Candis Terry - [Sweet, Texas 01]

by Anything But Sweet

  “Uh-huh.” She gave him a little finger wave. “Nighty-night.”

  Sass.

  The woman had too much for her own good.

  Reno watched her walk away, hips swaying gently beneath that little yellow sundress. Her silly poodle trotted happily behind her. Much to his surprise, he realized he liked sass in a woman.

  He looked down at Bear, who lay stretched out on the grass watching the she-dog’s twitching pom-pom tail. His dog gave a little whine, then looked up as if to say he’d been sucked in by poodle power.

  “Yeah.” Reno shoved his hands into his pockets and watched Charli’s little yellow dress disappear within the darkness of the barn. “We are so screwed.”

  Chapter 6

  Anyone would agree that a cast-iron skillet was primarily used for cooking. And even though Reno was currently stirring a pan full of scrambled eggs, he considered using the appliance for other purposes. Like whacking his brothers over their meddlesome heads.

  “What crawled up your pant leg last night?” Jackson asked while grabbing a jug of milk and tub of butter from Reno’s refrigerator. “You took off awful fast.”

  “Yeah.” Jesse popped some bread into the toaster and turned with arms folded across his chest.

  “Brilliant addition to the conversation, Jess.” Reno flipped the eggs and added a handful of shredded cheese. “One would hardly know you’re an educated man.”

  “I beat you at chess last week.”

  “Not everything’s a competition.”

  “Come to think of it . . .” Jackson grabbed the glasses from the cupboard. “You took off about the time I brought up asking Ms. Brooks out on a date.”

  Reno shoveled equal portions of eggs onto three plates, then set them on the table. “I took off about the time you started asking stupid questions.”

  He sat down at the table as Jesse popped nicely browned toast on each of their plates while Jackson poured three glasses of milk. Within seconds, they were all seated and getting some nourishment before they each began the first of their many jobs.

  “You boys ought to know better than to draw me into a conversation that involves her.”

  Jackson looked up with a smile and a mouthful of toast. “Can’t even say her name?”

  “Don’t need to,” Reno said. “She seems to be the hot topic of conversation these days.”

  “Hot. There’s that fitting description again,” Jesse said, receiving a glare for his lame efforts.

  “Have we honestly resorted to middle-school infatuation?”

  Jackson laughed. “Hell yes. Don’t get women like that around here often.”

  “Women like what?” Jesse asked, but the smirk on his face said the question was anything but innocently asked.

  “Hot,” Jack answered.

  “Oh dear God.” Reno shoved a bite into his mouth and took a sip of strong black coffee to wash it down. “Are we done here? Because there are cattle waiting to be fed.”

  “Saw her jump into that big-ass Hummer this morning.” Jackson waved his fork in the air. “She had on a pair of Daisy Dukes and some little white tennis shoes.”

  Jesse’s brows jacked up his forehead. “That’s all?”

  “Don’t know.” Jack shrugged. “That’s all I could see.”

  Reno’s gaze ping-ponged between his brothers, and it was all he could do not to laugh. They’d known exactly how to bait him since the day he’d appeared in their home, and they’d been told he was their new brother. He didn’t know whether to smash their fool heads together or join in this ridiculous conversation. Maybe if he did, they’d see he couldn’t care less, and they’d give up.

  Head-smashing did have its benefits. But he was already exhausted, and the sun had barely come up over the hilltops.

  “She likes Izzy’s mural.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. “Asked me to paint one for the senior center.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Jackson agreed.

  “You going to do it?” Jesse asked.

  “Hell no.”

  “Why not?” was simultaneously asked.

  “Because . . .” Reno paused. No matter what response he came up with, he’d come off sounding like a jerk. And he didn’t need to give these two jackasses any more ammunition.

  “Mom would say because is not an answer,” Jesse said.

  “Because I don’t have time.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “We’ll gladly take over the feeding, so you can go lend a hand,” Jesse said. “You could manage a few hours each day or in the evenings.”

