Bourbon Bliss: Bootleg Springs Book Four

by Kingsley, Claire

  It was Thursday, so I was meeting Cassidy at Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee. Her work schedule varied, so we didn’t meet every week. But when her shifts allowed, we met here on Thursday afternoons. The fact that she still made time for me when she was busy with not only her career, but her relationship with Bowie Bodine, said a great deal about her character.

  But Cassidy had always made time for me. I was the older sister, but I knew that in some ways she felt responsible for me. She and Scarlett had always included me in their social gatherings. I knew it had cost them socially to do so—during our teen years in particular. If people had tried to exclude me, Cassidy and Scarlett had been quick to declare they wouldn’t participate. Parties, bonfires, nights out—if I wasn’t invited, they didn’t go.

  As much as I’d always appreciated their loyalty, I’d never wanted to be a burden. I didn’t get along with people with the ease of Cassidy and Scarlett. But our peers had come to accept me—for the most part—or at least had grown accustomed to my presence. It was another reason I had stayed in Bootleg Springs. I fit here, as much as I’d ever fit anywhere. Mostly because of my sister.

  I went inside, casting a glance over my shoulder on the way in. No George. I felt a strange mix of things at not seeing him, and I couldn’t understand why I was so confused. Shouldn’t I have been relieved? I’d been anxious at the thought of running into him when I came into town. Now that I knew an encounter wasn’t imminent, why was I experiencing what felt suspiciously like disappointment?

  Cassidy was already inside, still dressed in her deputy uniform. I felt a surge of pride for her. She’d worked hard to become a deputy, something she’d wanted her whole life. Upholding the law in a town like Bootleg Springs wasn’t always easy, but she was exceedingly proficient at her job.

  “Hey Juney,” she said when I approached her table. She pushed a mug of steaming hot water toward me. “I got you water for your tea.”

  “Thank you.” I ripped open an Earl Gray tea bag and dunked it in the mug. In my head, I started counting down the seconds from two hundred forty. Letting tea steep too long would result in an unpleasant bitter flavor.

  “How’s your week going so far?” she asked.

  I paused for a moment, considering whether I should tell her about George. What was there to tell? That a football player I’d followed for his impressive statistics had come to Bootleg and now I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands? Wait, what did his hands have to do with anything? Surely the important information would be the facts. The George sightings I’d experienced over the past week. Why were his enormous hands relevant?

  And yet here I was, imagining those strong hands. And the way he’d licked my rocky road ice cream off his finger.

  “Juney? You okay?”

  “What?” I blinked, my eyes coming back into focus. “Yes, I’m fine. I was… thinking about something else.”

  “Yeah? Something good or something bad?”

  “Just work,” I lied. Why was I lying to my sister? “It’s not good or bad. It’s essentially neutral.”

  “All right. You just seem a bit distracted, is all. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  Except I wasn’t. I’d lost count of the seconds my tea needed to steep. I looked down at the swirl of tea-brown emanating from the bag, mixing with the clear water. How long had it been? Why had I stopped counting? I could count and think at the same time. What was wrong with me?

  I dunked my tea bag a few times and tried to judge by the color whether it was ready. I decided it needed an additional sixty seconds and began the countdown again.

  “I heard there’s a famous football player in town,” she said. “Did you hear about that? Do you know who it is?”

  “George Thompson, known as GT Thompson professionally,” I said before I could stop myself. “Two Superbowl wins with Philadelphia. Over ten thousand six hundred career yards. Eighty-two touchdowns.”

  “Wow, I guess you do know.” Cassidy’s eyes lit up and her mouth turned in a smile. “I thought he was one of your favorites. Have you seen him? You should get his autograph.”

  “Why would I want his autograph?”

  “Oh, you know. Sometimes fans like to get an autograph as a keepsake.”

  I nodded. Of course I knew that. I had a small sports memorabilia collection at home—mostly things Dad had given me for birthday and Christmas gifts. In fact, one of my favorite items happened to be my Thompson jersey.

