He’d reacted the same way on their one and only date. That had been before Sally, or rather, before his head had lost the battle with his hormones, he’d fancied himself in love and had forgotten to wear a condom on one of their dates. She’d gotten pregnant and they’d gotten married, and his dating days had been over. She’d lost the baby shortly after, but it was too late. He’d taken sacred vows, and he had loved her, or so he’d thought at the time, and she’d claimed to love him. He’d believed her, up until six months ago when she’d run off with one of his business associates.
So much for love.
But before…
There’d been Eden Hallsey. From tenth grade on, she’d been the prettiest and sexiest girl around and the fantasy of every boy at Cadillac, Brady included. He’d heard every rumor about her, and while he didn’t believe them all—he’d known her before tenth grade—when she’d been shy and naïve and a nice girl—he knew there was at least a kernel of truth. She was sexy.
And he’d wanted her.
The date had been nothing more than tradition. He’d been the star prize in the yearly football lottery, where girls bought tickets for a chance to win a date with their favorite jock. He’d been surprised to see her raise her hand when the number had been called. After all, Eden hadn’t needed to buy a ticket to get a date. She could have any guy. But she’d bought a ticket for him. For a few seconds, he’d been excited until a friend had alerted him to the fact that she was making her way through the football team and he was the last on her list. Just another conquest.
Oddly enough, he hadn’t wanted to be another in a long line. He’d wanted to be different. To stand out, and so he’d done what no other guy had ever been able to do—he’d kept his distance. Barely.
That had been a long time ago. His hormones had never been more out of control than at this time, or so he’d thought until he’d climbed into the cab beside her today. He might as well have been sixteen again, with raging needs and a permanent hard-on. The reaction was the same. Fierce. Immediate.
Thankfully, that reaction had jolted some common sense into him. He’d let his passion get him into trouble before. He’d lost everything because of one night and it wasn’t happening again just because Eden was every bit as luscious as he remembered. He wouldn’t screw things up again before he’d even had the chance to set them right.
A chance. That’s why Brady was back in Cadillac. He wanted a chance to reclaim his old life. A chance to make amends for mistaking lust for love and beg his grandfather’s forgiveness for forsaking his family for a girl who’d never really loved him.
Not that love had been the sole deciding factor that had figured into his decision to forfeit an all expense paid education at Texas A & M for two jobs and community college in Dallas. Duty had been a part of his decision as well. And responsibility. And commitment. They were the reasons Brady had left.
The reasons he’d finally come back.
“Say there, son. Can I help…” The words trailed off as astonishment lit the old man’s face as he walked around the corner of the building. He wore faded jean overalls and a worn Kansas City Royals T-shirt beneath it. Salt-and-pepper hair framed a wrinkled face, and a matching mustache twitched on his upper lip. “Why, I declare. Brady Zachariah Weston! Is that you, you ole sonofagun?”
“It’s me, all right.” He took the older man’s hand for a hearty shake. “It’s good to see you, Unc.”
Merle Weston was Brady’s great uncle, his grandfather’s little brother, and the classic black sheep of the Weston clan. For as long as Brady could remember, Merle had been the outsider. He’d declined any part of the Weston boot business and opened up his own gas station some thirty-odd years ago, despite his older brother’s fierce objections. After all, Weston Boots was a family affair and Zachariah Weston didn’t take too kindly to his kin going against family tradition.
Brady knew that firsthand.
Merle had never seemed to care, however. If anything, he’d gone out of his way just to stay at odds with his older brother. He’d traded the family business and fortune for his own service station that barely made ends meet.
He’d married the wrong woman, at least according to his older brother whose definition of right involved money—lots of money. And he’d moved clear across town, away from the family ranch that still housed three generations of Westons.
The older man scratched the side of his head with a faded, rolled-up issue of Popular Mechanics. “Why, I was wonderin’ when you’d finally make it back—hey, there!” His attention shifted to the kids poking around the candy machine. “You young’uns either put some change in or skeedadle, otherwise I’ll take a hickory switch to every single one of you!” He turned back to Brady and his face split into a grin. “You’re lookin’ awful good, son. A little slick,” he said, his gaze sweeping Brady from head to toe as he let out a low whistle. “Awful fancy threads you got there.”
“One of the hazards of working in Dallas. I see you’re still too cheap to spring for a current edition of Popular Mechanics.” He indicated the rolled-up magazine.
“The back issues I get from the beauty parlor every six months when Eula cleans off her coffee table are plenty good enough for me.” He winked. “What can I say? The price is right.”
“There is no price.”
“That’s why it’s so right. I ain’t made of money like some folks around here.” He winked. “Speaking of which, I heard you’re headin’ up one of them highfalutin ad agencies out there.”
“Was. I’m through doing the corporate thing. I want to slow down. Speaking of which, my car quit on me out on the highway. You think you could dig up a wrecker and give me a tow?”
“Sure thing. What kind of car?”
“Black.”
“I’m talking make and model.”
Brady drew in a deep breath. “A Porsche 366.”
Merle let loose another whistle. “Slick car to go with the duds.”
