by Dylann Crush
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2018 by Dylann Crush
Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover image couple © Rob Lang Photography
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
A Sneak Peek of Cowboy Christmas Jubilee
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
About the Author
Back Cover
Chapter One
No three-hundred-pound piece of prime pork was going to get the best of her. Charlie Walker adjusted the tilt of her cowboy hat against the glare of the Texas sun and leaned down, putting herself eye to eye with the enormous pig. “Someone’s not feeling very photogenic today, huh?”
Baby Back grunted in response and made a break for the right. Charlie dove after her, trying to grab the pig’s blinged-out collar. She missed by a country mile and went down, sending a cloud of dust flying as her hip hit the gravel with a crunch.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Charlie scrambled to her feet with a scowl. If that’s the way the hellacious hog wanted to handle things, then so be it. But she was going to play this smart. Her mama always said the best way to get someone to cooperate was to kill them with kindness. Forcing something close to a smile, Charlie took the giant marshmallow she’d been saving as a special treat out of her back pocket. Baby Back obviously wasn’t going to earn the reward with good behavior. Might as well use it as a bribe. “Sooey! Here piggy, piggy.”
Baby Back’s ears perked.
“You want an ooey, gooey marshmallow?” Charlie tore off a tiny bit and tossed it in Baby Back’s direction.
The pig snuffled it out of the dirt, squealing in appreciation.
“Come on, piggy. Want some more?” Charlie lobbed another chunk, waiting until Baby Back was snout-deep in her search before taking a tentative step forward. If she could just grab the collar… She leaned in, her fingers almost grasping the hot-pink band of leather.
Before she could so much as blink, Baby Back rushed her, snagging the marshmallow out of her hand, knocking her flat on her rear, and dashing toward the damaged stretch of fence. With a thud and a crack, the rail split. Baby Back bolted through the break in the fence and disappeared.
Again.
Add another exclamation point to the day from hell.
“Almost had her that time,” Darby, Charlie’s best friend since birth, called from her safe perch. “I swear, if you’d just lunged a little bit farther…” She raised a bottle of Coke in Charlie’s direction and took a swig.
Charlie took her time getting to her feet. “Almost doesn’t count—”
“Except in horseshoes and hand grenades, right?” Darby served up a wink alongside the smart-ass comment.
“Yeah. That’s what Sully used to say anyway.” Sully, her boss, her mentor, and the last living Holiday in Holiday, Texas. Well, the last living Holiday until he’d passed away, leaving Charlie struggling to keep everything together.
Darby’s amusement faded, her eyes crinkling with concern. “How you holdin’ up, sweetie?”
“Okay, I guess. I just wish I knew what was going to happen to the Rambling Rose.”
Sully’s lawyer had surprised everyone by keeping his mouth shut for a change. The only tidbit of gossip anyone had been able to extract from Buddy Hill, Esquire, was that he’d been trying to contact Sully’s grandson—some hoity-toity real estate tycoon from New York City—about the will. The Rambling Rose was the oldest honky-tonk in Texas and had been in the Holiday family for more than 125 years. Charlie couldn’t imagine working anywhere else.
Hopefully she wouldn’t have to.
“I know Buddy’s trying to figure that out,” Darby said. “Hard to believe this will be the first time in history we don’t have a Holiday on the Rose’s float for the Founder’s Day parade.”
A deep ache pulsed in Charlie’s chest. She rubbed the spot over her heart with her palm. Sully had always loved being the grand master of the annual parade. But she couldn’t think about that now—she had bigger issues. Like the fact that her maintenance man had walked out on her this morning, her bartender forgot to put in an order for the favorite local brew, and she hadn’t crossed off a single item on her to-do list for the biggest concert of the year.
Or—she huffed out a sigh—the fact that a tour bus full of senior citizens had pulled up not ten minutes ago, wanting some of the Rambling Rose’s famous ribs and a picture with the most celebrated pig in Conroe County.
One problem at a time.
“Damn pig. I’d better get the truck and chase her down. Last time she got out, she plowed through Mrs. Martinez’s garden and ate all of her green peppers.” Charlie secured the
gate behind her—not that it would do much good unless she found someone to fix the fence. “I’m still getting blamed for her salsa coming in second place at the county fair.”
“Remind me why y’all insist on having a pet pig as a mascot?” Darby climbed off the rail and fell into step with Charlie.
