Brodie: Texas Rascals Book 8

by Lori Wilde

  Deannie wadded her pillow in her fists, closed her eyes, and tried unsuccessfully to block the memory.

  She’d swiveled her head to the doorway. Recalled the stark terror that had driven through her small body at what she’d seen standing there.

  A man. Tall, thin, dressed completely in black. He sported a narrow mustache, numerous tattoos, diamond rings on his pinkie fingers, and a wide, gold belt buckle.

  Even now, Deannie’s blood ran cold, and the hair on her forearms raised.

  He looked exactly like a silent-movie villain with his dark hair slicked back off his forehead, his thin lips curled smugly at the corners, and his hips cocked in an insouciant pose.

  For the first and last time, Deanna Rene Hollis clapped eyes on the man who would forever change her life. The slick man who’d snatched away her innocence, leaving her bitter and vengeful. The man who’d instilled a hatred inside her so savage it would last fifteen years and spill out onto his sons.

  Rafe Trueblood.

  He had cocked his head to one side and winked at her. Then he’d pulled a cigar from his front shirt pocket. Striking a match with his thumbnail, he’d lit his cigar and watched her father as he scurried around the room, opening drawers and pulling stuff from the closet.

  “Don’t get hysterical, Hollis. I told you there was no need for you and your girl to leave tonight. Tomorrow will suit me just fine.”

  “Daddy?” Her voice had risen high and shrill, more of a demand than a question.

  “Hush, Deannie, and get dressed.”

  “No reason to pull the girl from her bed at midnight.”

  “Yes, there is. Willow Creek doesn’t belong to us anymore.”

  “You’re losing it, Hollis. I don’t want it being said around Rascal I kicked a child out in the middle of the night.”

  “Perhaps you should have thought about that before you cheated me out of my homestead.” Daddy was panting.

  Rafe walked across the floor, blowing smoke rings. He thrust his face into Daddy’s. “I don’t cheat. You stink at poker. It’s not my fault you can’t hold your liquor and you let your mouth overload your butt.”

  Deannie coughed and curled her knees up under her chin, frozen, welded to her bed, staring at the two men arguing in front of her.

  “Did you hear me, Deannie?” her father snarled, spinning away from Rafe and turning to glare at her. “Out of the bed, now!”

  “Please, Daddy,” she begged, hot tears running down her cheeks. “Tell me why.”

  Rafe held up a palm. “Please allow me to field this question for you, Hollis.”

  Her daddy clenched his hands so tight that his knuckles turned white.

  Smiling, Trueblood stepped toward the bed. “Your daddy bet this ranch and all the contents on a hand of poker. Do you know what that means?”

  Deannie shook her head. Rafe Trueblood’s breath was warm and smelled worse than her daddy’s body odor.

  “It means he lost the card game, and now Willow Creek Ranch belongs to me.”

  Deannie’s bottom lip trembled. “I don’t live here anymore? What about my toys and my clothes?”

  “I’m sorry, darling, but you’re gonna have to leave everything behind. And it’s all your daddy’s fault.”

  “You’re a cold-blooded snake, Trueblood,” her father said, shoving the gambler aside. “Get away from my daughter.”

  Rafe chuckled and sauntered out the door, leaving his repulsive scent behind him. “Thanks for the ranch, Hollis,” Rafe Trueblood called over his shoulder. “My family was needin’ somewhere to live, and this place will do us fine.”

  “Daddy?” Deannie had whimpered, stunned and confused.

  Her father had gone down on his knees in front of her, an agonized expression on his face. He had wrapped one arm around her and pulled her tight against his chest while his tears dampened her nightgown. “I’m sorry, baby, so sorry.”

  “Who is that man, Daddy? Why do we have to leave? Can I take my pony?”

  “No, honey, you can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, sweetheart, your daddy has gone and done a very stupid thing.”

  Down the hallway a door clicked closed, jerking Deannie from her terrible memory.

  Brodie.

  Deannie sat up and pushed her hair off her sweat-drenched forehead. The covers lay twisted around her legs, and her heart thundered harder than a West Texas hailstorm. Her mouth was dry and tasted chalky. Her hands trembled and her soul ached.