“Not for long. These clothes are a mite too hot for me. I’m thinking of changing before I head over to Granddaddy’s place.”
“You sure as hell better. He’s still a little attached to his Wranglers, and anybody who ain’t wearin’ them amounts to an outsider.”
“I’ve got a pair in my suitcase.” Several pairs to be more exact. While Brady had left straight from his office and hadn’t taken the time to change, he had come as prepared as possible to face his grandfather after all these years.
“Since my car’s out of commission, you have any loaners you can spare?”
“All’s I got is ole Bessie out back.”
“You mean she actually still runs?” Brady remembered the old Chevy pickup being on its last legs back when he was in high school.
“On occasion. She’s pretty reliable, so long as you stroke the console ‘afore you start her.”
“Will do.”
“I don’t think your grandfather will take too kindly to you driving up in Bessie.”
True enough, but Zachariah would like it even less seeing his only grandson drive up in a fancy car the likes of which no salt-of-the-earth cowboy would be caught dead in.
“A truck’s a truck. So,” Brady went on, eager to change the subject, “you’re looking really good. Still sponsoring the same T-ball team and wearing the same shirt.”
“It ain’t the same. They give me a new one every year. One of the perks. As a matter of fact, I made ‘em give me two shirts this past year ‘cause I hit my twenty-year mark.”
Brady grinned. “Still spittin’ vinegar, I see.”
Merle winked before casting a glance at the kids and giving them a look that sent them running. “And pissin’ fire,” he added, turning back to Brady. “Thanks to Maria’s cookin’.”
“She still make the best tamales this side of the Rio Grande?”
“And the best dadburned enchiladas. I keep tellin’ her she ought to put all that good cookin’ to use and open up a restaurant. Then I could retire and let Marlboro
have this old place.”
“Jake Marlboro?”
He nodded. “He’s been itchin’ to buy me out all year. Already talked Cecil over at McIntyre Hardware into selling his place.”
“Why would he want the old hardware store?”
“He’s fixing on putting in a Mega Mart. It’s got everything from hardware to groceries. Opened one up over in Inspiration and it’s a big hit. Folks like the convenience, I guess. Me, I’m just a little attached to this place. Not to mention, I ain’t sold Maria on the restaurant idea. She says she’s too busy with all the young’uns.”
“How many are you up to?”
“Out of seven grandkids, we’ve got nineteen great-grandbabies, and number twenty’s due any day now.” A smile creased his old face. “Your gramps is pickle green with envy.”
“And you’re loving every minute of it.”
Merle’s grin widened. “I never had too many chances to one-up your old grandpa when we were growing up, and I ain’t ashamed to admit that it’s a mite satisfying to know there’s something the old coot wants that he cain’t have.” At Brady’s smile, Merle shrugged. “What can I say? Things ain’t changed much in the past eleven years.”
Brady sent up a silent prayer. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
2
“BRADY’S HOME!” The shout preceded the frantic embrace of Brady’s youngest sister. Before he could so much as get in a hello, she opened the front door, threw herself into his arms and held on for dear life.
For the next few moments, Brady forgot his doubts and simply relished the feeling. It had been a long time since he’d been hugged so fiercely…since he’d wanted to hug so fiercely.
“You’re here,” his sister murmured into his shoulder. “You’re really here.” Another quick squeeze and she pulled back enough to give him a scolding look. “It’s about damned time.”
“Ellie Jane Weston.” The admonishment came from a tall, slender, sixtyish woman with silvery hair and stern blue eyes who appeared in the entryway behind Ellie. “You watch your language.”
“Sorry, Ma. Brady’s home,” Ellie announced to the woman.
“I heard. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if every one of the surrounding counties heard.” Claire Weston eyed her only son for a long moment, before her gaze softened. “It’s about damned time,” she finally declared, moving past her daughter to pull her son into her arms. “It’s been much too long.”
“I wanted to come home sooner, but I didn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” Another hug and she pulled away.
Surprisingly, her eyes glistened with tears and something shifted inside of Brady. While growing up, he’d seen his mother cry only once and that had been at his father’s funeral. Claire Weston, as strong as the 150-year-old oak tree growing in the backyard, had buried relatives, seen her family through many trials, and not once had she lost control of her emotions, a character trait that no doubt pleased her father-in-law. Tears were for the weak, and there wasn’t anything weak about the Westons.
One hundred years ago, Miles Weston had started Weston Boots all by himself. He’d handtooled leather from sunup to sundown, using little more than a makeshift tin shack out behind his barn as a workshop. He’d started something that generations after had continued. The Westons were hard workers, diligent, persistent, strong.
“It’s good to see you,” Brady said, giving his mother a warm smile.
“I hope this means what I think it means,” she told him.
“That depends.”
“I don’t care what the old man says, you’re staying.”
“We’ll see.” He smiled and wiped at a stray tear gliding down her cheek. “You’re looking as sexy as ever.”
She sniffled and gathered her composure. “I see you’ve still got a fresh mouth.”
“And you’re still the prettiest woman in Cadillac.” A loud cough and he turned toward his sister. “One of the prettiest women.” Ellie rewarded him with a smile. “And speaking of pretty women, where are Brenda and Marsha?” Brenda was his oldest sister and Marsha the next to the oldest.
