Texas Thunder

by Kimberly Raye

  Correction—her money. The tax money.

  Suddenly everything made a lot more sense—namely how he’d managed to go through three thousand dollars in such a short time. She’d figured he’d drank most of it, and gambled the rest of it away in some backroom card game over at the VFW Hall.

  But she’d obviously been wrong.

  A strange whisper of regret went through her and she steeled herself against the emotion. So what if she’d been wrong? It wasn’t as if James had ever given her any reason to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’d still spent her hard-earned money and now she was stuck between a rock and a hard place. And the niche was getting tighter by the second.

  “I really need to get going. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Yeah, sure. Listen,” he said, his hand touching her arm just as she moved to get into the truck. “I don’t suppose you have any interest in picking up where he left off?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  His brows furrowed. “Did Lone Star Distillers call you? Because I know they might have offered more, but we’re willing to add a royalty to each jar—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. I was talking about the people around here.” She remembered the influx of cars over the past few weekends and the sudden rise in James’s home brew’s popularity. If he’d been that close to the original … No wonder so many seemed sad to say good-bye to the local hooch. “Folks are going to miss his shine, that’s all.”

  “All the more reason for you to continue on with his research. He was close. Doesn’t seem like too much work to finish it off.”

  To someone who knew what they were doing, but Callie had no clue how to cook moonshine. Sure, she knew the actual procedure. She’d heard her grandfather talk enough about it over the years. And her great-grandfather before him. But she’d never actually seen them in action. Her parents had always kept her far away from James and his shed, and after that she’d been too busy keeping house and taking care of everyone to bother poking around out in the woods. As for coming up with a recipe?

  She had no idea where to start.

  And even if she did, cooking moonshine was highly illegal. And deadly.

  Today was proof of that.

  Even so, her curiosity got the better of her. When Mark started to walk away, she couldn’t help but ask, “How much money were you actually going to pay him?”

  He paused midstride and glanced over his shoulder. “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “That plus the royalty. But I guess it’s a moot point now. Take care and again, I’m really sorry.”

  So was she.

  Ten thousand dollars.

  The staggering amount echoed in her head as she dropped his business card onto the dash of the ancient Ford and climbed inside. Gunning the engine, she headed a few streets over to the realty office that sat on the main strip through town. Les had called it a day and gone home after the funeral, and so the place was locked up tight.

  Callie pulled up at the curb out front, unearthed her keys from the bottom of her purse, and walked inside to retrieve the promotional merchandise, as well as a stack of information sheets for the property.

  James had been this close to ten thousand dollars.

  She tried to wrap her head around the notion as she loaded everything into her truck, locked up the office, and headed for the Bachman place that sat just two streets over.

  Ten thousand dollars would have solved all of their problems.

  Then again, James had a way of turning every positive into a negative. Like the time he’d won five hundred dollars on a scratch-off. The money would have been plenty to pay for Lexi’s graduation announcements and prom dress, not to mention a few past-due bills.

  But before James could even make it home, he’d stopped off at a local bar, drank a fifth of the money, and lost the rest on a game of dominoes.

  On top of that, he’d gotten himself arrested for public intoxication. Not only had Callie had to pay for the graduation announcements and prom dress by getting a second job on the weekends at the local dry cleaners, but she’d had to bail James out of jail on top of everything.

  No, ten thousand dollars in her granddad’s hands would have just meant ten thousand chances for more trouble.

  Truth be told, it was probably better that he hadn’t found the rest of the recipe. Texas Thunder had been a joint effort between the Tuckers and Sawyers. Fifty-fifty. She couldn’t imagine any of the Sawyers sitting idly by and letting James take full credit, and full profit, from the original recipe.

  The Sawyers would never let the Tuckers take anything from them. They were always up for a fight. A challenge.

  She knew that better than anyone.

  She’d resisted Brett for so long, snubbing her nose at him because he’d been the enemy. Because her granddaddy, not to mention her own mother and father, would have had a fit if she’d dared admit the hots for a Sawyer. But then she’d been forced to tutor him after school because of a program she’d signed up for. The more time she’d spent with him, the more he’d flirted with her, the more she’d started to give in like every other girl at Rebel High. And when he’d asked her to prom, she’d thought that maybe, just maybe an entire town had been wrong. Maybe the Tuckers and the Sawyers could find some common ground.

  Maybe they could even fall in love.

  But while she’d had visions of uniting the town, Brett had merely been playing a game, proving to the world that he could have any girl he wanted—including a Tucker.

  Especially a Tucker.

  That’s what had been floating around the entire school after that fateful night. That he’d lured her in, only to throw her back because, well, he was a Sawyer and no Sawyer would stoop low enough to fall for a Tucker.

  Not that she’d believed the gossip.

  Brett himself had pushed the truth home with his behavior. He’d gone from walking her to and from her locker, to having nothing at all to do with her virtually overnight.

