Texas Thunder

by Kimberly Raye

Even if she didn’t realize it yet.

  Brett led a feisty cutting horse named Sam from her stall and walked the animal down the main corridor to the tack area. Hoisting a nearby saddle, he tossed the rig onto the horse’s back and fastened the straps. A few minutes later, he climbed onto the animal’s back and walked her out of the barn. The warm night air hit him like a punch to the chest, sucking the air from his lungs and sending a kick of adrenaline through him. He kneed the horse to a gallop.

  She bolted, but the sudden movement wasn’t nearly as blinding as climbing onto the back of a bull. Instead of fighting him, Sam responded to the sound of his voice and the motion of his body. She played nice the way a good cutting horse should and so there was no battling for control, no worry over hitting the dust. No fear.

  No running.

  The notion struck as he picked up the pace, but he pushed it aside. He wasn’t running.

  Hell, no.

  He leaned into the ride, urging the animal faster, harder, but not because he was hauling ass away from something. No, he simply had responsibilities. He needed to check things out down near the creek and make sure Sheriff DeMassi had sent someone to keep an eye out.

  He surely wasn’t trying to clear his head and forget the sweet, sugary scent of Callie Tucker, or the warm feel of her body pressed to his.

  And he most certainly wasn’t trying to shake the sinking feeling that it really was over between them, and worse, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

  CHAPTER 29

  Callie stood in the doorway that led to the den and eyed the stack of Reader’s Digests that sat on the table next to the old recliner. The newspapers piled next to the chair. The tubes of Bengay stuffed in a pocket that draped over the arm of the recliner. The remote sat on the coffee table where it always did when James wasn’t using it. How he’d managed to get it back into the spot when he was roaring drunk was still a mystery. Everything else would be in shambles, but the remote would always be right there, present and accounted for, despite the chaos of the room.

  She drew a deep, steady breath and ignored the urge to walk the other way. It was late and she had an early day tomorrow. Now wasn’t the time to deal with this.

  But she had to deal with it.

  She’d preached to Brett about running away, but she’d been doing the same. She was still doing it, she realized, as she stared down and noted that she hadn’t actually stepped foot inside the room. She glanced down at the empty cardboard box in her hand. There were a dozen more in the hallway behind her, ready for duty should she put the brakes on and just stop.

  Face the fear.

  Before she could step forward, however, a knock sounded on the back door.

  She sent up a silent thank-you and turned, her legs eating up the distance down the hallway.

  She found Little Jimmy standing on her doorstep in his shiny black tennis shoes and worn clothes. He had his hands stuffed in his pocket and a strange look on his face.

  “Jimmy? What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t mean to bother you none.” A strange light gleamed in his eyes. “I can come back if you’re busy.” He looked as if he wanted to turn and run, as if whatever had brought him to her doorstep was as frightening to him as her grandaddy’s room was to her.

  “It’s okay. What’s on your mind?”

  “I just wanted to see if you needed anything? ’Cause if you do, I’d be happy to help out. I know you and your sisters are on your own now ’cause of what happened.” He glanced behind him at the break in the trees.

  The yellow tape was gone now and the place beyond dozed clean of the debris that had been left. But the scent of burned cedar still permeated the air and reminded Callie of the tragedy that had turned her life upside down.

  Then again, James Harlin had done that years before with his drinking and his gambling and his irresponsibility.

  Funny but the thought didn’t bring the same bad taste to her mouth and she managed a smile. “Thanks, but I’m good right now.”

  “Just so you know I’m here.” He started to turn, but Callie stopped him.

  There was just something about the way he said the words that hinted at something more.

  “Why is that, Jimmy?”

  “You know. ’Cause your granddaddy was a decent man. At least to me.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and she had the feeling he wanted to say more. “My own pa ain’t the patient type, but James Harlin always took his time.”

  “Doing what?”

  He hesitated, glancing behind him yet again before shifting his attention back to Callie.

