Behind him, Xavier shot Micah a warning glare and mouthed either teething or sleeping, Micah wasn’t sure which. Not that it mattered, determined as he was to abide by Xavier’s plea that he play nice.
In the spirit of that agreement, Micah blurted out the first nice, neutral topic that popped into his head. “I was just making plans with Isaac and Ivy to take them fishing in a couple years.”
Alex stepped right up to Micah and gave Ivy a succession of quick kisses on the cheek until she giggled. “I think Xavier already has dibs on that.”
Ivy reached out, straining for Alex to hold her, too. “So I heard. Here, Ivy wants her papa.”
Alex set Isaac down and held on while the little guy got his balance. As Isaac toddled toward some toys in the corner, Micah handed Ivy over.
“You didn’t stop back by the resort to make sure we moved the stage and got rid of those extra tables,” Alex said to Micah, every word dripping with poison. “Are you feeling under the weather or something, to miss a chance at harassing me?”
What was it with Alex that he wouldn’t stop needling Micah? It was getting damned old trying to be the bigger person all the time. “I knew you were good for it. But, despite that, I’m on my way to the resort right now to check up on the wedding anyway, because I don’t want your latest ingénue doubting my follow-through.”
“Is that really necessary?”
Yes. Yes it was. But Micah bit back his retort.
Xavier flitted between them, looking stressed. “Enough, you two. Please.”
All this playing nice was torture. Absolute torture. Time to skedaddle before his big mouth got the better of him. “Okay, everyone, Uncle Micah’s out of here, for real this time. Sorry to intrude on your night, Alex.”
He didn’t bother offering his hand to Alex to shake, having learned years ago that kind of gesture was too overt an acknowledgement of any kind of mutual respect between them.
“Bye. Thanks for the help tonight. And the muffins. See you tomorrow at the range,” Xavier said.
A note of defeat had entered back into Xavier’s tone. That and the way he’d bent over backward trying to keep peace between Micah and Alex put Micah in a fighting mood again. It was really friggin’ tough, ignoring his instinct to try to fix Xavier’s unhappiness. Not that Xavier would dare admit to being unhappy with his life or his marriage, not when he’d grown up believing that neither of his dreams of having a husband or children would come true, given Texas’s fraught history with gay rights.
But anyone could see how Alex’s demanding job kept their family in a perpetual state of stress. He put his career first, working long hours including evenings and weekends for Ty Briscoe, who was, by all accounts, a demanding, workaholic boss. For the life of their relationship, Xavier had spent a lot of time alone, and, now that they had kids, he was parenting alone, which was particularly hard for Micah to watch. There was nothing more he could do for his friend tonight, though.
Micah was at his truck, digging his keys out of his pocket, when the squeak of the front door caught his attention. Alex, with Ivy still in his arms.
Alex closed the front door behind him and walked to the porch rail. “Hey, just a sec. About something you said in there.”
Micah drew a patience-mustering inhalation. “What’s that?”
Swallowing hard, Alex shifted Ivy higher in his arms. “It’s not an intrusion to me. You, being here.”
Well, butter Micah’s butt and call him a biscuit. Was Alex actually putting himself out there with a gesture of kindness? Could he be trying to bury the hatchet?
“Okay. Good to know.”
“You’re like family to Xavier,” Alex continued, “which means you’re like family to me. Maybe not my favorite family member, but, hey, we don’t get to pick our families, right?”
So close to kindness. So maddeningly close. “Right. That we don’t. ’Night, Alex. Go easy on Xavier. The twins gave him hell today.”
On Micah’s drive through the web of pitch-black, twisty, two-lane roads leading across town and through the backcountry hills to the resort, his annoyance at Alex and Xavier’s situation gave way to thoughts of Remedy Lane again. What the hell was he doing, going out of his way tonight to spar with her? He hadn’t crashed a Briscoe wedding reception in more than a year, probably longer. True, it wasn’t a bad idea to make sure she understood that he followed through with his threats and all that logic—but that wasn’t why he was headed to the resort. Not if he was being honest with himself.