  He hadn’t even said so much as “I’m sorry” when her folks had died that very night while on their way to pick her up after he’d abandoned her. They’d had a head-on collision with a couple of prom-goers who’d had too much trash-can punch, and while the kids had walked away without so much as a scratch, her parents hadn’t been so lucky. They’d veered off the road, straight into a gully in order to avoid the drunk kids, and it had cost them both dearly.

  It had cost Callie.

  There hadn’t been a night since that she didn’t regret calling them for help. She’d blamed herself at first and then the drunk kids, and then the damned gully itself, and then she’d come to blame the real culprit—the one and only Brett Sawyer.

  If he hadn’t abandoned her, she never would have called her parents. He’d set the tragic set of events into motion and she’d vowed never to forget.

  Or forgive.

  He’d taken not only her parents that night, he’d taken her trust, her hope, her stupid pie-in-the-sky optimism.

  She was no longer that naïve girl who actually thought that love could overcome a hundred years of hatred. Love didn’t overcome anything. It made people weak.

  Blind.

  Not that she’d been blinded by anything close to love when she’d handed over all that tax money to James. The man hadn’t deserved her love. No, she’d given him the money because he’d been the deed holder and she’d been busy working and, well, all he’d had to do was drive to the bank and make that one payment.

  But he’d failed her. Like always. And he’d been headed for more trouble this time with that stupid recipe. Luckily Fate had stepped in to lend Callie a hand and stop him.

  Callie ignored the strange tightening in her chest and pulled into the driveway of the Bachman house. The engine grumbled into a few sputters and then went silent.

  Her gaze went to the sprawling two-story with the large front porch edged with lush azalea bu
shes and fragrant Texas sage. The owners had made dozens of renovations to the spacious four bedrooms and three baths, as well as new landscaping around the large patio and pool out back. It was one of the nicer homes in Rebel with a key location on the corner of Main Street and Yellow Rose. Everything was within walking distance, from the pharmacy to the feed store. For that reason alone it should draw an offer quickly, or so she hoped. The quicker the house sold, the more amicable Les would be when she threw herself on his mercy and begged for a pay advance. Or a loan. She hadn’t decided which. She just knew she had to do something.

  The clock was ticking, after all.

  She drew a deep breath, tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, and did what she always did when she was stressed to her limits and so dangerously close to breaking—she sucked it up and went to work.

  * * *

  Just keep driving.

  That’s what Brett Sawyer told himself when he turned the corner off Main Street and spotted the familiar blue pickup parked in front of the corner house. But then he saw Callie standing near the truck bed, struggling with a large box, and he couldn’t help himself.

  For better or worse, he hit the brakes and pulled into the driveway.

  CHAPTER 7

  Brett’s headlights sliced through the dusky shadows of sunset as he pulled up behind Callie’s truck and killed the engine. She turned and eyes as green as the lush pastureland behind his house caught his. Something twisted in his stomach.

  That same something he’d felt back at the store when he’d run into her. And back in school when he’d slid into the desk across from hers every afternoon for tutoring. And when he’d glanced across the lunchroom to catch her looking at him.

  Killing the engine, he slid out of the truck, his boots hitting the pavement with a loud thunk. With each step, his chest got a little tighter until he caught himself holding his breath as he reached her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  If only he knew. But he wasn’t asking himself that question at the moment because he sure as hell didn’t want to have to answer it. He smiled instead and motioned to the box. “You looked like you could use a hand.”

  “I’m okay.” She reached for the box, but he was quicker. His hand brushed hers and a jolt of electricity shot up his arm, into his chest, and fire-balled straight to his groin.

  Instant.

  Powerful.

  Predictable.

  He’d had the same reaction to her way back when in the backseat of his pappy’s Cadillac and it had scared the hell out of him because he’d never felt that way before. That itchy and tight and out of control.

  Then.

  He was a full-grown man now and while he still felt the attraction, he could handle it.

  Nothing rattled Brett Sawyer. Not a thousand-pound bucking bull or a punch of lust. He just picked himself up, dusted himself off, and pasted on his easiest smile.

  “I’ve got it.” He caught the box and lifted it easily. “Where do you want it?”

  She frowned and looked as if she wanted to tell him a few choice destinations. The seconds ticked by, but then the expression eased. “Inside.” She grabbed another smaller box and started up the front walk. Punching in the key code on the combination lock hooked on the front knob, she opened the door and walked into the shadowy interior. A split-second later, she hit the light switch to the right and light flooded the entryway and illuminated the front porch.

  “You can put it right here.” She set her own box on a small side table and motioned to the floor next to it.

  He bent down and deposited the cardboard on the polished hardwood before turning to admire the front entryway. “What happened to the Bachmans?”

  “They retired and moved. Haverty’s got the listing.”

  “So you’re working for Les now?”

  She shrugged. “It pays the bills.” She blew out a deep breath and her chest pushed against the tight confines of her black dress. The buttons strained to stay together and Brett found himself wishing they would just give up the fight.

  He stiffened against the thought, determined to keep his mind on something other than getting her naked. “How come you’re working tonight of all nights?”

