Fearless Love (7 page)

“Lettuce.” Darcy nodded toward a plastic bag filled with leaves. “Take it to the sink and wash it. Cold water only. Then put it in the salad spinner. Then bring it to me. I’ll show you how to set up the salad plates for tomorrow.”

By the time MG had finished, her biceps were screaming again. The salad spinner was around three times as big as the one she’d once had in her kitchen in Nashville, and it required two hands to use. Darcy had her lay out plate after plate, showed her how to arrange the greens, and bitched at her when the arrangement didn’t meet her standards.

By three-thirty she was exhausted, crabby, and the proud creator of a cooler shelf’s-worth of salad bases, covered with plastic wrap and waiting for the whole process to begin all over again tomorrow.

At least they’d fed her. The whole staff gathered for “family dinner,” including the waiters, waitresses, busboys and hostess. There’d been some muted grumbling when Fairley had put a plate of cold cuts and a couple of loaves of commercial bread out on the table. Apparently, they’d been used to better food before he’d taken over the sous chef job. Then Joe had arrived and replaced the cold cuts with some corn chowder and plates of heirloom tomatoes with fresh mozzarella, along with a couple of bowls of pasta. He’d given Fairley a cool look and explained that he wanted the waiters to taste the specials. Fairley had agreed quickly enough.

When the meal was over, she’d waited for Darcy to assign her some other piece of backbreaking labor, but Darcy had headed for the staff room. MG skulked along behind her, wondering if she was supposed to wait outside or if she could be in the staff room at the same time as the cooks. It didn’t matter since Darcy emerged almost immediately, wearing a Blunt Force Trauma T-shirt and running a hand through her spiked hair. She caught sight of MG and shook her head.

“Go home,” she said, making shooing motions with her hands. “You’re done. Breakfast staff doesn’t do dinner. We took care of all the prep already.”

“Oh.” MG blew out a breath. “Thanks.”

Darcy gave no sign that she’d heard. Instead, she headed out the door to the parking lot without looking back.

Now MG stretched out on her grandfather’s lumpy couch, feeling her feet throb in time with her stress headache. She’d worked from six thirty in the morning until three thirty in the afternoon. Longer than Joe had said she would, but maybe he didn’t realize how clueless she really was about what went on in the kitchen. Then she’d filled out the paperwork that meant she was hired.

She had no idea how long the job would last. She wasn’t sure she’d last that long herself. But god, she needed the money.

She took a long pull on her beer, trying not to grimace at the taste. She could tolerate mediocre beer, but this was swill. Unfortunately, swill was in her price range.

Okay, enough with the pity party. Nobody’s making you do this. You’re in it because you want to be.

She took another swallow of beer, then rested the can against her forehead. Her choice. Her house. Her farm. Her grandfather could rest easy.
Chew on that, Aunt Nedda.

She’d managed to find an episode of
Seinfeld
on the ancient living room television when she heard an odd chirping sound. It took her a minute to realize it was her cell phone. It rang so seldom these days she’d almost forgotten what it sounded like.

“Hello?”

“MG, sugar? Is that you?”

The voice was vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place it immediately. “Who is this?”

“Well, this is Dewey Hesseltine. I’m trying to reach Miss MG Carmody.”

Dewey Hesseltine. MG frantically flipped through her mental Rolodex, trying to remember exactly who Dewey Hesseltine was. She thought he might be a club owner but she wasn’t entirely sure. She’d met a lot of people like him in Nashville—some of them legit, some not. Still, no reason not to be polite.

“This is MG, Dewey. I’m sorry. I was just surprised to hear from you. How are you?”

“I’m fine, but I’m kind of annoyed with you, young lady. How come you didn’t let me know you were here in Texas?”

MG rubbed a hand across her forehead. The automatic answer,
Because I have only the vaguest idea of who the hell you are,
didn’t seem quite right under the circumstances. “I’ve been kind of busy, Dewey. Family stuff.”

“Well, family’s important, that’s for sure,” Dewey said vaguely. “But so’s singing. I’m looking to fill some gaps in my schedule here at the hall. I’d have called your manager if I knew who he was.”