  “Change is a comin’, brutha.” Jackson grinned. “Ready or not. Like it or not. It’s a comin’.”

  “And how are you going to feel when the tourism peaks, and they tear down Bud’s Diner to put up a McDonald’s. Or an Applebee’s? Or a Sonic Drive-In?” he asked.

  “Why would they do that?” Jackson asked. “They’ve got plenty in San Antonio.”

  “Thirty-plus miles away, little brother.” Reno sprinkled more pepper on his eggs and took another bite.

  “I’d prefer Bud’s Belgian waffles to a McMuffin any day,” Jackson admitted.

  “Well, there you go,” Reno said, enjoying a sense of triumph for having brought a little logic to the discussion.

  For several moments, they ate in peace. Then Jesse looked up from slathering orange marmalade on his toast. “So . . . you going to paint that mural for the hot chick?”

  Reno took a long drink of coffee that gave him time to bite back his immediate response.

  He loved those seniors as much as anybody. But there was no way in hell he would help Fancy Pants ruin his town. Sure, a mural might be nice, but once he lent a hand, she’d expect more. Just like how she always came up with a goddamned gazillion questions. The woman didn’t know when to quit.

  Maybe he’d paint a mural once the production crew left town. But as long as she was there, he would not go near that senior center. He wasn’t about to help her send his town into a spiral from which it might never recover.

  No way in hell.

  Midmorning, Charli stood inside the senior center trying to politely refuse a salted caramel cupcake. Two things you could never put in front of her? Chocolate and caramel. Gertie West was tempting her with both.

  “Little darlin’,” Mrs. West implored, “this here cupcake will give you all the energy you need to finish out your day.”

  “Mrs. West—”

  “Gertie.”

  Charli smiled. “You know, Gertie . . .” The smile slipped from the woman’s face. Charli knew refusing her offer would not only hurt her feelings, it would crush them. Southern hospitality deserved respect. “I think I could actually eat two of those cupcakes. They look delicious.”

  Gertie’s smile came back, and Charli bit into the cupcake with a long sigh. She was going to weigh a ton by the time she left town. The cupcake was so moist and delicious, she really didn’t care. “You have got to teach me how to make these,” she told Gertie, whose ample chest puffed up with pride.

  “Secret’s in the butter. Gotta have the real thing from cream fresh off the cow.”

  Somehow, Charli couldn’t see herself churning butter or milking a cow, but she smiled and winked. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  As Gertie drifted away with her platter of cupcakes to distribute to the rest of the crew, Charli got back to stapling new fabric onto old seat cushions. One of the most important shortcuts to make sure a redesign came in under budget was to reuse anything possible. The chairs in the large meeting space were sturdy. With a fresh coat of paint, they looked good as new.

  Charli smoothed her hand over a wrinkle and popped in the last two staples. She looked up at the bare wall that ran the length of the room and wished the stubborn and grumpy Mr. Wilder would change his mind. He was very talented. His creative eye and attention to detail could add a nice spin to this room that the seniors would enjoy for years and years to come.

  The front door opened, and Char
li popped her head up, hoping he’d changed his mind. Instead of a sexy rancher entering the room, it was an old bowlegged cowboy with his Wranglers starched so stiff, she wondered how he managed to move. His black felt hat was tipped up at the brim, and determination knitted the grayed brows above a pretty spectacular nose as he headed right toward her. She rose to greet him.

  “Howdy there, purdy lady.”

  “Howdy yourself.”

  He stuck out a hand gnarled with arthritis. She extended her own hand, which he lifted to his wrinkled lips and kissed the backs of her fingers.

  She chuckled. “You must be Chester Banks.”

  “How’d ya know?” His grin said he was pleased she’d heard of him.

  “Let’s just say your reputation precedes you.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “How can I help you today?”

  “Heard you was wantin’ some ridin’ lessons.”

  She wanted to ask where he’d heard that bit of misinformation, but she knew. No doubt a certain dimpled cowboy had planted that speck of nonsense in the old guy’s ear. Still, she wouldn’t want to hurt the old gentleman’s feelings. “Well, I would love that, but I doubt I’m going to have much extra time.”