  She glanced at her bedside travel clock. One-thirty. Was Brodie still awake? Obviously, he had his own demons.

  For the first time in her life, Deannie felt a twinge of sympathy for a Trueblood. As fallible as her own father had been, at least at heart he had been a good person, whereas Rafe Trueblood had been a total blackguard through and through.

  Imagine growing up with Rafe for a father. Childhood could not have been easy for Brodie either.

  Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Deannie sat there a moment, trying to get her emotions under control before she trekked across the hallway to the bathroom. She panted against the thick, heavy sensation in her chest.

  Coming back to Willow Creek had unearthed ugly memories and rock-hard emotions. She’d known returning would dredge up those dark feelings, but Deannie had to admit the actual reality was far more shocking than she’d expected.

  She stared at the square of moonlight seeping through the window and onto the carpet. Fought hard to suppress the tears welling in her throat. Crying would get her nowhere. Pleading would do no good. Weeping, she’d discovered on that awful night so long ago, was for sissies.

  Deannie clenched her jaw. Not she. She was not her father’s daughter. She was a fighter, a survivor. She refused to give in to defeat no matter how the odds seemed stacked against her.

  She would not fail. Somehow, someway, through hook or by crook, she would wrest Willow Creek Ranch back from the Truebloods if it took her dying breath to achieve her goal.

  10

  Deannie steered Brodie’s four-wheel drive pickup truck across the back pasture. He had given her the keys that morning along with a hand-drawn map to help her locate the log cabin. She didn’t need instructions. She remembered exactly where Papaw’s old cabin sat nestled among the willow trees flanking the creek bank that was only full after the spring run off when the snow melted from the Davis Mountains.

  Brodie promised to meet her at the cabin by nine o’clock to help her get things organized. With Emma scheduled to come home from the hospital tomorrow, they didn’t have much time to get the place cleaned and readied for occupancy. Kenny had taken Angel and Buster into town with him, freeing Deannie to do the chores.

  At breakfast, Brodie had acted pleasant if not quite friendly. Deannie accepted his mood, knowing she had to give him breathing room. Last night’s events strengthened her resolve. She would wait forever if that’s what it took to make Brodie Trueblood fall in love with her.

  A roadrunner darted from the tall Johnson grass and raced along beside the truck as she guided the vehicle over rough brushy terrain. Cattle grazed on both sides of the makeshift road. White-faced Herefords on the left, Black Angus on the right. A windmill, old but still functional, spun listlessly beside the stock tank. Along the fence row, giant sunflowers grew in wild abandon.

  Deannie rolled down the window and took in a deep breath of home. Scissortails flitted on the telephone lines, and killdeers cried from the ground beneath the mesquite trees. Nostalgia mixed with regret. The emotions rose inside her, knotting hard and pressing relentlessly against her rib cage until she had difficulty catching her breath.

  She’d lost so much. Not just her home, but her heritage as well. When she should have been spending her childhood shinnying up trees and catching tadpoles in the pond, she’d been wandering through back alleys looking for aluminum cans to sell and sleeping on pool tables in smoky bars waiting for her daddy to cash in his chips and go home.

  “Damn you
, Rafe Trueblood, for stealing my life,” Deannie muttered, fisting one hand in her lap. “But I’ll have the last laugh.”

  And hurt Brodie in the process?

  Those words floated through Deannie’s mind, but she tamped them down along with her guilt. Brodie was a big boy, and he could take care of himself.

  She drove over a rise and spotted Papaw’s log cabin in the distance, partially hidden by willow trees.

  The sight of it brought tears to Deannie’s eyes, and she brushed them from her cheek. None of that, she chided herself, but her chest squeezed tighter.

  She bumped across the trickling creek and rode over a clump of smooth, flat rocks. Brodie’s truck easily scaled the craggy territory. It was a brand-new pickup, this year’s model, complete with all the bells and whistles. Electric windows and doors, an expensive sound system and extended cab, reclining leather bucket seats.