“Tradition. You know Sully. The Rambling Rose has had a pig on staff ever since it opened. They sure as heck aren’t going to lose one on my watch.” Not even if her watch might be coming to an abrupt end. She ducked through the back door of the honky-tonk and grabbed her keys off a hook. “You coming?”
Darby shook her head, sending her dark curls bouncing. “I’ll leave the pig wrangling to you. I gotta get home and get dinner going. Waylon will skin me alive if he finds out I spent all afternoon hanging out with his baby sister.”
“Now I know that’s a lie.” Charlie yanked open the door of the late-model dually pickup. “He’s got you on such a high pedestal I’m surprised you don’t get a nosebleed from the lack of oxygen.”
“He does love me, doesn’t he?” Darby slung her arm around Charlie’s neck and pulled her in for a hug. “We’ll try to stop by later, if your mama’s up for watching the kids.”
Darby and Waylon had been married for nine years, but it could still get weird, thinking about her BFF swapping spit with her brother. So Charlie tried not to think about it at all. As in, ever. “Has she ever not been up for watching them?”
“True. Be sure to save us some seats up front tonight, okay? That band is supposed to be real good.” With a squeeze and a quick kiss on the cheek, Darby stepped away. “And don’t worry about Sully’s grandson. He’ll probably fly down, take a look at the place, tell you what a great job you’re doing, and be on a plane back to New York City before you even have a chance to pour him a draft of Lone Star.”
Charlie snorted. “Oh yeah? With my luck, he’ll realize he’s always wanted to manage the oldest honky-tonk in Texas, and he’ll toss me out on my backside.”
“He might just like your backside.” Darby waggled her perfectly plucked eyebrows.
“My backside isn’t up for review. Besides, if he ever does have the nerve to show up around here, he’ll be the one getting tossed on his ass. Would it have killed him to pick up the phone and give Sully a call sometime? Maybe even come down for a visit?”
“Honey, I know you loved Sully like family. But not everyone loves as fierce as you. Give the guy a chance.”
A chance? In the eight years she’d worked for Sully, there’d been no word from either his son or his grandson. It had broken her heart to watch the cancer eat away at him, knowing she was just about the only family he had left.
But Darby was right about one thing—Charlie did love fierce. Fierce enough to know that the most important thing to Sully was keeping the Rambling Rose in the family. So even if it killed her, she’d do whatever she could to ensure his dying wish came true. She’d try to give his grandson a chance, assuming he had the decency to show up sometime in the near future.
“Hey, will you let Angelo know I’m hog hunting? Maybe he can stall lunch so I have a chance to bring back the prodigal pig to pose for pictures.”
“You bet. Good luck.”
With a final nod to Darby, Charlie climbed onto the bench seat and cranked over the engine. How many times had Baby Back broken out over the past month? Two? Three? She’d lost count of how many mascots they’d had over the years, but none of them had ever been as ornery as Baby Back. That pig had a devilish streak as long and wide as the Rio Grande.
She shifted the truck into drive and wondered if anyone would believe her if she said Baby Back got taken out by a combine. Sully was the only one beyond the tourists who gave a hot damn about the pig. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, fighting back a fresh surge of emotion.
For Sully.
Then she put the pedal to the metal and fishtailed out onto the main two-lane road that would take her through the center of Holiday in pursuit of the runaway porker.
* * *
Beckett Sullivan Holiday III scrolled through the slides of his presentation one final time. He’d been working his butt off for the past four months, and he was determined that this would be the project his father would finally trust him to handle on his own from concept to completion.
He’d done the legwork. He’d done the research. He’d done the whole damn thing short of signing the papers. There was no reason he shouldn’t be allowed to take the lead. No reason except his dad’s uncompromising need to maintain a viselike grip on all things under the Holiday Enterprises umbrella. Which, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how he looked at it, also included Beck.
The way Beck saw it, the project up in Morris Park should be a slam dunk. Holiday Enterprises would garner some positive press for a change, and he’d be able to come through on a long-overdue promise to an old friend. He was ready.
His phone beeped, and he silenced the alarm. Showtime.
Beck tucked his laptop under one arm and headed toward the conference room. No matter how much time he spent in the room his dad considered his pride and joy, the view managed to steal his breath every time he entered. Two walls of glass provided a 180-degree view. In this room, in a corner of the fifty-fifth floor, standing up against the windows always made him feel like he was floating above Midtown Manhattan.
