He’d been busy working and doing his best to forget Jenna Tucker.
Going through the motions.
His gaze went to the blonde who stood off to the side with her two sisters and their husbands.
She wore a basic black dress that hit just below the knees. A boxy number that did nothing to accent her curves or show off her luscious tits.
Still his body responded with the same tightening as if she’d been stark naked.
But it wasn’t just lust. There was a desperation inside of him that made him want to walk over, slide his arms around her, and never let go.
But he’d already let go. He’d said good-bye. Not officially, mind you. He’d sent her a text that said he was busy. But it was the underlying message that mattered.
It was over.
Done.
“Don’t forget to send out the thank-you notes,” his father said just to his right. “And make sure you send a personal note to the reverend for all the kind words.”
“I’ll take care of it, Dad.”
“And make sure to send a nice donation to the ladies’ auxiliary,” his mother reminded him somewhere to his left. “We stopped by the church on the way over and they did a lovely job with the food.”
“Consider it done,” he said, even though he knew his mother would go ahead and send her own note anyway. Even after ten years, she still didn’t trust him. Not the way she’d trusted Travis.
“Judge Spears tells me you haven’t turned in your paperwork for the next election.”
“It’s done. I just need to drop it off.”
“And don’t forget—”
“I’ve got it,” Hunter growled, his gaze catching his father’s. “I’m a grown-ass man. I can handle myself.”
His dad didn’t say anything for a long moment. He finally nodded and excused himself to catch up to the reverend. No doubt to issue a verbal thank you because he didn’t think his son was capable of doing that either.
“I’m really sorry about Clara.” It was the same sentiment, but the voice was different from all the others. Softer. More familiar.
His heart stalled as he turned to see Jenna standing in front of him, so close he could touch her right here and now, in front of God and everyone, if he had a mind to.
He balled his fingers and kept his hands at his side.
“She was really sweet.”
“You talked to her,” he said. “Pam told me about your visit. Right before she gave me the letters.”
“I should have told you—”
“You don’t owe me anything. They were her letters, not mine. You did the right thing giving them to her.”
“P.J. wasn’t the father,” she told him. When she noted the surprise in his gaze, she added, “I thought so, too, but when I gave them to Clara she told me it was her Physics teacher.”
“Why all the letters to P.J. then?”
“She said he was her best friend. He took the fall for getting her pregnant and claimed the child as his own because she asked him to. Because she wanted to protect the real father.”
And P.J. had done it because he loved her.
“Did she tell you who he was?”
Jenna shook her head, her blonde hair catching rays of sunlight. “I didn’t ask. I know he’s a Tucker. I’ve been racking my brain, but the name P.J. just doesn’t ring a bell. Does it sound familiar to you?”
Not to Hunter.
Not until he turned and one of the VFW vets caught his eye. He noted the sadness on the man’s face, the cluster of gardenias in his hand, and he knew the truth even before he saw the shiny gold name tag that read Purvis Jeremiah Tucker.
“Shorty Tucker,” he murmured as he watched the man standing at the grave site, tears in his eyes. He dropped the handful of gardenias on the casket and suddenly Hunter knew that it wasn’t the florist sending his great-grandmother leftovers every week. The gardenias had come from Shorty. Every week. Like clockwork. Because he’d loved her.
Because he’d spent the past seventy something years loving a woman who’d never loved him back.
“Listen, I’m sorry about the text,” he started. “I’ve just been really busy—”
“It’s fine.” She waved him off. “If you hadn’t sent the text, I would have. It’s over. It’s better this way.” She glanced behind her at her sisters who’d already started to retreat toward the line of cars. “I should really go. I took so long getting everything out of the house, so they’re just now getting to the demolition. Brody is at the house now. I should be there when it starts.”
“They’re taking down the entire house?”
She nodded.
“And you’re really good with that?”
“I am.” She seemed to think. “I should be.” Then, as if she’d said too much already, she turned. “Take care.”
He watched her walk away and barely resisted the urge to grab her hand, haul her close, and just feel her there beside him. To feel just a little less lonely.
But she was right.
It was better for them to be apart.
If only it felt that way.
CHAPTER 31
“And you’re good with that?”
Hunter’s question followed Jenna home, to the empty house and the massive bulldozer that sat in the front yard.
“She’s here,” Brody called out to his brother who sat in the dozer seat. “You can rev her up and take her down now.”
The engine fired to a blasting rumble, the tires started to roll, and panic welled inside of Jenna because she’d lied to Hunter.
She wasn’t good with anything. Not with the demolition of the house, or with the cryptic text message that had informed her that he was calling it quits between them.
She wasn’t good.
She was miserable.
As much as she wanted to change her life, she wasn’t ready to lose the one place that housed so many memories.
Good and bad.