“I’m between managers right now, Dewey.” Seeing as how her former manager had washed his hands of her when she told him she was taking a time out in Texas. Of course, in reality he’d washed his hands of her a long time before that.

“Well, then we can just set this up between us, can’t we? I got an opening next week I’m tryin’ to fill. Not much time to publicize it, but I can get your name onto some posters. It’s strictly pass the bucket for pay, but the crowd’s good. You should pick up some cash.”

She licked her lips. Singing again. After all these months. When she hadn’t touched her guitar since she’d walked in her grandpa’s front door. “Where’s your club, Dewey? I’m outside Konigsburg and I can’t travel too far right now.” In fact, considering the state of her Kia and the cost of gas, she probably couldn’t travel more than a couple of miles without a certain amount of luck.

Just an excuse, MG. You could travel as far as you wanted to. If you wanted to.

“I’m in Oltdorf, same as always. It’s the Oltdorf Hall, after all.” Dewey sounded a little annoyed. Maybe he thought she should know what and where Oltdorf was.
Wrong again, Dewey.

She blew out a quick breath. “I’m still getting my bearings in the area. Where is Oltdorf exactly? I live on Wildrose Lane.”

“Well then you’re just down the road.” Dewey’s voice warmed. “That big fancy inn there is about five miles away.”

She blew out a breath. “Great. I guess I can find you.”

“All right, sugar.” The good ol’ boy was back. “We’ll give ’er a try. Let’s say Wednesday night next week. You go on at eight. Do me a thirty-minute set and I’ll pass the bucket for you. We’ll see how it goes. Main act’s out of San Marcos. College boys. Just gettin’ started, but they’ve got a following already. Should be a good crowd.”

MG wiped her suddenly damp palm on her thigh. Her chest felt tight. “Okay, Dewey, I’ll be there around seven to get everything set up.”

“That should do it then. Can’t wait to see you, sugar.”

“Me too. See you Wednesday.” MG disconnected and allowed herself to settle back against the lumpy couch again, trying to will her pulse to slow down.

Singing. In front of an audience.

She hadn’t sung for anyone since she’d moved back to Texas. She hadn’t even thought about looking for a gig. In some part of her mind she’d pretty much given up on the whole idea of singing and writing songs. It seemed sort of stupid—the singing chicken farmer. Just like going to Nashville had seemed stupid to her mom.

Wasting your time and your money, MG. Why’d you get that college degree if you were just going to go starve in Tennessee?

And then she’d given it all up to come back here, to look after Grandpa and to watch him die. And now to try to keep his farm—their farm—afloat. She felt a quick pinch of sadness, the same one she felt whenever she thought of those last weeks.

She’d done what she could. She couldn’t keep him alive, but she could keep him from worrying about what would happen when he was gone.

Now she’d have to get used to doing this all over again, to getting up on a stage and singing.

Her stomach twisted itself into a knot. Her palms were suddenly damp.
You can do this. You
want
to do this.

She did. Maybe not as much as she’d once thought, but still. And maybe she needed to prove something—to Nashville and to herself.

MG sighed, running a hand across her forehead. What she mainly felt right now was tired. Her feet ached. Her back ached. By next Wednesday she might be used to this schedule, but right now the thought of getting up to gather eggs, putting in eight or nine hours at the Rose and then going over to Dewey’s club in Oltdorf to do a thirty-minute set made her head hurt. On the other hand, it was one more source of income to throw at the bottomless sinkhole that was Aunt Nedda’s pocket.

That’s the way to think of it. I’m only in it for the money, right?

She checked the clock on the wall next to the television set. Eight-thirty and she was ready for bed. Oh well, like they say, early to bed, early to rise, healthy, wealthy and wise. Emphasis on
wealthy
, please.

Chapter Six

Nedda considered the barren front yard of Lloyd Kurtz’s farm—packed black dirt flecked with white lumps of rock and the occasional tuft of gray-green rye grass. It looked like he was growing a fine crop of limestone.