  “Got yer evenin’s off, doncha?”

  Crap. “Sometimes. It depends on what projects we’re working on.”

  “Well, next time you get a few, you give me a call. I got me a new bottle of Dickel, and I’m willin’ to share.”

  “Dickel?”

  “George Dickel. Good old Tennessee Whisky. It’ll give ya a kick in the knickers.”

  “Well, I’ll definitely remember that, Mr. Banks. Thank you for the offer.”

  He lifted her hand and gave it another kiss. “You can call me Chester, darlin’.”

  “I think I can call you Mr. Flirtatious.”

  “That you can.” He gave her a wink. “Yep. That you can.”

  Talk about local color. Charli chuckled. At that moment, the front door opened again. She didn’t know what to expect after Chester’s amorous invitation. When a tall, dark, and devastating cowboy dressed in paint-splattered jeans and a baby blue T-shirt in the same condition entered the room, she couldn’t have been more surprised.

  In his hand, he held a red toolbox that Charli hoped was filled with paints and brushes.

  “Aw shucks,” Chester said. “Here comes Mr. Party Pooper.”

  Reno tipped his battered, straw, cowboy hat at Gertie and walked up to where Charli stood fending off Chester’s romantic intentions.

  “You trying to fix up a date for Friday night, Chester?” His deep voice brushed over Charli’s skin like a feather, tickling her senses into full alert.

  “As if you didn’t know,” Chester said. “What are you doin’ here?”

  Reno held up his toolbox. “Ms. Brooks asked me to lend a hand.”

  “She ain’t got enough help?” The jealousy in Chester’s gravelly voice was clear.

  Charli couldn’t help but be entertained by the men bantering among themselves as if she weren’t standing there taking it all in. “Mr. Wilder has offered . . .” She looked up at him. “Right?”

  He gave a quick nod as if he needed to respond before he rescinded the offer.

  She sighed in relief. “To paint a mural for us.” She tucked her arm through Chester’s and led him toward the door. “Promise me you’ll come back in a couple of days to see the finished piece.”

  “I sure will,” Chester said, then turned around and sent a glare in Reno’s direction. “I got my eye on you, Wilder.”

  When Charli closed the door behind her ardent admirer, she turned back to Reno. “What made you change your mind?”

  “Call it a moment of temporary weakness,” he said. “Which wall?”

  She pointed to the largest.

  “Figures.” He carried his toolbox toward the back and flipped open the latches.

  Charli walked through the room bustling with commotion and went to where he’d hunkered down. His big hands were busy removing a rainbow of paints and soft-bristled brushes.

  Excitement moved through her as she watched the emotions play across his handsome face. She recognized that he didn’t want to be here, but at the same time he seemed eager to create.

  She bent down beside him. “What are you going to paint?”

  He didn’t look up. Just continued to remove the paints, brushes, and a roll of cheesecloth with big strong hands that seemed more capable of wielding a hammer than a small paintbrush.

  “What do you want me to paint?”

  “Oh, no. It would be a sin to take away an artist’s creativity. That should come from passion and inspiration.”

  “Told you I’m not an artist.”

  She leaned her head back and got a good look at him. She had a feeling Reno Wilder was many things he’d never admit to. One of them being passionate.

  She could imagine when a man like him decided to express himself, how powerful that might be. And to be on the receiving end . . . The thought alone gave her a delightful shiver.

  “I beg to differ,” she said. “What made you paint the castle for Izzy?”

  “She’s a princess. Always wearing tutus over her jeans and sneakers.” His dimples flashed. “When she stays with Jackson, she even sleeps with a little tiara on her head.”

  “That’s adorable.”

  “She is.”

  “And you love her like crazy, which is why you painted the castle.”

  “Yeah. She’s only two and pretty much already has me figured out.”

  At least someone did.

  “Where’s Izzy’s mother?”