She got his blood pumping.
For that reason alone, he should have flipped a U-turn and headed home. Nothing could come of his attraction. Nothing. Because fraternizing with a resort executive would stink of corruption, of selling out. It would set a horrible example for the men under his command.
He was still wondering why he lacked the mental fortitude to turn his truck around and reject Remedy’s pull on him as he eased to a stop in the guest parking lot near the resort’s chapel. From his truck bed he pulled a supply bin onto the tailgate. Being that his current shirt was covered with banana mush, dried tears, and snot, he pulled out a spare collared uniform shirt with the fire department logo silk-screened on the chest and made a quick change.
After a moment’s debate, he pushed his shirtsleeve up to show off the barbed-wire tattoo that circled his upper arm, then completed the look with a black Stetson and a toothpick in his mouth. Pure redneck, just because he knew it’d crawl under Remedy’s skin. He would’ve added a proverbial cherry on top of the look by strapping on a hip holster and Taurus pistol if he’d been in civilian clothes, but guns and official fire department business didn’t mix. That was one rule he was in no danger of fudging.
He’d shoved the last of the shirt hem into his pants when he noticed that one of his favorite people in the world was seated on a bench on the hilltop next to the chapel, gazing dreamily at the resort and the wedding in the distance. June Briscoe, better known as Granny June—the paradoxically ancient-yet-ageless matriarch of the Briscoe family and Ty Briscoe’s mother. She was an itty-bitty thing, all moxie and wrinkles, who delighted in perpetuating the rumor that she was off her rocker and senile. Micah knew better.
A long time ago, he’d learned that the secret to having any kind of clout at the resort meant going along with whatever crazy notion the Briscoe matriarch cooked up, but somewhere along the line the two of them had bonded in a genuine, irrevocable way.
The truth was, even though the chapel parking lot was out of the way, Micah had taken to parking there because he loved catching Granny June in her quiet moments, when her crazy antics gave way to the reflective, wise soul she kept close to the vest. She reminded him of his own grandma, his dad’s mother, who’d died not long before the Knolls Canyon Fire. Granny June reminded him of what his mother should have been like, the conversations he should have been able to have with her, if only the fire hadn’t ruined everything. Astonishing, how that one event had come to define so much about Micah’s life.
He’d only taken a few steps in Granny June’s direction when she noticed him climbing the rise to the bench on which she sat.
“My prayers are answered!” she declared, hoisting her half-full lowball glass. The ice clinked as she beamed at him.
A grin broke out on his face. “Which prayers are those?”
“That a beefcake hunk of burning love would come to sweep me off my feet tonight.”
He kissed her cheek and waited as she cleared room on the bench for him by moving a second, full lowball glass and a blue candle in a glass jar.
“Oh, please. You best be savin’ your sweet talk for the charity ball next month,” he said.
“Honey, I’ve got so much sugar in me, I’ll be sweet-talkin’ you from beyond the grave.”
It was only a joke, but the idea of Granny June’s eventual death punched a hole in his heart. She had to be at least eighty, but, God willing, she’d be raisin’ hell around the resort for another couple decades.
“You threatening to haunt me? Because I’m not sure that’s how Tyson would want to spend his eternity by your side.”
She patted the bronze plaque affixed to the bench’s seat back. Beneath her hand Micah spotted the word Briscoe. “My Tyson knows he’ll always be the only man for me.”
When her hand moved, Micah read the plaque.
In memory of Tyson Briscoe, 1919—1990
My One and Only Valentine
“I don’t think I ever knew this bench was dedicated to him.”
“It was his favorite spot. I come by here after every wedding at the resort to light a candle in his memory and have a drink with him, since he and I were the first folks to get married at the chapel here. Did you know we built that chapel with our bare hands, dragged the wood from the forest yonder and cut it into lumber ourselves? Those were the days.”
