodity. Even more so because he can’t see two licks in front of his face on account of his own cataracts. As long as you smell good and talk real sweet, you’re gold.”
“So talk sweet.”
“Can’t you at least bring me a nightstick or something? A slingshot, even. I’m desperate.” The pleading in her voice tugged at something inside of him and a memory stirred.
Of a sullen thirteen-year-old boy pleading for the first piece of apple pie.
She’d always come through for him every Sunday after the pot roast and potatoes. He’d follow her into the kitchen after listening to a full hour of his father gushing over how well his younger brother had thrown the football in the last peewee game, or how he’d won the fifth grade spelling bee. His brother had deserved the first slice of pie. Hell, Travis had deserved the whole damned thing, but his Mimi had always given Hunter the first.
As if he deserved it.
He hadn’t. Not back then, and certainly not now. He struggled every day to keep himself walking the straight and narrow. To do the right thing instead of what he wanted to do.
But his Mimi had loved him before he’d straightened up his act. And she would love him even if he let it all go to shit.
That’s what he told himself.
He just wasn’t in any hurry to find out. Everyone in his life had turned on him. His mother. His father. Travis had died and they’d all blamed Hunter. Travis was good. Kind. Respectable. He hadn’t deserved to die.
But Hunter …
He’d never been good or kind or even close to respectable. He should have been the one to bite the dust, not their precious Travis.
That’s what they thought.
And while Hunter hated to admit it, he knew they were right.
They resented the fact that he’d lived while their youngest had died. They resented him.
And he couldn’t blame them, because he shared that resentment.
“You’re a good boy,” Mimi had told him too many times to count. Even when he hadn’t felt so good. “You’re meant for something else, that’s all. We’re not all perfect. Lord knows, most of us are far from it. You do the best you can with what you’re dealt. The best you can do is take the lemons and make the best danged lemonade you can.”
And that’s what he’d done.
He’d taken a volatile personality and a mean temper and a bad-ass reputation and turned all three in his favor. While most didn’t want to go up against him in a fight, everybody wanted him backing them up in one.
They wanted him fighting the bad guys so they didn’t have to.
A fight … Now that’s what he needed to relieve the tension knotting his muscles tight.
The thought struck, but he sucker-punched it right back out of his brain.
“What about that slingshot?” Mimi’s voice drew him back to the present.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good. Now get back to work and don’t forget to come and see me tomorrow.”
As if he ever would. She was the one person who hadn’t given up on him, and he had no intention of giving up on her. His grandparents had passed on years ago, his granddad from heart disease and his grandmother from cancer. His mother and father had retired to Port Aransas, partly because his dad liked fishing, but mostly because Rebel and everyone in it reminded them of the son they’d lost. And they hadn’t been back since.
Not when Hunter had been sworn in. Or when Mimi had moved into the Royal Rebel Arms. Being away was easier for them.
And hard for his great-grandmother because she had no one now.
He slid the phone into place, finished up the paperwork on his desk before pushing to his feet. He grabbed his cell phone and keys and headed for the rear parking lot.
He needed a distraction from his thoughts and the anxiety pushing and pulling inside of him. An urge that made him want to hit the nearest rodeo arena and see if he could still ride a wild bronc the way he used to.
He couldn’t. He already knew that. He’d ridden without a care in the world back in the day because he hadn’t had a care in the world. He’d been wild back then. Dangerous. Free.
Tamping down on the rush of adrenaline that pumped through him, he drew a deep, calming breath and focused on the first name blazing on his phone courtesy of one Gator Hallsey.
He needed to spend some energy and there was no better way to do it than chasing down bad guys.
* * *
By the time five o’clock rolled around, Jenna had had her fill of pig shit, dog barf, and a hamster named Chloe who took a nice little chunk out of her thumb. She was ready to head home, straight into a hot shower.
Or rather, a lukewarm shower because, like everything else at the Tucker spread, her hot wa
ter heater was on its last legs.
All the more reason to rejoice when she pulled down the gravel drive to find a giant yellow bulldozer scooping up the last remains of the small barn that had sat on the far corner of her property.
Her stomach hollowed out and she reached inside the bakery bag she’d picked up at Brandy’s. Two cupcakes later and she still hadn’t managed to plug the hole in her stomach.