  “It’s okay,” she told him. “You can tell me.”

  “He was teaching me how to cook. I’d been helping my daddy for years, but he never thought I was smart enough. He sent me out here to buy some yeast off of James Harlin ’cause we was runnin’ short and we had this big order to fill. James was moving slow on account of his arthritis and I offered to help. He started teaching me things then whenever I managed to get away from my pa for a little while.”

  “It was your shoe I found,” Callie mumbled as she remembered the strange tennis shoe amid all the charred remains. “You left a shoe out there.”

  He nodded. “Sheriff DeMassi came out here one night and James and I had to take off. Ran clear out of my shoe that night.”

  “Were you there the night of the explosion?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I wish I had been. Maybe I could have changed things.” He looked so regretful that Callie had the urge to give him a hug.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t there, otherwise there would have been two casualties instead of one.”

  “Maybe, and maybe I could have stopped it.”

  But that wasn’t how things had worked out.

  No one had been with James Harlin that fateful night. He’d been cooking all alone, and he’d died all alone.

  “He was a gruff man,” Jimmy added, “But he sure knew his moonshine. Cooked up way better stuff than my pa.”

  His statement stirred her memory and she thought of that night with Brett down by the creek and the tell-tale smell that had filled the air.

  “Is your daddy still cooking?”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Where at?”

  “Down by the creek.” The minute the words were out, he seemed to realize what he’d said. “Not the Sawyer creek,” he quickly tried to backtrack. “We’ve got our own water source. On our own land,” he blurted. “I’d better get going. My pa will tan my hide if he finds me gone.” And with that, he turned and high-tailed it for the trees.

  She knew then that it was Jimmy’s pa who’d fired off his shotgun that night. He was the one cooking on Sawyer land.

  And the missing cattle?

  She didn’t know. She just knew that she had to call the sheriff and voice her suspicions.

  Just as soon as she finished what she’d been about to start.

  Heading back inside, she made her way down the hall, into the room that held some of her worst memories.

  And some of the best.

  Those rare times when she’d found James asleep instead of passed out. So few she could count them on her fingers, but still. They were there, in her head just like all the rest. The smile when she’d nudged him awake and urged him to go to bed. The frown when she’d refused to get him a cinnamon roll because it was way too late and he was already this close to being a diabetic.

  “You fuss over me too much.”

  “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  But the only thing she’d had to do was look after her sisters, and even that had been a choice. She’d wanted to take care of them, to watch them grow up safe and sound, just as she’d wanted to help James. To keep him from destroying himself.

  She’d failed, but not because she hadn’t tried. She’d done everything she could for James. She’d even loved him.

  She still did.

  She admitted the truth as she packed away his belongings and let the
tears flow from her eyes.

  Tears that weren’t wasted because by the time the last box had been put away and the room cleaned, she felt the precious peace of mind she’d mentioned to Brett. A relief that filled her from the inside out and soothed the hurt in her chest.

  Enough for her to call the sheriff.

  “And you know the Hams are cooking on Sawyer property how?”

  She thought of Little Jimmy and the fear in his eyes. “Just a hunch. Check it out, okay?”

  “I’m all for instincts, but I can’t believe you don’t have any more to go on—“

  “Please, Sheriff. I know I’m right about this. Just look into it.”

  “Will do.”

  Satisfaction rolled through her as she hung up, bypassed the now clean room that had once belonged to James Harlin, and headed for bed. She shed her clothes, climbed in, and closed her eyes tight, feeling a sense of relief unlike any she’d ever felt before. For a little while, that is.

  Until a new day dawned and Callie Tucker had to face the heartbreaking truth that she’d walked away from Brett Sawyer and she wasn’t going back.

  * * *

  She wasn’t coming.

  Brett knew it even before he heard the message Callie left on his voice mail that afternoon saying that Mark Edwards had full confidence that they would decipher the recipe thanks to the sample and that searching for it was futile at this point.