“Brenda’s in Arizona for the next few weeks learning all about her uterus,” Ellie said.
“What?”
“She and Marc are finally going to give in to Granddaddy’s nagging and do the baby thing. But you know Brenda. She’s a perpetual planner. Before she even thinks of going off the pill, she wants to know everything there is to know about conception and babies. She’s at a convention given by Dr. Something or Other who wrote that book My Uterus, My Friend. Marc’s going to the workshops with her.”
“And Marsha?”
“She’s at a sales meeting in Chicago. She wants to expand the business, but Granddaddy isn’t so sure. She’s testing the waters with a few samples of next year’s line of snakeskin boots. You should see the new rattlesnake—”
“I really don’t want to talk business on an empty stomach,” their mother cut in. “You,” she said turning to Brady, “are just in time for lunch. I’ll get Dorothy to set another plate and we’ll catch up on old times. And then you two can talk about whatever you like.”
“Yes, ma’am. I see she’s still a slave driver,” he told his sister.
“What do you expect? It runs in the family.”
“Yes, but she married into the family.”
“That’s even worse. It’s a double whammy. We’re cursed.”
“Lunch,” Claire said as if keeping with her image. “Now.”
Brady managed two steps before he heard his grandfather’s voice drifting from the dining room.
“…need is a damned sheriff who knows the difference between a bull and a heifer. Why, John Macintosh is as citified as they come and only on the lookout for his own interests and those old cronies over at city hall. Damned politicians…”
The voice, so rich and deep and familiar, sent a wave of doubt through Brady and he hesitated.
He’d envisioned this moment the entire trip from Dallas. He was about to face his past, his present, his future. If Zachariah Weston could find it in his heart to forget and forgive. Or at least forgive.
“He’s still as salty as ever, but I can promise he won’t bite.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Ellie piped in behind them. “When I had my hair colored last month, he’d liked to have chewed me a new butthole.”
“Ellie Mae Weston. I’ll not have that kind of talk in this household.”
“Sorry, Ma, but I can’t help it if it’s true.”
“You colored your hair green. It’s understandable he had issues with it. You represent Weston Boots. I wasn’t too thrilled myself.”
“I’m stuck behind a stack of accounting ledgers and a computer screen. No one even sees me. Besides, green hair was no cause to go and write me out of your will.”
“I did no such thing and you know it.” She pinned her youngest daughter with a stern glare. “But I wouldn’t go counting your chickens yet, young lady. There’s still time, especially if you keep pushing me.”
Ellie touched the now purple tufts of hair sticking up on her head. “It’s just fashion, Ma.”
“It’s purple, for pity’s sake.” Another shake of her head and Claire Weston sighed. “I swear you’re trying to send me into an early grave.”
“Hey, I’m not stupid.” Ellie winked at Brady. “Can’t give her a chance to change the will, now, can I?”
“Ellie Mae Weston!”
“Sorry, Ma.”
Claire shook her head and turned back to Brady. “Pay her no nevermind. Your grandfather is as ornery as ever, that’s true. But he’s missed you. We all have.”
“I’ve missed you all, too.”
“Now.” She hooked her arm through his. “Let’s go in and say hello.” Before he could protest, she ushered him forward, steering him down the hall and into the dining room. “Look who’s joining us for lunch,” she announced
as they walked into the room.
“If it’s that freeloading Slim Cadbury from the VFW, just tell him to go find his own apple pie. I don’t care how nice he is, he isn’t getting so much as a whiff. Why, the man’s only interested in you for your food, Claire. Don’t I keep telling you that—” The old man’s words stumbled to a halt as his gaze lit on Brady.
Time seemed to stand still for Zachariah Brady Weston for the next several moments as he stared at his only grandson, his gaze as black, as unreadable, as Brady remembered.
His first instinct was to turn and run. He’d always felt that way whenever he’d been under his grandfather’s inspection. Every Sunday morning before church. Every afternoon at the boot factory. Every Friday night after one of his high school hockey games.
And he’d always reacted the same. He’d simply stood his ground and waited for the criticism to come, praying for the approval. More often than not he’d received the first, but on occasion, the old man had smiled and congratulated him on a job well done.
This didn’t seem to be one of those occasions.
Rather than dwell on the doubts raging inside him, Brady took the time to notice the changes eleven years had wrought.
His grandfather’s hair had gone from a salt-and-pepper shade to snow-white. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper, the wrinkles etching his forehead more pronounced and plentiful. He looked older, yet his eyes were as blue and as bright as they’d always been. Brady knew then that eleven years might have aged the elder Weston on the surface but, deep down, he was the same man he’d been way back when.
Unease rolled through Brady and he had the urge to turn and walk away again. Now. Before he put his pride on the line and subjected himself to his grandfather’s rejection—again.
Brady forced a deep breath and met the older man’s penetrating stare. He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d waited for this moment for much too long. Dreamt of it when his life had been less than perfect and he’d regretted leaving in the first place. He couldn’t turn back now. He wasn’t going to, no matter the outcome.
The Pleasure Principle Page 2