“Ready, Son?” The elder Holiday stood at the head of the table.
Beck nodded and took the seat next to him as the rest of the management team filtered in. As head of one of the most successful real estate development firms in Manhattan, his father—or just Holiday as he preferred to be called, even by his son—usually had his pick of opportunities. It was up to his team to come up with the ideas, do the grunt work, and make recommendations at their weekly management meetings.
This time, Beck would get the go-ahead. He could feel it.
Beck sat through the six presentations ahead of his. He listened, took notes, and tried to swallow the lump of apprehension that had taken up residence in his throat. He’d been through the drill hundreds of times over the years. But he’d never pitched a project like this before.
He wiped a clammy palm over his suit pants. No need to be nervous. He’d worked with these people his entire career. Besides, how could his dad refuse the chance to spread some goodwill when the neighborhood—and their company—so obviously needed it?
Holiday shot down the executive golf course one of his minions had spent the past nine months putting together, then turned an appraising eye on his son. Beck swallowed and stood.
“Most of you know about the upscale condos we’re building in the Bronx. What you probably don’t know is that by building on those Morris Park lots, we’re displacing the kids who have been using that property as a safe place to play.” Beck scanned the faces of his coworkers. No one offered a smile of encouragement. No one gave him a sly thumbs-up. No one knew what to make of this departure from the money makes more money mentality. But they’d catch on.
He continued, pulling at their heartstrings. “There’s another lot two blocks over with a condemned apartment building sitting on it. The city is willing to sell it well below market value. I’m going to show you why it makes sense for Holiday Enterprises to use that space to build its first community park.”
By the time he wrapped up with a detailed analysis of the tangible and intangible benefits of the park, the smile on his dad’s face pretty much guaranteed approval.
But then Holiday steepled his fingers under his chin and shook his head.
“So you want me to buy a crumbling building and knock it down so a handful of kids have a safe place to hang out and sell drugs.”
Beck almost didn’t know what to say to that. “No, sir. I want us to buy a property for pennies on the dollar and create goodwill by donating it back to the community as a place where the residents can gather.” Be
ck pointed to the screen where the last slide still appeared. “Imagine the ribbon cutting. The press would go nuts. This kind of project is unprecedented.”
“It’s unprecedented because it’s not a good idea. I appreciate all the work you put into this, Beck. But I’ve decided to have you manage the details on the boutique hotel in the Village instead.”
Beck’s heart went into a free fall. “The Village?” He cleared his throat, trying to prevent his voice from cracking. “But the P&L shows we won’t break even on that project for at least ten years.” Not to mention the last thing downtown needed was another trendy hotel. The park would actually mean something to those kids.
“What can I say?” Holiday shrugged. “I like the Village.”
“But you’re wrong. We need the good publicity, and the Bronx needs—” Shit. He’d violated Rule Number One: never criticize the boss. Especially in front of the entire management team.
“Sorry, Son. It’s a pass. Try again next time.” The smile spread over his father’s lips but didn’t reach his eyes. Beck felt like he was looking into the face of a great white shark. Predatory. Cunning. Lethal.
He’d already shot himself in the foot. Might as well bury himself while he was at it. But before he could finish the job and tell his dad exactly what he thought of his new plan, the intercom buzzed.
“What is it, Joyce?” Holiday asked.
“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt. You have an urgent call on line two.”
“We’re in a meeting.” His tone was clipped, flat, unemotional.
Joyce’s voice faltered. “I know, sir. But it’s, well, it’s your father.”
Holiday’s chest puffed up, and he leaned over the speakerphone. “You tell that son of a bitch that I don’t care what kind of emergency he has down there. He needs something from me, he can go through my lawyer.”
An awkward silence fell over everyone present. Eyes sought out interesting patterns in the marble floor, fingers toyed with expensive fountain pens, and legs shifted under the table.
“Um, sir. He’s not actually on the phone. It seems he’s passed. His attorney would like to speak to you.”
His dad hissed out a breath, and an unreadable flicker of emotion flashed across his face so fast that Beck thought maybe he’d just imagined it. He’d never seen his dad react that way to anything and wasn’t sure how to respond. Holiday had made it clear on numerous occasions that the family he’d left behind in Texas was not up for discussion.