“Men are a distraction, and I can’t afford that right now. I’ve got everything tied up in this bakery. It has to have my undivided attention.”
Jenna loved men. Brandy avoided them. And Callie just didn’t have the time.
Unless they showed up unannounced to lift boxes for her, that is.
Brett’s image snuck into her brain and she stiffened. “How goes it at Sweet Somethings?”
“I’ve been open all of one month and I managed to make enough to meet all of my bills. I’d say that’s a good start. Next month’s projected numbers look even better.” She smiled. “I just might pull this off.”
“You will. Your cakes are divine and there isn’t a better decorator for a hundred miles.”
“You know,” a serious look pinched her smooth face, “I can’t thank you enough for helping me through pastry school.”
Callie shrugged. “Family does for family.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’m going to pay you back. Every single cent, plus five percent interest. Just as soon as I’m running in the black. Right now, I’ve got to bring in a second oven if I ever want to up my production…”
Brandy went on for the next fifteen minutes about the latest in high-tech baking equipment while Callie finished off a platter of pinwheels and moved on to a mountain of ham and cheese sandwiches. She’d just finished cutting off the last of the crust when Brandy glanced at the clock.
“Wow, would you look at the time? I need to get to bed. I’ve got to be at the bakery at four a.m. to get the bread in the oven. I’m featuring apple loaves for tomorrow’s special.” She glanced around. “You about done here?”
“A little Saran wrap”—Callie indicated the overflowing platter of finger sandwiches—“and then I’m off to bed myself.”
Unfortunately, twenty minutes turned into an hour before Callie managed to put away the last of tomorrow’s snacks.
She’d just shut the refrigerator and killed the kitchen lights when she heard the knock on the back door.
“Are you expecting anyone?” she called out to Jenna, but the girl had already fallen asleep on the sofa, the small dog cuddled on her lap.
“Never mind,” Callie murmured as she headed for the back door. A strange tingle of excitement whispered through her as she thought of Brett.
Not that he was knocking on her door now. He had no reason to drive all the way out here.
At the same time, she couldn’t deny the whisper of hope as she glanced past the curtains at the dark shadow that stood on her back doorstep.
CHAPTER 10
It wasn’t Brett.
Instead Callie opened the door to find Little Jimmy Ham standing on her back doorstep and disappointment ricocheted through her before she reminded herself that she wasn’t in any hurry to see Brett Sawyer again.
He made her feel too many things. Too many distracting things.
Jimmy was much better. Safer.
She’d gone to school with Little Jimmy right up until he’d quit during sophomore year to help out at his family’s farm. Or what was left of it since it had gone to hell in a handbasket after a drought.
Most people figured he’d been kicked out of school because of bad grades, but Callie knew better. She’d tutored him and while he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the tanning bed, he was no dummy, either. He’d just missed out on so much education because of his family’s hard luck.
But he’d always been nice and respectful, and so Callie gave him a welcoming smile. “What brings you out here?”
“My momma wanted me to stop by.” His brown hair was in desperate need of a cut, but he’d tried to tame the long strands by slicking them back and stuffing them behind his ears. He sported a nearly threadbare blue shirt, the edges frayed, the top button missing near the collar, and an old pair of faded blue jeans. The only thing that wasn’t worn were his black sneakers, the laces stiff and tight as if he were wearing them for the first time.
He was tall and lanky like his daddy and his granddaddy before him, but there was already a Big Jimmy, his dad, and a Really Big Jimmy, his granddad, and so Little was next in line when it came to distinguishing the men in the family and the name had stuck.
“She wanted me to bring you this,” he went on, holding up an apple pie covered in plastic wrap. “She said to tell you how sorry she was.”
Delia Ham was just as tall and lanky as her husband and son, and she made the best apple pie in the state. When she wasn’t cleaning rooms at the local motel, that is, a job she’d taken among others to help make ends meet since the farm wasn’t producing.
“I’m sorry, too,” he added.
“Thanks so much.” Callie took the offering and stepped back. “You want to come in? I could make some coffee or rustle you up some leftovers.” She eyed the goody in her hand and smiled. “We could have a piece of this delicious pie.”
“No, no.” He shook his head and glanced behind him, as if antsy that someone might catch him on her doorstep. “I need to be getting back. I’ve got to help my pa with something.”
“It’s kind of late for a project.”
He shrugged. “My pa works a lot of hours.”
“I hear that.” Callie glanced at the empty gravel drive that curled around the back of the house. “Did you walk all the way here?”
“It’s not too far. I cut across down by the river.”
“That’s two miles away.”
He shrugged. “Our truck ain’t running so good. It needs a new water pump on account of the old is barely hanging on. Pa says we can only use it for emergencies.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and backed up a few steps. “Mister James was always real nice to me,” he added. “He didn’t deserve what happened to him. You take care now,” he added, stepping off the porch.
“I will.” She glanced behind her at her keys hanging from a nearby hook. “If you wait up, I could give you a lift home.”
“Don’t trouble yourself none. The walk is fine.” He stuffed his hands even deeper into his pockets and in a matter of seconds, he was gone, disappearing into a cluster of trees near the barn.