Speaking of punching a hole in his heart …
Hearing about the enduring love that she and her husband shared cut him right to the core, thinking about the heartache she must have suffered when Tyson had passed. “He sounds like a tough cookie.”
She raised her glass heavenward. “He was a badass. Not too many men like him around these days. The world’s gone soft.”
“I didn’t mean to steal his seat.”
“Pshaw, son.” She winked at him. “You’re one of the few who would’ve given Tyson a run for his money.”
He stretched his arm out on the bench behind her. “Are you flirting with me again at your husband’s memorial bench?”
“He don’t mind. He knows my heart only belongs to him.”
Granny June and Tyson’s enduring love was legendary in Central Texas and the envy of everyone who knew their story, Micah included. He curled his arm around her shoulder in a loose hug. “May we all be so lucky as to find a love like you and Tyson found.”
“No luck about it. True love is part of the grand design. And don’t you worry. Love is coming to you soon.” She touched a hand to his chest over his heart. “I can feel it in your aura.”
Micah didn’t put much stock in fate, but one of his favorite things about Granny June was how she walked the line between being a faithful Christian and a modern-day mystic with a love for auras and jinxes and all other manners of witchy magic.
“If only my aura could make predictions about something other than my love life, I’d be in business. Maybe you could look at it real close and see if it has any messages about this fire season we’re in.”
“It’s already shaping up to be a hell of a bad fire season. Don’t need no aura reading to know that. How’s your family doin’? Your brother Junior still fixing cars?”
“Yes, ma’am. Business is booming at his garage,” Micah said.
“Praise be. And your dad? I always liked him.”
“He’s good. Keeping busy at church and babysitting my sister Michelle’s kids now that she’s working. Got a teaching job at a preschool.”
“Like your mama always did for work,” Granny June said, her tone softening.
“Yes.” Exactly like his mother had done, a point that hadn’t been lost on anyone in the family or their church. As far as Micah knew, no one had had the guts to ask Michelle about why she’d have any desire to go down that path.
Granny June kicked her drink back, tossed the ice on the lawn, and produced a smartphone from her pocket. “Picture time. Come on and get in here, nice and close. Nothin’ quite as fun as making the ladies on Facebook jealous that I was having a drink with a hot number like you.”
Micah shook off a sudden cloud of melancholy and indulged her, even posing with his lips puckered against her cheek for a shot. When they were done, she stood. “You’d best get on with your night. I know your girl is waiting.”
“My girl? What girl?”
Instead of answering, Granny June gestured with her empty glass to a tricked-out golf cart parked behind the bench. “I’ll get you down to that wedding reception in no time.”
She couldn’t possibly expect him to get in her golf cart with her. No way. Granny June was, without a doubt, the worst driver in Texas. Her driver’s license had been yanked by the state authorities after her last fender bender, but that didn’t stop her from careering all over the resort and terrorizing hotel guests in her golf cart that had been tricked out in white and maroon, complete with a Texas A&M flag flying from the rear.
“Thank you, but it’s such a pleasant night. I’m looking forward to the walk.”
She hoisted herself into the driver’s seat. “Don’t argue with an old lady. Now get that fine tush in here so I can put the pedal to the metal.”
Disappointing Granny June wasn’t on his agenda that night. So, stifling a cringe, he blew out the candle she’d left lit on the bench, then ducked under the golf cart’s maroon roof and took a seat.
“Hang on!” she called, which was good advice, seeing as how there weren’t any seat belts or doors—or a roll bar, for that matter.
Tires churning over grass and mud, they went flying down the hill, Dukes of Hazzard–style. Swerving around meandering guests and landscape features alike, she honked and hollered and, indeed, kept the pedal to the metal, speeding toward the glowing lights and faint strains of music of the wedding reception in the distance. It was tempting to close his eyes and pray, but then he wouldn’t have been able to warn her of unseen dangers or grab the wheel from her if necessary.