  Pulling up to the cabin, she sat there a moment, gathering her courage to face what lay ahead. Her gaze scanned the yard. Weeds had taken over the spot where her grandmother used to work a vegetable garden. Deannie could almost taste the vine-ripened tomatoes, crisp ears of baby corn, and savory black-eyed peas. Her mouth watered. Store-bought produce had never rivaled homegrown.

  The front screen door hung on one hinge, and aged farming equipment rusted beside a decrepit chicken coop long since devoid of poultry. An old-fashioned hand pump was positioned over a water trough around the side of the house, a white salt lick squatting beside it. A few boards in the corral recently replaced, the bright-brown wood a stark contrast against the gray, weathered fencing.

  Killing the engine, Deannie took a deep breath and got out of the truck. A jackrabbit leaped up from behind a cactus, tall ears twitching, his powerful hind legs propelling him across the prairie at lightning-quick speed.

  Startled, Deannie stumbled backward, muttering under her breath. She should have worn boots instead of her sneakers. What if that rabbit had been a rattlesnake?

  She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes until nine. Brodie would be here soon.

  After retrieving cleaning supplies from the truck bed, Deannie headed up the stone path leading to the cabin. Juggling the mop, broom, bucket, soap, and bleach, she nudged the screen door open with her toe. The reluctant metal shrieked in protest.

  A musty odor greeted her when she entered the cabin. A fine layer of dust covered everything—cardboard boxes, sheet-draped furniture, brown paper sacks, steamer trunks. The tiny house was jam-packed with junk. Evidently, Brodie used the cabin as storage space.

  Whew. Deannie rested her hands on her hips and surveyed the clutter. They had their work cut out for them.

  “Quite a mess, isn’t it?”

  The sound of Brodie Trueblood’s voice sent chills rippling through her. Chills of desire, apprehension, or downright fear, Deannie couldn’t say which. She set down the supplies and turned on her heels to face him.

  Clearly, he had gotten little sleep. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his cheeks appeared drawn and gaunt. He held his shoulders stiff, as if afraid to relax around her.

  Even weary, he was still the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Not necessarily in the slick, polished way Hollywood defined as handsome. Brodie’s attractiveness was much more than skin-deep. It was in the way he walked, the way he held himself. His voice, strong, deep, and masculine. And his slightly irregular features were far more intriguing than any flawless face.

  “I didn’t hear you drive up,” Deannie said, nervously running a hand through her hair.

  “I rode Ranger.”

  “Oh.”

  A curtain of silence settled over them. Deannie flicked her gaze around the room, desperately searching for something to focus on. Anything to keep from looking into Brodie’s deep-brown eyes. Knowing eyes that seemed to peer straight into her soul.

  Butterflies flitted in her stomach. She had to hold her goal firmly in mind—make Brodie fall in love with her. But she had to proceed carefully. Brodie’s guard would be up. She had to find small ways to seduce him. Anything overt would send him running in the opposite direction.

  Think, Deannie, what does Brodie care about? Willow Creek Ranch, Angel and Buster, Emma, his brother. Home and family. There lay the battlefield. If she were to win his heart, she had to appeal to his love for the land and his hunger for roots.

  “We better get to work.” Brodie nodded, all business, derailing her thoughts.

  “Where do we start?” Deannie asked, overwhelmed.

  “I’ll stuff these boxes and crates into the bedrooms. That’ll make room in here.”

  “What’ll we do about the bedrooms?”

  “Kenny can sleep on the fold-out couch.”

  “I think it’s admirable,” Deannie murmured, “what you’re doing for your brother.” She might deceive him, but she wasn’t lying to him. She believed Brodie to be an honorable man.

  So why are you so set on deceiving him?

  Because there was no other way to get back Willow Creek. Damn, it was hard having a conscience. Too bad she wasn’t as cold-blooded as Rafe. Actually, it was too bad Rafe wasn’t alive, so she could get her revenge face-to-face and leave Brodie out of it all together.

  Brodie didn’t reply. Instead, he grasped a box and headed for the back room. Not knowing what else to do, Deannie gathered up two paper sacks and followed, knocking loose a dust shower.