She’d loved her grandfather and while he might not have returned that love to the extent that she would have liked, he’d still loved her in his own way
She’d seen it when he’d bought her that first ice cream sandwich, she’d felt it every time he’d laughed at something she’d done or called her a chip off the old block.
A bad thing or so she’d always thought. But to him … She’d been someone special, just as he was special to her.
She didn’t want to forget. To trade the ice cream sandwiches for sorbet for the rest of her life.
* * *
“Stop!” she called out. “Please. Stop.”
The dozer came to a halt just a few inches shy of the front porch as she raced up, waving her arms, desperation bleeding through her. “You can’t take down the house.”
“Sure we can. I’ve got the permit right here,” Brody said, touching a hand to his pocket. “Or maybe I left it on the desk back at the office. Either way, it’s all nice and legal.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, I don’t want you to tear it down.”
“But it’s a mess. It’s an electrical nightmare, not to mention the pipes. They’re rotting as we speak.”
“I know all of that, but surely we can redo all of that without demolishing the entire thing.”
Brody seemed to think. “Well, we could do a renovation, but just like I told you before, it’ll cost you more than just starting from scratch.”
More money for the house meant less money to sink into her business.
Then again, she made a decent salary. If she had to bide her time working a little longer, it would be worth it to save the place. “That’s fine. I don’t care what it costs. I want to keep the house.”
The engine died. Brody smiled.
And it was done.
If only she could hold onto Hunter just as easily.
But he didn’t want her and so it didn’t matter how she felt.
She was Shorty Tucker and he was the elusive Clara Bell.
And the future looked miserabl
e for them both.
* * *
Hunter stood near the corral and watched the next cowboy climb up on top of the bucking bronc. The air horn sounded. The ride lasted all of three seconds because Hell Raiser wasn’t about to let anyone get the best of him.
He tossed the cowboy and nearly stomped him into the ground.
“Tricky fucker,” the cowboy grumbled as he snatched up his hat and dusted it off as the horse bucked his way toward the opposite end of the corral courtesy of the cowboys maneuvering him into the pen.
“Try not holding on so tight,” Hunter called out. “You’re making her nervous.”
The man’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing as they met Hunter’s. “If I don’t loosen my grip, I won’t make it out of the chute.”
But he was wrong. Hunter knew it because he’d ridden horses like Hell Raiser before. Sure, he hadn’t made it to the professional level, but he’d been on his way.
Before Travis had died.
His brother’s image rose up, reminding him of his responsibilities and the all-important fact that he’d been headed to City Hall, not the rodeo arena.
His parents had left right after the funeral and Hunter had made it through just a few minutes of the reception before he’d bailed to get back to work.
To the business of his future.
He turned and crossed the distance back to his SUV. Climbing inside, he stared at the stack of documents sitting on the seat. The check that would pay the filing fee for him to join the ballot in the next election. The application that contained all of his personal information. The required list of constituent signatures to support his run. It was all ready to go.
It was just a matter of dropping everything off.
He keyed the engine and was just about to pull out of the parking lot when Marge’s voice came over the radio.
“I’ve got that address for Boris Miller if you want to pay him a visit. I know it’s not a good day for you, but I also know that you like to bury your head in work. So do you want it or what?”
Later. That’s what he should have told her.
He glanced at the paperwork again. “Give it to me.” He punched the address she read off into his GPS. “Thanks, Marge.”
“You bet. And I know you didn’t eat a thing after the funeral, so there’s a sack lunch in your glove compartment.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Get married and settle down. At least that’s what I’m hoping.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m old. Too old to sit behind this desk and listen to my arteries harden for another year. James and me want to travel. This Clara business has us both thinking about how precious time is. So we’ve decided to pull the trigger and buy that RV we’ve been pining over for years now. They’re running a flash weekend sale down at the dealership and, well, we’re not getting any younger.”
“Which means you’re giving me your two weeks’ notice?”
“Actually, it’s three. We’re springing for a custom outdoor kitchen on our Sandpiper, so they have to special order it from Houston. It’ll be here in two and a half weeks. A day or two to pack it up and you’re on your own.”
“I hate to lose you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, just remember that you’ve got to eat. And it might be nice to do that with a member of the opposite sex, hence the hint about settling down and finding a wife.”
“Message received.”
“Speaking of messages. Bobby’s looking for you. Something about you playing bunko tonight with him and his wife and her cousin. He said you promised.”
“Bunko? Tonight?”
“It might be a good time to start looking for that wife.”
“I hate bunko.”
“Yeah, well sometimes we make concessions for those we love. You watch your six,” she murmured and the mic went silent.
Bunko? With Kaitlyn?
It would be a good time to get to know her.
On the other hand, the thought of sitting with anyone other than Jenna bothered him a hell of a lot more than it should have.
Especially since Jenna wasn’t his woman.
He told himself that, but deep in his gut he couldn’t forget the feel of her hands on his body, her taste on his lips, her voice in his head.