  But the thought of seeking him out—on purpose—sent a flurry of nerves fluttering through my belly. So far, I hadn’t been sick, as one would expect after ingesting a harmful strain of bacteria. Perhaps it wasn’t food poisoning after all. But if it wasn’t an ailment caused by microorganisms, what was the cause of my intermittent stomach upset?

  Instead of addressing the suggestion that I get an autograph from George—or admitting that I’d already met him several times—I decided to change the subject.

  “How are things at work?” I asked.

  “Mostly great. It’s so much better now that Connelly is gone. I don’t feel like I have to defend my ability to do my job every day. But the Callie Kendall investigation is… tricky.”

  “How so?” I asked. The Callie Kendall disappearance had always been a source of mild interest for me, although I didn’t share the town’s obsession with the mystery. Statistically speaking, it was unlikely we’d ever find out the truth. Not after nearly thirteen years.

  She took a deep breath. “The forensics report on Connie Bodine’s car came back. I thought it might shed some light on how she died—whether her accident was really an accident. But Juney, they found fingerprints in her car and I’m terrified of what’s going to happen when word gets out.”

  “They found Callie Kendall’s fingerprints, I presume.”

  Her eyes darted around and she nodded.

  I blinked, letting this new piece of information sink in. “That means Callie was in her car.”

  She nodded. “Most of the prints match the Bodines, obviously—the parents and the kids. But there were some that didn’t match the Bodines and on a whim, I asked them to run them against Callie’s. There were at least two that were a match.”

  No wonder Cassidy looked stressed. Her job and her relationship with Bowie Bodine had intersected on the uncomfortable topic of whether Bowie’s father—and perhaps, his mother—was involved in Callie’s disappearance.

  “Where were they found?” I asked.

  “Passenger seat.”

  “Could there be an alternative explanation that doesn’t implicate the Bodines in her disappearance?”

  “It’s possible Connie gave her a ride somewhere. You know how Bootleg parents are—parenting everyone’s kids, not just their own, when they need to. But Scarlett doesn’t remember her mom driving Callie anywhere. Neither do the others. It’s still possible it’s a coincidence, but…”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Right,” she said. “I talked to Bowie and the rest of the family. They’re concerned, of course. I’m trying to keep this quiet so we don’t get a media circus every time there’s a bit of evidence that pops up.”

  “That’s a prudent choice.”

  I took a sip of my tea and nearly spit it out when the door opened and in walked Bowie. But seeing my sister’s boyfriend was not the cause of my sudden inability to swallow. Right behind him was George.

  My eyes widened and I choked down the hot liquid, trying to suppress a cough. Bowie came straight for our table, his sights naturally set on Cassidy. George wandered up to the counter and appeared to be looking at the menu.

  He was so tall. I didn’t know why his taller-than-average height kept making such a strong impression on me. But it did. And there were those hands. My eyes lingered on them—on his wide palms and thick fingers. He brought one hand up to his chin and slid his thumb along his jaw. I watched, fascinated, as he rubbed his chin, his attention on the menu above the counter.

  With a st
art, my breath caught in my throat, and I tore my gaze away. He hadn’t seen me. I needed to get out of here.

  I scooted my chair back and stood, quickly shouldering my handbag. “I have to go.”

  “Don’t leave on my account,” Bowie said. He’d pulled up a chair next to Cassidy and had his hand on her thigh. “I just stopped in for a second. I’m meeting the guys to go fishing.”

  “No apologies necessary,” I said, trying to keep my voice low. It took a great deal of willpower not to look at George, but I didn’t want Cassidy or Bowie to notice him. “I have a work commitment and need to leave.”

  “Do you want to take your tea to go?” Cassidy asked.

  “No.” My heart raced and my palms felt clammy. “I’ll see you both later.”