  And no search meant no Callie.

  Still, Brett found himself up in the attic anyway, going through boxes the next night. And the next.

  He’d just finished searching through one of his grandmother’s dressers when he heard the commotion.

  He headed downstairs to find his pappy on the floor of his closet, searching for a belt that had long since worn out.

  “Pappy? Are you okay?”

  But he wasn’t.

  Brett knew it even before the man lifted his head, his blue eyes gleaming with worry and confusion.

  “Berle? What did you do with my belt? Your mother bought it for me last week and I swore I loved it. If I don’t show up at dinner with it tonight, she’ll think I lied.”

  “It’s me, Pappy,” Brett told the old man, trying desperately to reach the lucid part of him that had been present all week. He couldn’t slide back down, not when he’d just managed to get up. “Brett.” He said the name as if it could snap the old man out of his sudden confusion. “Your grandson.”

  “Brett?” Not a glimmer of recognition lit the old man’s gaze. Instead, he shook his head frantically. “This isn’t funny, son. I need that belt, otherwise your mama is going to kill me. You have to give it back. If you want a new belt, I’ll buy you one. Just not that one.”

  “I don’t want a belt—” Brett started, but Karen’s voice cut off the rest of his denial.

  “I’ll help you look for it,” his sister offered the old man. “If Berle didn’t take it, it has to be right here.” She moved past him, crawling into the closet next to Pappy. “Let’s look through these boxes.”

  “I know I didn’t put it there…,” the old man began, his attention shifting to the stack of shoe boxes.

  “Go,” Karen mouthed over her shoulder, and Brett didn’t hesitate.

  He couldn’t breathe as it was. He needed to get out of there. Away from the confusion and the chaos.

  He started for the attic, but that would only remind him of Callie and how good she’d felt in his arms, how right, and so he headed for the barn.

  A short while later, he was riding Sam toward the creek and doing what he did best when it came to trouble—running the other way.

  The realization hit him as he hauled ass—determined to outrun the truth that Pappy’s good streak had ended and he’d taken a U-turn back toward Alzheimer’s hell and, even worse, that Brett had lost the only woman he’d ever cared about.

  Callie was right about him.

  For so long he’d convinced himself that he’d gone away on purpose. But what he’d really done was run away.

  Then from the horrible truth that he was his father’s son, with the same raging temper, the same disregard for other people’s feelings, the same fierce personality.

  And now from his pappy and the Alzheimer’s that scared him with its uncertainty and consuming nature.

  And from Callie and the feelings that she stirred. Feelings that made him want to forget his career, settle right here in Rebel, and beg her to stay with him.

  Yep, he was a runner, all right, and a coward because as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t seem to stop.

  * * *

  “You just relax, Pappy, and I’ll be right back with some hot chocolate. Then we’ll get you back into bed.”

  The old man sat in the overstuffed chair in his bedroom, a confused look on his face. He still couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been able to find his belt, but he’d finally accepted Karen’s suggestion to get some rest and resume the search tomorrow. She’d promised to help him from sunup until sundown if that’s what it took.

  Even if Mark did want to take her for a picnic.

  She headed for the kitchen and pulled out the cocoa mix. Turning toward the microwave, she nuked some water and then went in search of marshmallows and a mug. Five minutes later, she had a cup of her Pappy’s favorite drink. She was just about to head for his room when a text message buzzed on her phone. Pulling it from her shorts pocket, she eyed the words that blazed across the screen.

  I know it’s late, but I can’t sleep. Why don’t we meet? Mark.

  A smile touched her lips and she started to type in her answer. She was halfway through “Yeah, let’s do it,” when she heard the yelling outside.

  Pappy was up again and headed for the tomato garden.

  She swallowed a rush of regret and sent a quick “Thnx but busy” before abandoning the cocoa and heading down the hall for the back door.

