The Troubled Texan

by Phyliss Miranda

  BOOKS BY PHYLLISS MIRANDA

  The Tycoon and the Texan

  (with Jodi Thomas, Linda Broday, and DeWanna Pace)

  Give Me a Cowboy

  Give Me a Texan

  Give Me a Texas Outlaw

  Give Me a Texas Ranger

  A Texas Christmas

  Be My Texas Valentine

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  The Troubled Texan

  PHYLISS MIRANDA

  eKENSINGTON

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  BOOKS BY PHYLLISS MIRANDA

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Fifth-Generation Mrs. Grooms’s Chocolate Cake

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  Dedicated to Chris and Natalie Bright, who taught me a lot about ranching out on the Sanford Ranch, one of the oldest original ranches established in the Texas Panhandle in 1895.

  And in memory of my Uncle Chalmers Michael Goodwin who passed from this life without having to experience the full agony of Alzheimer’s disease.

  Special dedication to all the caretakers who devote their lives daily to their loved ones who suffer from Alzheimer’s disease.

  IN MEMORY

  of

  THE REVEREND BILLY HOBBS

  1946–2004

  Two-time All American from Texas A&M University

  Southwest Conference player of the year

  Cotton Bowl MVP

  National Defense Player of the Year

  Texas A&M and Panhandle Sports Halls of Fame

  Linebacker for the Philadelphia Eagles

  and the New Orleans Saints

  Chapter One

  LIFE WITHOUT PAROLE! the April 12th Los Angeles Tribune headline shrieked up at Maressa Clarkson.

  The word “failure” might as well have been scrolled in neon. Not being able to get the death penalty for a murderer who made Charles Manson look like a schoolyard bully was totally unacceptable, nothing but a sign of weakness, unworthiness. At least that was the way her father would see the verdict.

  District Attorney, Judith Mason, had stood alone with her, the only one to understand the emotional hell Maressa had been going through as lead prosecutor in such a high-profile, gut-wrenching case. Maressa suspected the DA figured that, since she was up for reelection and her conviction record had been challenged by her opponent, she didn’t want to get her hands dirty with such a horrific case. She certainly didn’t need the stigma of Alonzo Hunter receiving life in prison hanging over her head when he deserved the death penalty.

  Besides her own father and her boss, there were probably thousands of citizens of the state of California disappointed in the verdict, but none more than Maressa herself.

  Scoping out her desk, she touched a nutmeg-colored folder labeled “People vs. Alonzo F. Hunter” lying open beside volumes of Cal Stats—Statutes of California and West’s California Reporter. An opaque water ring from an empty Diet Dr Pepper can on her otherwise organized desk reminded her that she hadn’t eaten a real meal in weeks.

  A bonsai plant she had pampered for five years caught her attention. She checked the soil. Still moist. Plucking off a leaf that clung for survival like an umbilical cord, she tossed the dead twig in the wastebasket beside the credenza.

  She turned back for a final look and ran her fingers across the brass nameplate: R. Maressa Clarkson, Deputy District Attorney.

  The pathetic looking bonsai seemed to plead with her not to be left behind.

  Don’t look so sad, little guy. With rare spontaneity, she snatched up the front page of the newspaper and wrapped it around the delicate plant, before securing the pot in a corner of her gym bag.

  Sliding on her sunglasses, she headed for the door. Cautiously surveying the outer offices, she checked to make sure nobody was around.

  Easing the door closed, she exited through the back and headed for a bank of elevators. Luck was on her side; the doors opened immediately and she stepped into the waiting car.

  Adjusting her heavy tote bag slung on her arm, she steadied herself, leaning against the mirrored tiles covering three sides of the elevator walls. The coolness of the glass seeped through her olive-drab blouse hanging off her noodle thin shoulders. She had lost more weight. Barely five-foot-two and a slight one hundred and three pounds, she couldn’t afford to lose another ounce.

  A gaunt, tired image teetering on this side of anorexia screamed back at her. She touched the dark circles under her eyes. Lack of sleep and stress, compounded by the trauma of prosecuting such a horrendously complicated case and her concern for her safety, as well as that of her staff, had taken their toll. Her normally emerald-green eyes now looked more like mucky moss against her pasty complexion. Pinching her cheeks to add a tad of color didn’t work. She needed some sun. And rest, lots of it.

  The elevator jerked to a stop on the ground floor where she located her new Lexus. She unlocked the doors, and then tossed her car keys on the concrete beneath the automobile. Exiting the parking garage on foot, she walked seven blocks south.

  Although the back streets she took were virtually deserted at this time of the morning, she stopped several times to make sure she wasn’t being followed.

  Halting near a trash bin, she took a deep breath, opened her gym bag and removed the Prada purse that cost more than a month’s payment on her condo. Tossing the turquoise-and-gray paisley printed handbag in a shallow growth of weeds behind the receptacle, she walked away. She had a small, cheap purse she had purchased inside her gym bag.