  Apparently I was doing an adequate job of hiding my distress. Cassidy didn’t seem to notice. “All right. We’ll see you tomorrow night?”

  “Yes.”

  Bowie leaned in and whispered something that made Cassidy giggle. I was exceedingly grateful for his distraction. I risked a glance at George. He was ordering. He’d turn any second and…

  And what? See me? Say hello? He had always behaved in a normal fashion. He would probably be friendly. What was wrong with that?

  Something. Something was wrong with it, and I didn’t know what, and that made me desperate to leave. I didn’t understand why I was so shaky. My hands trembled, my heart beat too fast, and my belly felt like it was doing somersaults.

  Moving quickly, and hugging the far side of the shop, I kept my eyes on the floor and made my way to the door. I didn’t look back to see if George had noticed me. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if our eyes met.

  I’d never been so flustered in my entire life. The cold air hit me as I walked outside, soothing my warm cheeks. I took slow, deep breaths as I walked to my car, trying to regain control of myself. What was wrong with me? Was something about George Thompson enough to elicit this dramatic physical response? Was it his fame? His status as one of my preferred athletes that had me so agitated? Or was it something else?

  I had no idea.

  7

  George

  The cup of coffee I’d picked up at Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee—this town had the best business names—warmed my hands as I walked up the street. The temperature was up a bit today, as if spring might be finding its way to the mountains out here in West Virginia. Even in town, I could hear birds chirping.

  I checked the time. Five oh seven. I had some time to kill before I met Shelby for dinner. Wondered what kind of trouble I could get up to on a Thursday afternoon.

  Although, what I really wondered was what June Tucker was doing.

  I’d only caught glimpses of her since the rocky road encounter. That was by far my new favorite ice cream flavor. Watching June lick ice cream off a cone? I’d take that any day of the week, thank you very much.

  It was fascinating how that brain of hers could hold onto so much information. Who just walked around, living life, storing the origins of rocky road ice cream in her head? She knew my entire career forward and backward, and clearly sports weren’t the only thing she could talk about with a tremendous amount of knowledge.

  Sexy as hell, that’s what it was. I’d dated women I’d considered intelligent. But they didn’t hold a candle to June Tucker. She was on another level.

  My phone rang, so I pulled it out to answer. It was my assistant, Andrea Wilson.

  “Hey, Andrea. What’s up?”

  “Hi, GT. Sorry to bug you, but I just have a few things.”

  “No problem. How’s Mellow?”

  “Mellow? Oh, the rabbit. She’s fine.”

  “You’re making sure she has playtime, right? She needs attention.”

  “Yeah, of course. I check on her once a day.”

  “Is she warming up to you?”

  “Um, I guess so,” she said. “You know I’m not really an animal person. But the rabbit’s fine.”

  Talking about my little fluffball made me miss her. “Send me a picture when you go over there tomorrow, okay?”

  I decided to ignore the frustrated breath Andrea let out. She could be prickly, but she was good at her job, and she’d worked for me for years. She handled everything from my schedule and travel arrangements to dinner reservations to my finances. A lot of players did without an assistant after they hung up their jersey, but it was hard to imagine life without Andrea making sure my shit was together.

  “Whatcha got for me, Andrea?”

  “I’ve worked out a revised budget and financial analysis for you. Yearly projections and so forth. I’ll email it to you.”

  “Can you just bottom line it for me?”

  “Sure. Between investments and your pension, you should be fine financially. Just don’t go out and buy a Lambo or something.”

  “Not much chance of that. What else?”

  “Your physical therapist wants to schedule a follow-up. When do you think you’ll be back in town? I’ll get that set up for you.”

  I scratched my chin. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I kinda like it here. And the hot springs are no joke. My knee feels better already.”

  “Hmm.” The sound of her fingers clicking against a keyboard came through the phone. “Let me know when you have a return date and I’ll get an appointment scheduled.”

