Texas Thunder (3 page)

She'd put her dreams of one day traveling the world as an investigative reporter or burning up the television screen as a hotshot news anchor on hold to take care of her family and work part-time for Les while she went after the ever-practical marketing degree at Travis Junior College. James had been seventy-six at the time and in no condition to care for two young girls. Even more, he hadn't wanted to. He'd been too busy drinking and playing cards and cursing the Sawyers for his losing streak and his piss-poor lot in life.

They'd
caused all his trouble. And killed the family's moonshine business. And stolen his beloved Texas Thunder recipe. And sullied the family name. To hear James Tucker tell it, the Sawyers had been responsible for every evil thing to come along in the past few decades, including the floods of '92, global warming, and every cast member of
Jersey Shore.

While Callie wasn't fool enough to lay blame on a handful of individuals for the world's problems, she did blame the Sawyer clan for one thing—the car accident that had killed her folks.

She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. The past was the past. Over and done with. Time to move on.

Which was exactly what she intended to do. Her gramps was dead. Her sisters were all grown up. If ever the moment had arrived for Callie to start thinking about herself and her own future, it was now.

Or so she'd thought until she'd opened that notice from the bank.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and fought down a wave of anxiety.

“I know what you're thinking and don't.” Jenna eyed her. “You go for even one chocolate-chip cookie and the entire town will have you signing up for a lap band before the day's over.”

“I'm not going to eat a cookie.”

If she was going to fall from grace, it was going to be with something much more substantial. Sweeter. More satisfying.

“Same deal if you go for a piece of pie,” Jenna added, as if reading her thoughts.

“Would you stop it? I'm not going to stuff my face with pie.” No, she was going to stuff her face with a cupcake—a big, fat, chocolate cupcake with lots of rich crème filling—and she was doing it in private. “Cover for me, would you? I've got some things to do in the kitchen.”

“Sure you do,” Jenna's voice followed. “Don't take too long. The reverend wants us back in the sanctuary after lunch to say a farewell prayer before they take the casket to the cemetery. Sort of a private moment just for the immediate family.”

“Ten minutes,” Callie told Jenna. “That's all I need.”

 

CHAPTER 2

In the back parking lot of the church, Callie headed for the beat-up '69 Ford pickup truck that sat near the end of the first row.

It was a far cry from her mother's late-model green Oldsmobile, but she'd been in a hurry that morning to get her grandfather's only suit to the church and so she'd left the car for her sisters.

The truck was the one and only thing her grandfather had owned outright. A rusted-out pile of blue metal that should have died a long, long time ago. Even so, it cranked right up every time because despite being old and beat to hell, it was at least reliable.

Unlike the man who'd driven it for the past forty-odd years.

She ignored the strange tightening in her chest and turned the key. The engine crackled to life like a two-pack-a-day smoker clearing her throat. The ancient eight-track tape player mounted under the dash fired up and the smooth, country twang of Hank Williams Sr. filled the small cab.

Back in the day, Hank had been hell on wheels, which explained why Callie's granddaddy had always liked him so much. She and her sisters had learned the words to “Honky Tonk Blues” long before the Lord's Prayer. No wonder Pastor Harris had been more than a little surprised when Callie had asked him to conduct an actual church service.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she blinked against the heat behind her eyes. Tears were a wasted emotion. That's what James had told her when her parents had died. He'd taken the news of his only son's death with a somber shake of his head, followed by a forty-eight-hour drinking binge during which he'd sang and cussed and even slobbered a little.

But no tears.

He hadn't even cried when he'd lost his beloved wife, Rose. At least that's what Callie's mom had told her. She couldn't remember herself because she'd been only two at the time, but the story wasn't all that hard to buy. James had always been as prickly as the fields of cacti that lined the nearby interstate.

He'd been a hateful, mean SOB who'd never done anything for anybody other than himself. Even taking in his granddaughters had been self-serving. He'd needed someone to cook and clean and look after him whenever he drank himself into a stupor, and Callie had been right there. Ready, willing, and able at seventeen to get the job done if it meant keeping her younger sisters out of foster care.

That's why she'd forfeited her dreams for the time being and put up with James for so long. Not because he was family and she had some misguided sense of loyalty to him.

She'd sacrificed for her sisters. So that they could stick together and see their own dreams realized.

Mission accomplished. Jenna had graduated high school early—while she was hell on wheels, she was as smart as a whip—and finished her bachelor's in animal husbandry. She'd just landed an internship at a local veterinary office while she did her medical training. Brandy had opened up a small bakery in the heart of Rebel. While they were both just starting out, Callie knew her sisters would be just fine on their own.

They could make it without her now.

If
she could figure a way out of the mess that James had made and keep a roof over their heads. Jenna was barely making anything as a first-year animal med student and Brandy had stuffed every bit of cash she had into Sweet Somethings. Both women needed a place to stay and time to get on their feet, and Callie had to give it to them if she ever meant to get out of this town.

But first things first …

She was just about to shift the truck into reverse and head for the nearest convenience store when she caught the movement in her rearview mirror. She turned in time to see a shiny black pickup trimmed in shimmering chrome rumble into the parking lot.

The monster engine vibrated the ground, temporarily drowning out Hank's familiar whine. Tires crunched gravel as the truck swung into an empty spot. The engine died. Metal groaned as the door pushed open and a man climbed out. Dressed in faded jeans, a soft white T-shirt, and dusty brown cowboy boots, he looked like any of the ranch hands that called Rebel home.

At the same time, there was something oddly familiar about him.

Wranglers caressed his firm thighs, cupped his crotch, and outlined his long legs. The warm breeze flattened his T-shirt against his strong, muscular chest. Several days' growth of beard darkened a strong jaw and cheeks, drawing attention to a firm mouth. A pair of Costa del Mar sunglasses hid his eyes. A straw Resistol sat atop his short, dark hair.