Clearly, he’d let his goats graze all around the place, and clearly he’d discovered what Hill Country farmers had known for generations—grass didn’t flourish with a only a half-inch of topsoil for its roots.

She sighed. Kurtz was going to go bust eventually. The real question was what she’d do with his farm once she took it back. Still, it didn’t look like he was going broke this afternoon, and he could be useful for the time being.

She strode across the baked soil, carefully avoiding the occasional goat droppings that threatened the black leather soles of her Lucchese boots.

Kurtz stepped out onto his front porch before she reached the steps. He wore overalls and a battered T-shirt. His blue baseball cap was pulled down to his bristling black eyebrows, the design on the front faded to a pale pink. Nedda felt like grimacing—if you were going to look like a cliché, at least you should make it an interesting one. “Morning, Kurtz,” she grunted.

Kurtz’s jaw tightened. “Morning, Ms. Carmody. What can I do for you?”

She allowed herself a faint smile. He wasn’t trying to bluster. At least Kurtz knew where he stood. “How’s the goat business?”

He shrugged. “Same as usual. Got ’em grazing up the road today.”

Which meant he was probably paying somebody for pasture since he didn’t have any of his own to speak of. “Glad to hear it. You got that balloon payment coming up, you know.”

His jaw flexed again. “You’ll get it. Was that what you were worried about?”

She shook her head, resting the toe of one boot on his lower step. “Not exactly. I got a proposition for you.”

Kurtz stared at her boot toe with its elaborate embroidery. Maybe he was afraid to look at her directly. Nedda wouldn’t have blamed him. “What proposition’s that?” he muttered.

She turned slightly, squinting through the pecan trees toward the drive. “You can see a good ways from here, can’t you? All the way to the next field over, looks like.” She glanced back at Kurtz.

His expression had moved from wary to confused. “Guess I can at that.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Never thought much about it.”

“Next field over is Harmon Carmody’s place,” she said flatly. “Where my niece is now.” Technically, she was a great-niece, but Nedda didn’t feel that detail was necessary.

“Yes’m, that’s true. Met her a couple weeks ago.” Kurtz’s expression was back to wary again.

“Glad to know she’s talking to somebody.” She let a touch of bitterness slide into her voice. “Hasn’t said much to me herself.”

“Seems nice enough,” he mumbled.

“Well, then, maybe you’d be willing to help me a bit. Seeing as how the two of you get along so well.” Nedda narrowed her eyes. Her lips firmed into a flat line.

Kurtz shrugged. “Sure. I mean, I’ll do what I can, I guess.”

You bet you will.
“Just keep an eye on her place. See what goes on there—who comes and goes, where she is, what happens with those chickens, like that.” Nedda managed to push her lips back into the semblance of a smile. “Just so I know what’s happening. She’s my kin, after all.” The words tasted slightly sour, but she managed not to grimace.

Kurtz’s brow was furrowed. “So you want me to make sure nothing bad happens or something? I don’t know as how I’d be much use in a fight.”

Nedda’s hands folded into fists. She wasn’t sure whether Kurtz really was as stupid as he seemed or if he was just pretending. Whichever it was, she didn’t have time for it. “I want you to watch my niece. Keep a record of who comes and goes at her place. And keep track of those chickens of hers—any changes in the flock. You do that and I’ll knock twenty bucks off your monthly payment.”

Kurtz stared at her blankly. “Fifty,” he said finally.

“Fifty?” Nedda raised an eyebrow. Who would have guessed the little creep had that in him?

He nodded jerkily, licking his lips. “I’ll do it for fifty.”

For a moment she considered dickering with him. She could probably get him down to thirty-five if she pushed. But that would take time, and she was already bored. “Fifty. And I’ll expect a report from you at the end of the week. Each week she’s there.”
Until you go bust, of course. Or she does.

Kurtz nodded again, his jaw tightening. Nedda guessed he didn’t exactly like what he’d signed on to do. But she also guessed he’d go through with it. An extra fifty would make a difference to him.