  I hesitated, momentarily distracted by a large green tractor lumbering up the road. The driver parked it in front of a store that said Build-a-Shine and jumped down.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Last thing and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  I paused and leaned against a building. A car drove by, its engine considerably quieter than the tractor had been. “Sure.”

  “You have a few invites to charity events. One is this week, so I already declined. What about the others? Do you want me to forward them to you and you can decide?”

  A loud clop, clop, clop caught my attention. A woman on horseback came around a corner. She wore a baseball cap with a big rooster on the front and she rode that horse up the street like it was totally normal.

  Then again, I supposed it was normal here.

  “Um… Sorry, Andrea, I was distracted for a second. Just sit on those for now. I don’t want to have to rush home for anything. I need some downtime. And I’d like to keep my options open as far as how long I stay here.”

  “Okay.”

  A chicken strutted up the sidewalk, pecking at the ground, like she was looking for a tasty morsel. I laughed.

  “Sorry,” I said. “There’s a chicken walking up the sidewalk.”

  “Did you say a chicken?” she asked. “Where are you?”

  I chuckled again. “Bootleg Springs. And yes, a chicken. She seems friendly. Anyway, I’ll talk with you later, Andrea. Thanks for checking in.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll email if I have more questions.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I pocketed my phone and watched the chicken as she pecked at the ground a few more times, then scratched.

  “You finding what you need, there, sweetheart?” I asked. “Are you supposed to be on the street, or did you get out of your coop?”

  “She’s free range.”

  A man with a bushy white mustache stood nearby. He wore a sheriff’s uniform, complete with a star-shaped badge. His name tag said Sheriff Tucker. I wondered if he was related to June. Looked a bit like her, and in a small town, it seemed likely.

  “I guess I won’t worry about finding her owner, then.”

  Sheriff Tucker shook his head. “Nah, no need. This here is Mona Lisa McNugget. She’s our town chicken. Doesn’t really belong to anyone.”

  Of course her name was Mona Lisa McNugget. “She’s a fine-looking hen, Sheriff.”

  “That she is. I hope you don’t mind me introducing myself.” He held out a hand. “Harlan Tucker.”

  I took his hand and gave it a solid shake. “Pleasure to meet you. GT Thompson.”

  He cracked a smile as he let
my hand drop. “Yeah, I have to admit, I know who you are. There’s been a bit of buzz in town about you.”

  I shrugged. “That can happen.”

  “Shame about your knee,” he said, gesturing to my leg. “You had a good two more seasons in you.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. One, more likely. But thanks.”

  “I tell you, that touchdown reception you had against Texas last season was amazing. I think we watched that catch a hundred times.”

  “Thanks. You follow football?”

  “Sure do. I’m a sports fan in general, but there’s nothing like some good old-fashioned football.”

  A man on the street caught my attention, and I watched him, my mouth partially open. Long white hair spilled out from beneath a black top hat and a white beard hung to his belly. He rode down the street on a skateboard, holding a drink of some kind in a mason jar.

  “Sheriff,” he said, tipping his hat as he passed.

  “Morris,” Sheriff Tucker said.

  This town was something else.

  “I won’t keep you.” Sheriff Tucker patted his pockets, like he was looking for something. “But if it wouldn’t be too much to ask, I was wondering if I might get your autograph. My daughter is a big fan. I’d love to surprise her.”

  His daughter? Was she June?

  “Of course, I’d be happy to.”

  A pickup truck drove up the street, slowing when it came near. Sheriff Tucker put his hands on his hips, watching as the truck came to a stop. Two men sat in the cab, and three were in the bed. I recognized one of the men in back as Gibson Bodine. The others had to be his brothers, or related somehow. The resemblance was clear.

  Gibson tipped his chin to me and I nodded back.

  I blinked a few times, wondering if I was seeing things. Did they have a barbecue in the back of the truck? They certainly appeared to. The black contraption stood in the center of the bed, and Gibson held a long metal spatula. They couldn’t be grilling while they were driving… could they?