  The bedroom was small and almost as packed as the living room. It housed two twin beds stacked high with clutter. The peculiar assortment included Christmas decorations: multicolored twinkle lights, two plastic lawn Santas, a green and red felt tree skirt, yards and yards of unused

  material in a variety of faded colors and moth-eaten fabrics, and a collection of Louis L’Amour paperbacks.

  “Stack it anywhere.” Brodie waved a hand.

  “Where did this stuff come from?” Deannie asked, wrinkling her nose to suppress a sneeze.

  “Most of it belonged to the previous owners.”

  Deannie froze, her fingers still curled around the sack. Some of her old possessions could be here?

  “Some of it was my mother’s…” Brodie’s eyes fixed on an object in the corner, and his voice took on a husky tone and trailed off.

  Deannie tracked his gaze and spied a carousel music box resting on top of an oak bureau.

  He moved across the hardwood floor, his boots making a rough clipping noise. His hand closed around the music box. He cradled it gently to his chest. In that moment, Deannie realized just how much his mother had meant to him.

  His large fingers looked incongruous turning that tiny key. He wound it then set the music box back down on the bureau. She noticed he held his breath, and his hands trembled ever so slightly.

  The music box sprang to life, the carousel horses twirling around the base as they moved up and down on their poles. A tinny melody filled the air, and Deannie cocked her head, trying to recognize the tune.

  “‘The Skater’s Waltz.’”

  The haunting chords echoed sadly throughout the room and tugged at her heart.

  Brodie jammed his hands into his pockets and watched the carousel horses prance.

  “My mother loved that music box,” he whispered. “I bought it for her the Christmas I turned twelve. I mowed lawns all summer and raked leaves in the fall to pay for it.”

  His quiet revelation gave Deannie insight into him. Much-needed information she could use to draw closer to him. His mother had been the one to keep him stable. She had given him his strength of character. Her loving influence had prevented Brodie from taking after Rafe as Kenny had done.

  Deannie cleared her throat. “Your mother must have meant a lot to you.”

  A hooded expression shuttered his eyes. “We were close.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Cancer. She was only forty-two.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Brodie raised his head and looked at her. She saw pain in his eyes. Deep, inconsolable. Even now.


  “I built Willow Creek into what it is today as a tribute to her,” he said. “You can see why this place means so much to me.”

  If only you knew how much this place means to me, too!

  “Yes,” Deannie replied. “I can understand. My mother died when I was seven.”

  “How?”

  He’d warned her last night not to lie to him, but what could she do? If she told him her mother had been killed in a riding accident, he just might remember how Gil Hollis’s wife died and put two and two together. He was already suspicious of her, and Brodie Trueblood was not a stupid man.

  “She had cancer, too,” she lied.

  “So, you know how I feel.” Compassion lit his eyes.

  Deannie looked away, unable to bear Brodie’s kindness.

  Willow Creek had played an important role in both their lives. Coming to live here had given Brodie a sense of purpose, driving him to excel, while being torn from the ranch had given Deannie an equally insatiable desire to reclaim it as her own.

  Walking the short distance across the cluttered room, she laid a hand on his shoulder. “I think your mother would be very proud of what you’ve done with Willow Creek.”

  Their gazes sealed. Something unspoken passed between them. A silent recognition that bound them together.

  “We better get to work.” Brodie stepped back, dropping his gaze.

  “Okay,” she replied, yearning for something she couldn’t quite name, and as he walked back outside, she couldn’t help feeling she was on the verge of losing everything.

  DESPITE HIS BEST INTENTIONS, he was letting Deannie get too close. Brodie hefted another box onto his shoulder and carted it into the bedroom.

  He couldn’t afford to let things progress so swiftly. He didn’t know enough about her, and what he knew was not very commendable.

  “Cool your jets, Trueblood,” he muttered under his breath. “There’s plenty of time for things to develop. No hurry. No rush.”

  So why did a headlong urgency consume him? Why had thoughts of Deannie kept him awake all night? Why did he fantasize about the taste of those luscious pink lips when he fully knew of the dangers?