  She shrugged. “The world doesn’t stop just because something bad happens. The clock keeps ticking and the bills keep piling up.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  “So I guess the rumors are true?” She arched an eyebrow at him as she pulled out a stack of fliers and set them on the small table.

  “That depends on what the rumors are saying.”

  “They’re saying Bootleg Bayou is in financial trouble.”

  He frowned. “Nothing I can’t handle.” At least that’s what Brett was desperately telling himself. But after twenty minutes spent convincing the feed store owner to extend his line of credit, he was starting to doubt himself. Things just kept growing and growing, getting heavier by the minute.

  In more ways than one, Brett thought as his gaze caught on the shapely curve of Callie’s ass beneath the clingy black material and he felt the tightening in his groin. She’d always been curvy, but a few pounds in all the right places made it even harder for him not to look.

  Not to want.

  “I’ll grab the rest of the boxes,” he blurted, eager to get a grip before he did something he would truly regret—like push her up against the nearest wall, pop those buttons on her dress, and see if her nipples were still as pink as he remembered. As tasty. He wasn’t here for that.

  Sure thing, buddy.

  The doubt dogged him as he headed back out to the truck. He spent the next five minutes hauling in the two boxes and doing his damnedest to ignore the blonde unpacking the carton of promotional water bottles nearby.

  “What next?” he asked when he’d deposited the last of the cardboard onto the floor.

  “You can open up that other box with the rest of the water bottles. We’re going to stack some here”—she pointed to the table in the foyer—“and the rest are going in the kitchen.”

  He pulled out his pocket knife, sliced through the packing tape, and opened up the container, grateful to have something to focus on other than the woman moving about in his peripheral vision.

  Yep, she’d filled out in all the right places.

  She had more curves and damned if her legs weren’t longer than he remembered. He slid a glance to the side and caught a glimpse of one delicate ankle, a shapely calf. She wasn’t wearing any stockings and the urge to lean over and run his fingertips along her smooth flesh punched him hard and fast in the chest.

  He gripped one of the water bottles instead and focused all of his attention on stacking two dozen on the polished table, one after the other, at a record pace until the last one hit the wood and he turned to snatch up the box and head for the kitchen.

  The sweet peachy vanilla scent followed him, teasing his nostrils and stirring a whisper of awareness that settled at the back of his neck before creeping down along his spine.

  His ears tuned to the soft footsteps as she moved about the house, setting up fliers and distributing promotional products and he couldn’t help but wonder which room she was in, and what all he could do to her in each specific spot.

  He saw her draped across the sofa, her buttons popping and her lips parting as he leaned over her. Or bent over the staircase, his hands on her thighs as he pumped into her from behind. Or spread across a king-sized bed, her golden hair fanned out around her, her body so lush and open and—

  Aw, hell.

  He moved faster, emptying out the box and stacking the rest of the bottles. There. Done.

  Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

  He turned to see her standing in the doorway between the hallway and the kitchen. Her grass-green gaze collided with his for a second and she caught her bottom lip as if thinking of what to say next. Or fighting back what she really wanted to say.

  It was a sight that sucked him back in time to all those afternoons
spent in the calculus lab, where she’d done her best to keep things strictly business while he’d flirted and talked and done his damnedest to get past the wall she’d built up around herself.

  The challenge. That’s what he’d told himself. She was a Tucker. The forbidden fruit. And Brett had been more than eager to take a great big bite. She’d turned him down that first time he’d asked her out, but he’d been persistent. He’d asked again. And again. And eventually she’d said yes.

  Despite her parents’ objection and the fit her granddaddy had thrown on the front porch when Brett had arrived to pick her up.

  Hell, he’d nearly gotten his ass shot off with a sawed-off bootleg special, but Callie had faced James Harlin with a stern look that said she knew what she was doing, and she was doing it whether he liked it or not.

  Brett had felt something he’d never felt for any girl at that particular moment—admiration. The feeling had chipped away at his smooth Southern charm and turned him into an awkward, overly excited ball of testosterone. He’d wanted her so bad.

  He still did.

  The notion struck and he shoved it to the furthest part of his mind. Maybe so, but he wasn’t acting on it. That was the difference between the boy he’d been and the man he was now—he wasn’t a slave to his basic impulses.

  Control. That’s what it was all about and he had it in spades.

  But back then … He’d been desperate that night. Awkward. Overly excited. And so he’d pushed her out of his car and sped away. That first date had turned into their last and he hadn’t talked to her since.

  He’d meant to. But she’d been too torn up over her parents and he’d been at a loss as to what to say. Hell, he hadn’t trusted himself to say anything to her after spouting off like Old Faithful before he’d even gotten his pants off. He’d been embarrassed. Scared. Stupid.

  A kid, he reminded himself.

  But he was a full-grown man now, and he wasn’t losing his head where she was concerned. No ripping off her clothes and burying his face in her breasts. No plundering her mouth with his.