“I told you we’d get the entire thing torn down in one day,” Brody Higgs told her when she finally worked up her nerve to exit her vehicle. He tipped back the edge of his white hard hat and eyed the stack of debris where the small building had once been. “Of course, we’ll need one more day for cleanup and then the boys will start framing the new building.” He checked off a line on his clipboard before turning his attention to the house. “We might even get to this dwelling a few days ahead of schedule.”
“That’s great,” she said after swallowing a mouthful. Her throat closed around a few crumbs and she cleared her suddenly dry throat. “The sooner, the better obviously.”
“So you’ll be ready?” He eyed her. “Can’t have anything left inside.”
“I’ll be ready,” she assured him. One last look at the pile of rubble and she blinked against a sudden burning behind her eyes.
A crazy reaction because she’d never liked that barn. It had housed all the leftover crap that James Harlin hadn’t managed to squeeze into the house. From empty Country Crock butter containers, to a box of old Happy Meal toys he’d picked up going through the drive-thru at the local McDonald’s every Friday. Like clockwork, he’d bought Jenna a Happy Meal and one for himself each week when she’d been in the sixth grade. That had been the first year that both Callie and Brandy had worked after school and so her care had fallen to James Harlin who’d rolled up in his old pickup every day like clockwork.
Most days, she reminded herself. There had been a few times he’d been passed out and she’d had to walk home.
But never on a Friday.
He’d always managed to show up with McDonald’s on the line.
She’d kept her toy, but he’d boxed his up because “a fella never knows when he’ll need a Superman bobblehead,” or so he’d told her. “Or a miniature American Girl doll or a Pokemon figurine.”
Grandkids.
That’s why he’d stashed the toys. Because despite all James Harlin’s meanness, he’d expected great-grandkids one day and he’d meant to be ready for them the way he hadn’t been ready for his own grandkids.
At least that’s what Jenna had told herself.
Truth be told he was probably just a selfish bastard who didn’t want anyone touching his stuff. That’s what Callie had always said and she was usually right.
Still …
Jenna stared into the box of unopened Happy Meal toys, from the My Little Pony miniatures to the Hot Wheels cars, before closing the cardboard and taping the lid shut. There was a Sunday school class full of kids down at the local First Presbyterian Church who were going to be very happy.
A fact that should make her very happy.
She knew that, but damned if she could muster up the emotion. Instead, she ate a third cupcake before heading for her bedroom to take a shower and wash off what remained of Tiny the pig and Big Boy the Doberman.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the sheer pink eyelet curtains covering the bedroom windows, bathing the room in a glow that would have been warm if she’d been any other place but Texas.
Instead it was hot.
Sweltering.
She ended up taking a cold shower before doctoring her thumb with some Neosporin and a Band-Aid. Pulling on a Rebel County Rodeo Finals T-shirt and a pair of shorts, she retrieved a glass of iced tea from the kitchen. Returning to her bedroom, she sank down on the edge of her bed, Jez beside her, and eyed the letters.
She really should hand them over to Hunter. They had his great-grandmother’s name on them, after all.
At the same time, she had a crapload of boxes to pack up if she meant to be ready a few days before the projected demolition date for the house. That meant she wasn’t going anywhere with the letters until she’d finished the house.
That, and she’d found them in her house. Which meant that somehow they were connected to the Tuckers.
Written, as a matter of fact, to one Tucker in particular.
Because Clara Bell had loved this particular Tucker, and that love had torn the two families apart?
Jenna was starting to think so, but there was only one way to be sure.
She pulled the next letter free from the stack and unfolded the worn paper. Scooting back up, she rested her back against the headboard, sipped her iced tea and started to read.