  Someone would find her billfold, complete with identification, and figure she was another mugging victim. They’d take the piddling amount of cash she had deliberately left inside and discard the handbag. Nothing unusual in a city the size of LA.

  Once she crossed back to the main avenue, crowds bustled to work around her like screensavers on speed. Meshing with the smell of designer perfume, tobacco, and leftover lust, she made her way another six blocks west before she flagged down a taxi. She told the driver that she wanted to go to the Los Angeles International Airport, where she paid him and mingled amongst the people before she caught a green-line bus and changed terminals. Weighted down with apprehension, she hailed a second cab.

  Maressa removed a note Judith had given her from her pocket, and directed the cabbie to a used car lot in East LA, where she picked up her new identity and an ordinary Chevy Malibu. Not exactly a car she would have chosen, but one serviceable enough for her needs.

  “Mrs. Michaels, uh, lady . . . Rainey—”

  Jerking her head up, she responded, “What? Yes?”

  She needed to get accustomed to her new alias since the last time anyone in her family used her first name was when she was baptized as an infant thirty-two years before. Her father hated the name Maressa, but had agreed to allow it to be put on her birth certificate only to appease her mother. The LA County DA insisted that “Rainey” didn’t sound professional and that using Mare
ssa, along with her first initial, would set her apart from the other thousand-plus deputy DAs.

  Rainey Michaels did have a secure ring to it.

  “Don’t act scared. It’s a dead giveaway that you’re on the run. You paid a lot of money to get lost, so get used to it,” chided the slick-talking son-of-slime. “The registration and insurance documents are in here.” He handed her an envelope. “Keep ’em with the car ’cause you can’t afford to get stopped. Gotcha a New York driver’s license . . . everything you wanted, including a burner phone. You okay, Mrs. Michaels?”

  “What? Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.” She handed over a manila envelope. “All the money is here.”

  Deal closed, the man slithered back to the hole he called his office.

  Slipping behind the wheel, she exited the parking lot . . . off the emotional roller coaster that had taken her for a nasty ride. She needed separation to heal, and plenty of it. Hopefully, given enough time, she could put the daily, sometimes hourly, images of the hideous crimes of Alonzo F. Hunter behind her and begin to live again.

  Merging into traffic, she headed toward small-town USA where she could blend in like a single boll of cotton in pale moonlight.

  A frightened deputy district attorney didn’t resign . . . she vanished.

  And in R. Maressa Clarkson’s, rather Rainey Michaels’s case, she carried way too much baggage with her in the form of horrific memories.

  Chapter Two

  Alternating blue and red lights flashed from behind, jolting Rainey Michaels’s gypsy mind back to the dusky Texas highway not far off Interstate 40.

  Damn it!

  A single blast of a siren from a county marked club-cab pickup sliced the air.

  “Son of a . . .” She slammed her hands on the steering wheel, tapped the brakes, and pulled to the soft shoulder of the road. Speeding! I had to be speeding. And her proof of insurance had blown away when she’d opened the glove box way back in Tennessee.

  Trouble had found her and she hadn’t been in the Texas Panhandle more than an hour. In this Godforsaken county, she’d be lucky if she didn’t get the book thrown at her.

  She had carefully selected Kasota Springs to relocate to because it was far enough away from her hometown of Denton, Texas, for her not to be recognized, while small enough to feel at home. Using her new name, Rainey Michaels, she had already prepaid a six-month lease on a building sight unseen in the Podunk city. She had planned to slip quietly into town and go inconspicuously about her business. But now . . . that might be impossible.

  In the rearview mirror, she saw the silhouette of the officer unfold from the patrol car. He carried himself with a confident presence, an air of authority. Most likely there would be no talking her way out of a ticket.

  There wasn’t the slightest hesitation in his stride as the tall man approached. No doubt, she had found trouble and he came with a Stetson, a Glock .45 on his hip, and the means to unravel the elaborate ruse she’d constructed.

  From the way the deputy pulled the black felt hat low over his eyes and lifted back his jacket to touch his service pistol, he expected instant obedience. A no-nonsense type of person who would enjoy making an example of a commonplace automobile with New York plates speeding through his sleepy Texas county.

  Biting on her lower lip, she jerked open the gym bag and retrieved her new driver’s license and auto registration. Maybe he wouldn’t ask for her insurance card. Not likely, but maybe.

  Looks tough and cocky, but great body! she thought. Her tongue danced along her upper lip.

  Rainey spoke to her only company, the bonsai plant riding in the passenger seat. “I might even enjoy being handcuffed to that rascal.”

  Reality snarled at her. Handcuffed! Arrested! Goodness sakes alive, what are you thinking, girl? she scolded. The last thing Rainey needed was someone delving into her past. Besides, she expected plenty of questions just being the newest addition to the quaint ranching community.

  Shadowed by the remnants of a lazy West Texas sunset, the big man trooping her way reminded her of Donovan Cowan, Sr., the tough-as-nails longtime sheriff of Denton County. To teach the teenagers a valuable lesson, if he caught them speeding, they were an automatic overnight guest of the county. Swallowing hard, she tried to dislodge the knot in her throat. The death of the gruff old hound dog, killed in the line of duty, had been plastered all over the Internet for weeks.