Seconds ticked by as Callie eyed the treeline. Finally she closed the door and headed back inside. She ignored the urge to slice into the pie just for herself, slid it into the last empty spot in the refrigerator, and headed into the living room. After tucking a blanket around her sister and a softly snoring Jez, she turned off the TV and headed down the hallway. She stalled in the doorway of the front den and eyed the stack of newspapers sitting next to her grandfather’s recliner. She really should bag it all up and toss it.
She would.
Another night when she wasn’t so freakin’ tired.
But despite the exhaustion she couldn’t relax enough to actually catch a few z’s when she finally climbed into bed.
She tried to tune out the world, but the past few days kept playing over and over in her head, yanking her back to the slow chug of the ancient window unit and the hum of the lightbulb that flickered every once in a while from the adjoining bathroom.
Recent events rolled through her consciousness—the explosion, the swarm of police, the black-zippered bag disappearing into the coroner’s van, the endless stream of old-lady hats passing near the closed casket, the whisper of nosy neighbors, Brett’s sudden appearance at the Bachmans’.
She could still smell the intoxicating scent of warm male, cool leather, and just a hint of aftershave. Not the overwhelming, cloying kind that a lot of men wore. No, this was just a splash. A whisper of masculinity that reminded her of strong arms, a solid chest, and the most amazing blue eyes fringed in dark lashes.
For the hundredth time that day, she found herself wondering if he still tasted every bit as good as she remembered.
She drew a deep breath and gave herself a mental shake. She had to get her head back on track. That meant forgetting how helpful he’d been, how nice, and focusing on something—anything—else.
She took a shower. She drank hot cocoa. She watch
ed a few episodes of Orange Is the New Black on Netflix. She even pulled out her satchel and spent an hour folding and stamping the quarterly newsletters that Les mailed out to his existing customers before moving on to her laptop and the dozens of digital pics she’d taken at the Daughters of the Republic bake sale last week.
The paper was going to run a feature on Julia Carmichael, president of the organization, and they’d asked Callie to supply a few pics from the event.
Where she’d once done most of her work in the makeshift darkroom set up in the back barn with an old camera and some used equipment given to her by her yearbook teacher, she now worked with a cheap digital and an editing program. The pics weren’t the best, but they were the best for what she had. And certainly top notch for a small publication like the Rebel Yell.
She picked out the most vivid pics, wrote up a few tag descriptions, and sent them via e-mail to Charlotte Mackey, the newspaper’s editor, along with an offer to do pics and a story on next week’s annual VFW Spaghetti Dinner and Raffle.
It was a little after three a.m. when she finally finished everything and clicked send. Her head ached and her shoulders felt tight, but she still wasn’t any closer to falling asleep.
She felt too wired to close her eyes.
Nervous.
Scared.
The truth followed her through the ancient house and out onto the back porch.
Not that she was scared because her granddad was gone and she was all alone. She was used to facing the world all by her lonesome. James had never had her back or helped ease her load. He’d simply sat in his recliner when he wasn’t holed up outside, oblivious to the world around him. To the struggle.
She touched her bare toes to the clapboard floor of the back porch and pushed the rickety swing just enough to set it in motion. Hinges creaked and wood groaned, the sounds quickly melting into the buzz of crickets and the snores of the other two foster babies—a mutt named Earl and a Great Dane mix named Susie—that were camped out nearby. There’d been zero comfort in seeing James sprawled in his La-Z-Boy, his snores bouncing off the walls to the point that she’d actually contemplated buying earplugs.
She hadn’t because, while annoying, the sound had always meant that he hadn’t drank himself into an early grave just yet.
The notion struck and her gaze shifted to the line of trees that stood at the edge of the massive stretch of grass. Several yards beyond was the spot where James had built his still and met his maker.
Her gaze hooked on the yellow police tape that stretched between two trees that lined the path that led to his old cabin. She’d walked that path just a few days ago.
Run, as a matter of fact. The minute the explosion had hit, she’d been on her feet, heading for the back stretch of woods, her heart pounding, the dread building.
She’d known even before she’d seen the flames slicing through the black night that something bad had happened.
A feeling she would never, ever forget.
One that washed through her all over again as she pushed to her feet and left the rickety swing to walk toward the break in the trees.
CHAPTER 11
The smoke had cleared, but the thick night air still smelled of charred wood. A cloying smell that had nearly suffocated her as she’d run back to the house to call 911 that fateful night.
“There isn’t a thing for you to see out there,” Sheriff Hunter DeMassi had told her once the smoke had cleared enough and the flames had died. “It’s a health hazard and I’ll make sure we get a dozer up here to level it and clear off the debris first thing next week. I can’t touch anything until the feds have their look-see, but then I’ll make sure I help get it all cleaned up. Until then, it’s better just to keep your distance.”
Better than what? Than seeing James passed out in his own vomit? Callie had seen it all and whatever devastation lay on the other side of those trees wasn’t going to shock her. If anything, it would remind her of what an irresponsible old coot her grandfather had been. He hadn’t just put himself in danger by doing something so illegal. No, he’d put them all at risk.