He pulled off the cowboy hat and left it on the front dash of his truck. Slowly he removed the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose and hooked them on the front pocket of his tee. He turned his head just enough and his blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

Her breath caught and her heart stopped because this wasn't just some random working man come to pay his respects. He was the owner of the biggest spread in the county.

Her first love.

Her most hated enemy.

The one and only Brett Sawyer.

 

CHAPTER 3

No freakin' way.

Callie blinked. Once. Twice. But he didn't disappear.

He simply stood there in the bright light of day, sunshine spilling down around him, making him seem that much darker and more dangerous.

She licked her suddenly dry lips.

Brett had been gone for the past ten years, having only recently returned to Rebel a few weeks ago when his own grandfather had taken a turn for the worse thanks to a bad case of Alzheimer's. With his father deceased, his mother remarried and living far, far away, and his only sibling—a younger sister named Karen—away at college, there'd been no one to look after Archibald “Pappy” Sawyer once he'd become a danger to himself, and so Brett had come home to take care of his pappy and the fifty-thousand-acre spread that stretched clear across two county lines.

Too little, too late, or so everyone said.

The disease had taken its toll quickly and Pappy could barely remember his name most days, much less his only grandson. A shame since the man had doted on Brett once upon a time. He'd been at every rodeo his grandson had competed in back in high school and he'd sat front row at graduation. He'd even thrown Brett a huge going-away party when his grandson had announced to everyone that he was leaving for the PBR circuit and a career in pro–bull riding.

Brett had certainly done the man proud. He'd made a name for himself over the past decade, and even won a few championships.

Callie could still remember Pappy's face on the front page of the
Rebel Yell
beneath an announcement that his pride and joy had snagged himself a buckle.

Her gaze went to the not-so-shiny metal plate at Brett's trim waist. Far from the coveted PBR trophy, but then he'd never been the type to waltz around and brag. He'd always been too busy working his ass off to pay much attention to the fact that he stood to inherit the largest cattle spread in the state of Texas. Too focused.

Unlike the Tuckers, the Sawyers had given up the moonshine business when Prohibition ended and demand for the product had taken a nosedive. They'd taken all that money they'd stashed during the prosperous years and put it into something much more legitimate—cattle.

They'd hit pay dirt.

They now owned practically the entire county, and quite a bit of the adjoining ones, and controlled nearly all of the prime beef industry in Central Texas.

All the more reason Brett Sawyer shouldn't be here right now. He was a busy man.

Even more, he was a Sawyer.
The
Sawyer.

A direct descendant of Elijah Sawyer, Callie's own great-great-grandfather's most hated enemy.

No, he definitely shouldn't be here.

She watched as he leaned in and pulled a lush, overflowing plant from the passenger seat of his pickup. Closing the door with his hip, he strode toward the sanctuary even though the entire crowd had already shifted into the recreation hall. He'd missed the main event, but that truth didn't seem to slow him down.

Her gaze went to the push/pull of denim across his backside as he crossed the gravel parking lot and stepped onto the walkway.

He'd always had a great butt. And great abs. And ripped arms. And a perfect face.

He'd been the total package back in high school. Handsome. Rich. As wild as the summer was hot. He'd charmed more than one girl down to her skivvies out at Rebel Creek, that was for sure.

Not Callie, of course.

Contrary to popular belief, she hadn't gone skinny-dipping with Brett Sawyer and given up the goodies that fateful night after their senior prom.

He hadn't taken
her
virginity.

No, he'd taken something much more precious from her.

She drew a deep breath, trying to ease the tightening in her chest and watched as he reached the door. He paused. Turned. His gaze collided with hers. For a brief second, something flickered in his eyes, as if he'd seen her and read the direction of her thoughts.

But just as quickly, it was gone. He hauled open the white metal door and disappeared inside, leaving her to wonder if she'd just imagined the momentary connection.

Brett.

Here.

Now.

Crazy.

A wave of anxiety went through her and her hands trembled while Hank sang about lying eyes and cheating hearts. Her own heart stuttered and she killed the music. She should march inside and throw Mr. PBR out on his cocky ass. He had nerve showing his face on a day like this. It was one thing for the distant Sawyer relatives to crawl out of the woodwork to nose around, but this was different. This was ground zero when it came to the big explosion.

Brett had no business here.

At the same time, he was the last person she wanted to see up close and personal. Him, and every other funeral attendee who'd come out to get an earful of juicy gossip.

She eyed her reflection in the rearview mirror and noted the smudges beneath her green eyes. Her colorless cheeks. Her pale lips. She looked like hell and, even more, she felt like it. She was through making small talk and keeping up appearances.

She was tired.

Anxious.

Sad.

The last thought struck and she stiffened. Sure, she was sad. Sad she was stuck in such a shitty situation with zero money in the bank and the bills piling up. Sad that she had to worry about keeping a roof over everyone's head.

She certainly wasn't getting all misty over the old man's death. She'd seen it coming what with the way he drank and caroused and carried on as if he had nine lives.

Ernestine was right. No one could flip off the big guy upstairs that often and not pay the price eventually. James had simply gotten his due and, like always, it was her job to clean up his mess.

One last time.

Her throat closed around a sudden lump and she gunned the engine. Shoving the truck into reverse, she crunched gravel and pulled out of the parking lot.

And then she went in search of the biggest box of cupcakes she could find.

 

CHAPTER 4

She bought two boxes of cupcakes.

It wasn't Callie's finest moment, but she had a feeling she was going to need more before the day was over and she didn't want to make another run into town. That, and Brandy's bakery was closed today for the funeral, which meant Callie was stuck settling for the next best thing.