  As though she stepped on a grave, thoughts of his son, Deuce, chilled her. After nearly three decades of trying to ignore his existence, why would she think about the baddest good boy she had ever known?

  Get back to reality, woman!

  Frantic, she searched for a scarf. I look like a vagrant with my swollen eyes and ratty hair, she thought to herself.

  With a whisk of her hand, she pulled a layer of bangs over her forehead and fluffed her short auburn tresses around her face. Rather, Chestnut Sunshine the box had read. She thought her hair had turned out looking similar to the color of a Christmas ornament. But then dyeing it in a motel room somewhere in Arizona wasn’t exactly an applied science.

  Pulling on the headscarf, she slipped on blue-tinted shades, lowered the window, and trained her gaze upward.

  Thick forceful thighs, slim hips, and a polished silver-and-gold Texas A&M belt buckle below an obviously taut, planed abdomen were a welcome sight for a traffic stop.

  “Good evening, ma’am . . .” His deep-timbred voice kicked her heart into overdrive. “Kinda in a hurry, aren’t you?”

  Sheer black fright swept through her. That voice! She’d know it anywhere. It had to belong to the studly Denton High quarterback and her old study partner, Deuce Cowan. But why would he be in Kasota Springs?

  Taking a deep breath before lowering her voice, Rainey nervously stuck out the documents, crunching them into his washboard hard stomach. “Sorry, deputy.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. This won’t take but a minute.” He took the cards, pushed her hand away, brushing her fingertips as he did. “And, it’s Sheriff Cowan.” He tipped his Stetson, turned, and walked back to the pickup.

  Sheriff! Not a deputy?

  Mother of Joseph! It was worse than she thought. She pulled more bangs over her forehead, and exhaled deeply. Rainey had carefully checked out the town and had been assured that E. L. Kirkwood was the sheriff. And now the position seemed to belong to her old high school classmate Deuce Cowan.

  Mercy . . . mercy sakes alive, did she ever have a problem.

  Rainey rested her head against the headrest and willed away the tightness between her shoulders. Queasiness flared in her stomach.

  Her mind wandered through an array of worse scenarios while she waited for the sheriff to take care of business. The business of checking her out with the Department of Motor Vehicles and Vital Statistics. And realizing she didn’t have any proof of insurance.

  It seemed like eons before the officer reappeared. His voice clipped the air, sending a ripple of awareness through her. “Mrs. Michaels, open your trunk, please.”

  Lowering her voice to a whisper, she answered, “Certainly.”

  Dern, if she knew where to find the trunk release and couldn’t afford to open the door . . . she didn’t need any more light shed on her. Lowering her head, she looked beneath the console and found a trunk icon. Breathing a sigh of relief, she pressed the lever.

  Clink! Slam!

  In less than a minute, Deuce had closed the trunk lid, and rounded the car. “I need your proof of insurance.”

  Her worst fear had just come to fruition. “I lost it, sir.” She kept her head lowered and her voice lower.

  “It’s required in Texas. You’ll need to get a replacement and appear before the court.” He handed her his ticket book. “Since this is Saturday, the earliest you can see the judge will be nine on Monday morning. Sign here,” he ordered in an unsympathetic tone. “I clocked you doing sixty-eight in a fifty-five, plus I’m citing you for not providing proof of insurance. This isn’t an admission of guilt, only a
promise to contact . . .”

  Rainey accepted the pad and scribbled her new name across the signature line, not listening to the spiel that she knew only too well. Never looking up, she handed the form back.

  He tore off the top copy and squatted down next to the car. “Passing through?”

  Clutching the lapel of her blouse in an attempt to cover her flushed chest, she nodded. She didn’t dare look into his face, not even if the heavens threatened to open and scoop her up. And that might be a relief.

  Rainey stared straight ahead, afraid of what she might find if she took a glimpse in his direction.

  No doubt he wore that lopsided, quirky grin that oozed raw sexuality. A smile that got him whatever he wanted, when he wanted it, without any questions asked . . . from everybody except her. She could bet that a renegade curl had escaped from beneath his hat and hung low over his forehead.

  Was that little half-moon shaped scar above his lips still noticeable? She recalled the night a cocky defensive tackle gave the popular quarterback’s face true character by taking advantage of a dislodged helmet to plant a cleat in his nose.

  She cut her eyes and caught his image in the side mirror. Dang it, whether she appreciated everything about the man or not, Deuce had charisma and a breathtaking ruggedness that could not be ignored. Of course, being a two-time collegian all-American turned professional football player didn’t hurt either. So, let him mesmerize other women. She had her personal Achilles heel in the form of one Deuce Cowan. Excuse me! Sheriff Deuce Cowan.

  Sheriff Cowan returned her documents, leaned within inches of the side of her face, and spoke with an authoritative voice that sent her already racing heart into somersaults. “If you want to stay out of trouble—best stay out of my way.”