  “She lives here in town.” He looked down, removed another brush from the toolbox. “They’re divorced. Joint custody. Breaks Jackson’s heart every time he has to take Izzy back home.” His head snapped up, and those dark eyes narrowed as though he realized he’d just been trapped.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You’re tricky.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You ask so many damned questions, a person doesn’t know when you’re getting personal.”

  “Sorry. That wasn’t my intent. It just seemed like a natural flow to the conversation.”

  “We’re not having a conversation.”

  “We’re not?”

  “No. You’re telling me what you want painted on this wall, then we’re done.”

  She rose.

  His eyes followed her all the way up.

  “Surprise me.”

  Two hours after closing time at the store, Reno put his old red truck into gear and found himself drawn back to the senior center. With little extra time during his normal busy days, his passion to paint was a curse as well as an amazing release.

  He could thank his mother for discovering his gift about six months after he’d been in their home. When he’d arrived, he’d been a scared, angry, little boy. His new parents had resolved his anxieties by giving him an abundance of love and the security that he’d never again be alone or abandoned.

  His brothers—as ornery as they could be when the sun was shining—would reach out in the dark of night to calm his fears. When nightmares shook his skinny foundation, those boys would grab the blankets off their beds, and, side by side, they’d all sleep on the floor. They never teased him. Never called him a sissy. They just drew him into the brotherhood and let him know he belonged.

  Though the anger had subsided, it often came back in the nightmares that woke him in a sweat. As someone who immersed herself in a parade of crafts over the years, his mother recognized that any type of creativity was a way to soothe the soul. She’d tried different methods to engage him, but it wasn’t until she’d put a paintbrush in his hand that he’d found his instrument. The first time he’d put that brush to a bare wall, he knew he’d found the perfect medium.

  As he parked his truck at the curb of the senior center, he knew that the scene he’d chosen to create would enhance the space and lighten the moments spent within thos
e walls.

  That’s why he’d gone against his initial foot-dragging on the project. Not for any other reason.

  Certainly not because she’d asked him to.

  When Reno opened the door to the senior center later that evening, he stepped back in surprise. Though the quitting-time bell had rung for most folks, the senior center remained abuzz. Amid the chaos, Charli sat in a corner, her head bent over a sewing machine as she pushed fabric through the pumping needle. Beside her on the floor sat the tiny little blonde who always seemed to have a clipboard plastered to her chest. At the moment, she’d moved the clipboard aside and was busy pinning pieces of fabric together.

  Earlier in the day, while Reno had been in the midst of the activity, he’d had a chance to watch Charli in action. He hated to admit that her passion was infectious. She displayed the same quickness and efficiency her brother did on the battlefield. There seemed to be nothing she couldn’t or wouldn’t tackle. She’d been up ladders, down on the floor, sewing, painting, and hammering. And all the while, she kept up that constant, inquisitive banter.

  Why do they call it the Lone Star State? How big is the biggest ranch? What’s the difference between Texas- and Kansas-City-style barbecue? Are there really scorpions here?

  At first it drove him nuts. He couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t figure out what to put on that blank wall staring back at him—daring him to come up with something fresh and creative.

  After a while, he became numb to her repartee. Well, maybe not numb. It was hard to be anesthetized by a moving cyclone. He’d had to mentally remove himself from the chaos—much as he’d needed to in Afghanistan. Stand back and close his eyes until he regained focus. Instead of battlefield rocket fire, he’d heard the tap-tap of hammers. The whir of the sewing machine. And laughter.

  Little by little, the image revealed itself in his mind like a dissipating fog. When the entire vision opened up, he’d smiled and dipped the brush into a jar of paint.

  Now, he managed to slip into the room as unnoticed as possible. While he dabbed in layers of shadows and highlights, he lost track of time.

  From the corner, the drone of the sewing machine came to a halt. Reno glanced over his shoulder to see Charli raise her arms above her head and stretch like a cat. She’d kicked off her tennis shoes, and one dainty bare foot rubbed over the top of the other. Brush poised in the air, he couldn’t help but watch in fascination.