By the time she slammed on the brakes not a foot from the low brick wall surrounding the reception patio, Micah’s throat ached from calling out warnings to people trapped in her headlights and his head was spinning. He took a moment to catch his breath, then stretched out of the cart, refraining from the urge to drop to his belly and kiss the ground. “I mean it sincerely when I say thank you for not killing us both.”
Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve got too much pride to end my days in a golf-cart accident. When I go, I’m going out with style.”
He ducked his head back under the golf-cart roof and grinned at her. “And not for a long, long time, please.” He clutched his heart. “I couldn’t bear to live without you, darlin’.”
“You’d best save your smooth talkin’ and flirtin’ for your true love.”
“You still haven’t told me who she is. The girl you mentioned.”
With a chuckle, Granny June raised her cane and pointed across the reception patio. Strings of twinkle lights zigzagged in the air above the dance floor where the die-hard wedding guests were boogying down to a disco tune from the band—on the stage that had, indeed, been relocated according to Micah’s specifications. Remedy Lane stood at the edge of the festivities surrounded by an eager gang of tuxedo-clad groomsmen who were falling all over themselves trying to reel her in. Even in the shadows and mood lighting he could read her polite-yet-distant expression clear enough.
The longer Micah watched, the more idiotic the groomsmen looked, like Dusty and Chet had when Remedy crashed their Sunday barbecue at the river. What was it about her that had the men in town twisting themselves in knots to get her attention?
Then it hit him what Granny June was playing at. He folded his arms over his chest. “Are you trying to play matchmaker with me?”
Granny’s eyes twinkled. “The only matchmaker I know is the Good Lord himself.” She nudged Micah’s thigh with her cane. “I’m just giving you a push.”
He gave her his best rakish grin. “Oh, so now you’re calling yourself the hand of God?”
“Maybe I am, honey. Maybe I am. It’s been far too long since you’ve had yourself any fun.”
Since Micah’s last steady relationship had run its course a couple years before, he hadn’t actively sought out anything more than the occasional romantic fling. Work and his other civic duties kept him busy enough and happy enough. Totally drama-free—a term that in no way described Ms. Remedy Lane. “And here I thought my life was already a barrel of fun.”
“Get on with you now. Time for me to get some beauty rest.”
H
e walked around to the driver’s side and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for the ride, sweet stuff.”
By every indication, the wedding reception was getting long in the tooth. The near wall of the tent had been peeled open, revealing a cavern of mostly empty round tables—the correct number of them now, he noted—as everyone had shifted outside for dancing under the stars now that the stifling heat of the day had given way to a muggy but temperate night. Little plates of cake slices littered the outdoor tables, uneaten, though the bartender was still jumping with orders. It looked like the photographer had already left, the food servers were done, and the tables inside the tent had been cleared of everything except a smattering of glasses.
He focused his attention on Remedy again. She was still dressed as she had been earlier that day, in a simple short-sleeved black dress topped with a tasteful blue scarf that coordinated with the wedding colors. She was pretty—there was no denying that—but there was nothing fancy or outstanding about the outfit or her long, wavy hair that had been pulled back with a black headband. He bet she’d dressed that way to blend into the background, like the Dulcet Theater backstage crew did. None of which explained how she’d drawn such a moony-eyed crowd of men around her—or why Micah hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her all week.
One of the particularly dopey-looking groomsmen tugged on Remedy’s scarf, pulling her off-balance. He caught her in his arms and, though she squirmed away without forfeiting the pleasant smile she wore, a spark of impatience flared in her eyes.
Micah had seen enough. He strode her way, suddenly and acutely aware of his appearance. Deodorant still working? Check. Hair not sticking out funny around his hat? Check. Shirt tucked in? Check. He huffed out a laugh. Who was the idiot falling all over himself now?
When she noticed him, her shoulders stiffened and that pleasant smile flattened. She squared up to him and folded her arms over her chest. Her eyes shone with challenge, highlighting to him just how artificial her previous expressions with the groomsmen had been. This, the real Remedy, was who got his blood pumping. This was the woman who’d consumed his thoughts all week.
One Hot Summer Page 6