My dearest P.J.,
It feels like forever since I have picked up my pen to write to you. In truth, it has been only one month, but one of the longest of my life. Things are getting worse since everyone found out the truth. Of course, by everyone I mean my folks. The world is still ignorant of what happened. They know only that my father hates your father. A thief. That’s what some folks are calling your father. At least that’s what my older sisters tell me. They go out to ice cream socials and Sunday barbecues while I bide my time inside a locked room. They feed me the gossip through a closed door. The lock opens only for my parents who look at me so differently than they once did. As if I’m the traitor, when in all honesty, they are the ones who betrayed me. They keep pushing and pushing for me to be someone I’m not. For me to do what they want. To say what they want. To be what they want. They thought I was perfect, but now they know that was just an illusion. They see that I have my own ideas. I still do even though it gets harder and harder with each day that passes to remember as much. To remember that I love working in the garden and riding my horse and tending to the animals, just like you. But I’m supposed to admire music and art and theater, like all proper young ladies. Like my sisters. My mother. She’s a cut above the women in this godforsaken town. That’s why my father traveled all the way to Chicago to marry her. He wanted a real lady. He wants me to be a real lady, too. But I’m not. I will never be, and everyone will know it soon enough now that I have the proof of my indiscretion growing inside me.
I care not, of course, and that only makes my father more determined to shut me off from everything that I do care about. He sold my horse yesterday and stomped the baby tomatoes I was growing out near the barn. A real lady doesn’t ride a wildling Paint that’s too stubborn for its own good. A real lady doesn’t get her hands dirty. He wants to smother the spirit inside of me, but I will not let him. I will never reject this child. I will keep it safe just as I will continue to love the father until my last dying breath. Even if my own father sends me back to Chicago to be with my aunt. I swear to you now that distance will not weaken what I feel.
Still begging your forgiveness,
Clara Bell Sawyer
Forget a mere forbidden love. There’d been much more at stake when the families had split.
The truth echoed as Jenna re-read the words a second time and then a third.
Like everyone else in town, Jenna had heard the rumors about what had caused the rift between Archibald Tucker and Elijah G. Sawyer. Elijah had stolen from Archibald. Archibald had swindled Elijah. Elijah had slept with Archibald’s woman. Archibald had given it to Elijah’s wife. The rumors had been plenty, most of them centering around an illicit affair or money, or both, but no one had ever really known the truth except the two men directly involved.
Until now.
Clara Bell Sawyer had gotten pregnant and while the name P.J. didn’t ring a bell in Jenna’s memory, she knew by Clara’s own words in the first letter that he was a hated Tucker.
More than an affair, a baby had divided the families.
A secret baby that was both Tucker and Sawyer.
The notion was the stuff of one of those 80’s primetime soap operas trending on Netflix, like Dallas or Falcon Crest. Dramas rich in big hair, massive sh
oulder pads and jaw-dropping twists and turns.
Dozens of questions rolled around in her head, but she didn’t have to wait for the next season to get some answers. Instead she pulled the next letter free.
She was just about to unfold the delicate paper when she glanced at her blinking phone, noted Chuck’s now familiar Unavailable, and let it go to voice mail. How many times did she have to explain that she wasn’t interested?
As many as it took, her conscience told her.
Be nice. Let him down easy. Be persistent. Kind.
But not at this moment. She’d had hell today and she needed an escape.
One that didn’t involve Hunter DeMassi’s lips.
Ignoring the sudden memory that rushed at her, she took a long gulp of the iced tea. And then she snuggled down, shifted her attention to letter number three, and started to read.
CHAPTER 15
“You done for the day, Sheriff?” Marge’s voice crackled over the radio when Hunter climbed back into his truck after two hours spent tracking down a man by the name of Will Canyon.
Turned out Will wasn’t so hard to find, after all. He’d been playing dominos at the VFW Hall along with a handful of old men and Linda Mae, Rebel’s one and only female mechanic and ex-Navy pilot. A piece of information Hunter would have welcomed before he’d driven clear across the county only to discover that the address on file belonged to the man’s son, Will Jr.
“It’s Tuesday. That means Dad is at the Rebel VFW Hall,” forty-two-year-old Will Jr. had told Hunter. “He plays dominoes every Tuesday with Shorty Tucker and then stays for supper on account of it’s meatloaf night for the veterans.”
Not that Will Sr., at age sixty-three had ended up being the owner of the still. Sure, he fit the bill. His cataracts were so bad that it stood to reason he might hire the Mayweather boys since he couldn’t very well see how ill equipped they were to handle things. But, as it turns out, the man had little knowledge of moonshine, evident in those few moments that Hunter had been watching while the man was unaware. Will Sr. had taken a sip that Linda had offered him, only to spew out the mouthful smack-dab into Shorty Tucker’s face.
Tempting Texas Page 8