  It was pitch black, but she could see well enough to make out the old man’s form on his hands and knees, digging frantically in the small garden.

  She hit the light switch and a warm glow flooded the back porch, pushing out toward the small overgrown area where her grandmother used to grow the biggest, juiciest tomatoes in the county.

  “Pappy?” She stepped down off the porch. “It’s really late. Why don’t we do the gardening tomorrow?”

  “Too late,” he murmured, working frantically at the dirt. “There won’t be anything left. That’s what Pawpaw said. We have to do it now. Before they come.”

  “Who?” Karen asked as she dropped to her knees beside him. “Who’s coming?”

  “The revenuers. They’ll take it all. We have to make sure it’s safe.”

  “Take what?” She glanced down at his dirt-covered hands, at the square piece of silver catching moonlight. He scooped frantically with the flat piece, working his hole deeper.

  “All the stuff. But it’s ours. They ain’t got no right to it. That’s what Pawpaw says. That’s what my daddy says, too. It ain’t theirs. It’s ours. We worked for it. It’s ours.”

  She touched his shoulder, but it only made him more agitated. “I’m sure there’s no hurry. Let’s do this tomorrow. I’ll help.”

  “Too late,” he murmured. She touched his shoulder and he grew more frantic. “It’ll be gone. All gone.”

  “Then let me help now. I’ll dig for a little while and then you can dig.” He paused then as she reached for the make-shift spade he was using. “I’ll go fast, too. I swear.”

  He didn’t want to let go at first, but finally he nodded. The gardening tool slipped from his hands into Karen’s. She stared down at the piece of metal and a wave of recognition washed over her. She dusted frantically at the dirt, wiping as much away as possible.

  Sure enough, it wasn’t a broken spade.

  It was the coveted PBR belt buckle that Brett had brought home after his first win. The same buckle that had been up in the attic with the Bible that Brett had been frantically searching for these past few weeks.


  “Come on,” the old man said. “Dig, girl. You have to dig.”

  “Let me just get something bigger. I’ve got a spade in the kitchen. It’ll do a much better job. In fact, why don’t you come with me? I’ll get you some hot cocoa and then I’ll get right back out here and get to work.”

  She didn’t expect him to cooperate. He was much too manic at the moment. Instead, he shook his head frantically and turned back to his hole. Shoving his hands into the dirt, he started digging with his fingers. “I just have to get it deep enough so that the revenuers can’t get to it—“

  “I’ll help,” she cut in. “Just let me get a better shovel and I’ll help you.”

  The offer seemed to ease the tense set of his shoulders and he paused to take a breath. A few seconds passed and he started digging again. Slower this time. As if the frenzied storm of his memories were finally calming down just a little.

  Hopefully, Karen pushed to her feet and headed for the kitchen. Rinsing off the buckle, she dried it and set it on the counter where her brother was sure to see it. A quick rummage in the drawer and she pulled out one of Dolly’s old gardening spades that she used on the front porch flower pots.

  She grabbed the tool just as her phone buzzed again. A wave of excitement rushed through her, followed by a whisper of regret because she didn’t have the time to text him back.

  Another text and another buzz, and a smile tugged at her lips. He might be just as hooked on her as she was on him.

  And while that notion would have scared the miniskirt off her a month ago, suddenly it didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

  Mark was a nice guy, after all. And seriously cute. A girl could certainly do worse.

  * * *

  “Where did this come from?” Brett asked his sister early the next morning when he found the buckle sitting on top of the microwave.

  Karen glanced up from her bowl of cereal and swallowed her mouthful. “Pappy had it. He was using it to dig in the garden. I thought it was a spade at first, until I got a closer look.”

  He turned the buckle over in his hands. “Where did he get it?”

  “I’m assuming upstairs in the attic.”

  Brett did a mental search of all the boxes that he and Callie had uncovered. If the buckle had been up there, they would have seen it. Unless they’d missed a box or a trunk or something. “Where exactly in the attic?”