Because he was selfish.
Thoughtless.
Mean.
Even if the reverend had said all those nice things about him. About how he’d been a good man once upon a time and a good husband and a loving father. Callie had never seen any of it. Not one redeeming quality.
Just this, she reminded herself as she reached the end of the path and saw the blackened remains of her grandfather’s old trapper’s shack. The trees for a hundred-foot radius were scorched down to nothing and the moon cast an eerie glow on what was left of James Harlin’s pride and joy cooking site.
Everything was gone except for one of the walls and half of another. Debris littered the inside space and she made out what had once been a table, the burned edges of a transistor radio, the blackened blades of a box fan.
Copper tubing sat here and there, but the main hull of the still—the condenser—had been confiscated by the local authorities and hauled away, along with the few jars of shine that hadn’t burst from the heat. The larger gallon containers—all plastic milk jugs James had salvaged over the years—had melted and shriveled while the contents had spit more fuel onto the fire and no doubt helped it spread to the surrounding timber.
Yellow tape spread from limb to limb, surrounding the large area and marking it as a crime scene. The suffocating stench of charred cedar and stale ash cloyed at her nostrils.
Callie ducked under the thin yellow barrier and picked her way around a few fallen limbs and piles of rubble until she reached what had once been the interior of the dwelling.
She’d seen the aftermath of hurricanes that had hit the Texas coast. Amid the piles of rubble would be a calendar or a picture or something that had defied the odds of devastation and remained intact.
She eyed the small black-framed bifocals sitting on the windowsill of the one wall that still stood. A layer of soot covered the plastic and glass, but they were still there, no doubt sitting in the exact spot her grandfather had set them before he’d been blown to smithereens.
Her hand closed around the frames and she noted the yellowed sheet of paper sitting beneath the glasses. It, too, was covered with the same soot. She smeared the greasy covering off and unfolded the paper to see a partial list of ingredients for the infamous Texas Thunder.
The family moonshine had been responsible for every bad thing that had happened in Rebel since its founding. It had also been responsible for every good thing.
The Sawyers had used it as a springboard to their current success. Meanwhile, the Tuckers had let it drag them down so far that Callie had no clue if she could actually climb back up.
Instead, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, it was time to hop into her granddad’s truck, hit the road, and never look back.
The notion dangled in front of her like the most decadent seven layer chocolate cake, but Callie wasn’t about to reach out. She’d sacrificed ten years of her life to get to this point. To give up now would make all that time a total waste.
It would mean that she’d made all the wrong choices and sacrificed for nothing.
She slid the glasses and the paper into her pocket and eased her way around the rubble.
If only James had managed to pinpoint the final ingredients before he’d blown himself up.
But he hadn’t come through with that any more than he’d come through on anything else in his life.
Half-assed. That’s the way he’d always done things. The recipe was no exception. He’d blown himself up, leaving Callie to finish up like he always did.
Ten thousand dollars.
Mark’s voice echoed in her head and she entertained the crazy thought that maybe she ought to try her hand at finding the remaining ingredients.
That, or rob a bank. Both would pose a hefty jail sentence …
The thought stalled in her brain as she spotted the edge of a tennis shoe sticking up from the debris. Leaning dow
n, she tugged at the toe of the shoe and pulled it free. Rubbing the edge, she revealed a worn leather shoe with a red, white, and blue sole.
She hadn’t even realized her gramps had owned a pair of sneakers. He’d lived in boots for as long as she could remember, and then, just two years ago he’d traded the old duct-taped Justins for the camouflage Crocs Jenna had bought him for Christmas. He hadn’t taken the comfy sandals off once since. He’d even worn them throughout the winter with socks.
He’d been wearing them, as a matter of fact, when he’d met his maker the other night.
And the shoe?
She leaned down and fingered the edge of the rubber. Old. Shabby. Maybe a leftover from her dad’s youth? Lord knew James had had a crap-load of stuff stored out here. Things he’d saved and picked up over the years because he’d never been one to throw anything away if there was even the slimmest possibility that he might need it again.
But a sneaker? It just didn’t fit that he would have a pair of sneakers for himself. He wasn’t the sneaker type. Not like Little Jimmy with his shiny black pair, probably pulled from the new-shoe bin at the local YMCA.
Unless the sneaker had belonged to someone else?
A bootlegger? A customer? An intruder?
She wasn’t sure why the thoughts popped into her head except that it had been a long day filled with tons of people telling her they weren’t the least bit surprised about what had happened.
That, and the fact that she’d felt the same unease crawling up her spine the night of the explosion. As she’d stood on the sidelines, waiting for the fire department, she’d had the crazy feeling that something wasn’t right.
You play with fire, you eventually get burned.
That’s what everyone thought. The thing was, James had been playing with the proverbial fire since he was knee-high. He knew how to make moonshine. Even more, he knew how not to blow himself up. Otherwise he never would have made it to the ripe old age of eighty-six. A fire, even a freak accident as the authorities had called it, just hadn’t seemed right.
James was a lot of things, but careless had never been one of them. Not when it came to cooking.
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