He would find a wife someday.
In the future.
But damned if he didn’t find himself thinking about it today. About Jenna and how it just might be nice to wake up to her every morning.
He punched the address Marge texted him into his GPS and followed the instructions to Farm Road 52. He hung a left and ate up pavement, heading for the small house tucked away at the very end of the dirt road, just past a row of run-down trailers.
With a sagging porch and peeling paint, the house wasn’t much better than the dilapidated trailers. It was the truck, not the house that made him think that maybe, just maybe he might have hit pay dirt.
A brand new 4 x 4 Ford Dually sat in the drive. Shiny black. Expensive.
Too much so for a poor farmer with a falling-down house.
But a moonshiner with a top-notch setup?
Hunter killed the engine, checked his gun, and climbed out.
There was only one way to find out.
CHAPTER 32
It was Boris Miller.
Hunter knew it even before he found himself staring down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun.
His gut told him as much before Boris opened the door and met him with the gun. That, and Hunter saw what was left of the game camera sitting on a small table on the front porch, next to a jar of crystal-clear moonshine.
“I was wondering when you might come calling, Sheriff.”
“That’s quite a setup you’ve got for yourself.”
“You saw that, huh?” He shook his head. “I was afraid of that when I heard what happened with the Mayweathers. They tried to tell me it was a hog, but I know better. Ain’t no hog can hop around on two legs.”
“Hiring them was your first mistake.”
“Actually, that was just another in a long line of mistakes. It seems it’s not as easy to set up shop the way it used to be, what with the Feds looking over your shoulder and the local police busting your chops. When my granddaddy used to cook, it was a more simple time. If a man had a good recipe, then he didn’t need to worry about all the piddly details. Folks liked his product, then everything else just fell in line. The cops looked the other way and no one was the wiser.”
“I don’t look the other way.”
“That’s why it has to come to this”—he pointed the gun at Hunter’s chest—“this is going to clean up all of my mess.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to take you out, Sheriff DeMassi. Once and for all. You’re too nosey for one thing.” His grin faltered. “And much too smart. Then again, if you were that smart, you would’ve stopped sniffing around after James Harlin bit the dust. So maybe you aren’t all that, after all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
But Hunter knew even before the man opened his mouth. Boris was the one responsible for the explosion that killed Jenna’s grandfather. While some other local moonshiners had been suspect, Hunter had never been able to pin it on any one. Not only was the evidence circumstantial, but he’d just had this gut feeling that there was more.
That something bigger had happened than a freak accident caused by a careless cook.
“Tell me what happened to James Harlin.”
Boris’s expression drew into a tight frown. “We’ve talked enough. Why don’t you start walking.” He nudged Hunter’s chest with the rifle. “Head around back and don’t stop until I tell you.”
“Sure thing.” His steps were careful. Paced. “Tell me about Tucker,” he said again.
“Why should I?” The barrel jabbed between his shoulder blades as Boris came up behind him, following him around the house. “You’re the law. You should have figured it
out for yourself by now. Hell, I figured you had all the answers when you started staking out my still. You see, there’s only so much room for moonshine in this county. I’m a simple man. I ain’t into hauling my supply across state lines like some. I’d rather make my money right here. But I couldn’t very well do that with James Harlin peddling his. Him and Big Jimmy Ham were both running some decent stills and cutting into my profit margin. I had to take them both out. I took care of James Harlin first.”
The pieces started to fall into place then. James Harlin had been too experienced to blow himself up. That, and there had been clues. The unusual footprint at the explosion site. The clues inside the house that said James wasn’t the pickled drunk that so many thought.
Hunter had gone through the man’s room and found so many pictures of his granddaughters. Drawings they’d done for him. Even a few baby teeth stuffed into a small box in his sock drawer. They’d been hidden away. The man hadn’t been the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve. But he’d had them. He’d felt them. He’d loved his granddaughters as much as he’d been able to.
Too much to blow himself up.
“I was going after Big Jimmy and his boys,” Boris went on, “when you started poking around. You busted them and took them out of the picture for me, which is why I’m going to make this quick and painless for you. You saved me a lot of trouble. It’s only right I give tit-for-tat. I’m a reasonable man, after all”
“You can’t just think you can shoot me and get away with it.”
“Actually, I’m not going to shoot you at all.” He urged Hunter around to the small shed that sat in the far rear of the backyard several yards from the run-down house. “I’m going to let my dogs take care of you. Pit bulls,” Boris added. “See, you came poking around, thinking I was someone of interest. I wasn’t here so you kept poking around and stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. My dogs got ahold of you ’cause that’s what they do—they protect my property from intruders, and that’s that. You’re gone. The coast is clear. The business keeps running.”
“That’s crazy.”
But it would work. Hunter knew that the minute he heard the growling inside the shed. The dogs were ready to eat anyone alive on command and it was just a matter of time before Boris set them free.
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