Flirting with Texas (Deep in the Heart of Texas) (34 page)

Just that quickly, her depression and heartbreak lifted to be replaced with all-consuming…

Anger.

“Why, you lowdown, good-for-nothing snake!” She socked him so hard in the shoulder that she knocked him down to his butt. “Do you realize what kind of hell I’ve gone through in the last week?” She jerked the bouquet from Dallas and would’ve beat Beau about the head with it if Beau hadn’t grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on top of him. Something of a wrestling match ensued as the townsfolk circled round and called out encouragement.

Mostly to Beau.

“Don’t let her get the scissor hold,” Dallas instructed. “She’ll kill you with the scissor.”

“Keep a good grip on her, son,” Mayor Sutter said. “Women like our little Jenna Jay need a firm hand.”

“Watch her knee,” her mama piped up. “I want me some more grandbabies.”

“I wouldn’t be worried about grandbabies,” Rachel Dean chimed in, “as much as I would be worried about the weddin’ night.”

Just the thought of not getting her wedding night with Beau had all the fight fizzle right out of Jenna, and Beau easily rolled her over and pinned her hands above her head. They were both breathing hard, their chests pumping in and out as she lifted her gaze to him. In his eyes, she saw an ocean full of love and a sky full of humor. A giggle escaped her mouth, and just that quickly, they both started laughing. Not little chuckles, but the deep, hearty kind of laughter that came from knowing that they had years and years of fighting to look forward to.

Years and years of fighting and laughter and love.

“Yes,” Jenna said when she finally caught her breath. “I’ll marry you, Beauregard Cates. Love of my life. Man of my dreams.”

As Beau kissed Jenna silly, Twyla’s voice rang out.

“I was an inch away! Just a doggone inch!”

“W
OULD YOU LIKE ME TO
scrub your back, Mr. Cates?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Cates.” Beau took the loofa from Jenna’s hand and tossed it over his shoulder. It bounced off the edge of Miss Hattie’s bear claw tub and landed on the floor right between a white high heel and a crumpled, satin gown.

Readjusting her legs, Jenna leaned down to take a nip of his shoulder before kissing her way up to his ear. “I probably should hang up my weddin’ dress. Your sister would have a heart attack if she saw the Verna Wong she helped me pick out lying on the floor in a heap.”

“I think it’s Vera Wang, sweetheart.” Beau slipped his hands along the back of her thighs, causing a wave of desire to skitter through her body. “And it doesn’t matter what Bri thinks. Especially when she didn’t even show up to see you in the gown.”

“Now, you can’t blame her for getting sick,” Jenna said as she caressed his earlobe with her tongue. “She sounded horrible when she called.”

He kissed the spot in between her neck and shoulder,
sipping off the droplets of water. “I just find it suspicious that she’s missed all three of her brothers’ weddings.”

She pulled back and looked into the endearingly handsome face of her husband. “It was the most wonderful wedding day ever, wasn’t it?”

He smiled the familiar smile that melted her heart. “The best. And Sutter Springs was the perfect compromise between the hens wanting it at the henhouse and the townsfolk wanting it at the town hall.”

“Everyone did seem to enjoy themselves. Mama and Olive rekindled their friendship, and I was glad to see that the town believed Marcy and they no longer think Miss Hattie’s is a house of ill repute—well, all except for Wilma Tate. She’s still convinced that something shady is going on out here.”

“Really?” Beau’s eyes sparkled with mischief as one hand slipped over the top of her thigh. “Define ‘shady.’ ” His thumb strummed over a spot that made Jenna’s breath hitch. “Would it be this?” Two fingers slipped into her wet heat. “Or maybe this?”

Much later, after Beau had thoroughly proven Wilma Tate right, Jenna cuddled against her husband in Miss Hattie’s bed.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go on a honeymoon?” Beau asked.

“Positive.” Jenna caressed his chest, her finger outlining his tattoo. “There’s only one place for this Texas girl. And that’s right here with my Texas boy—” Her stomach growled loudly.

Beau pulled back and shot her an incredulous look. “Please don’t tell me you’re hungry. Not only did you eat
your entire plate of food at the reception, you ate half of mine. If anyone should be hungry, it’s me.”

With all the wedding craziness, Jenna had been waiting for just the right moment to share her secret. Now seemed like the perfect time.

Leaning up, she gave him a quick kiss. “But you’re not eating for two.”

Jenna expected excitement. What she got was a stunned look and scary silence.

She swallowed hard. “I know it’s a little surprising. I was surprised myself when I stopped by Mama’s to pick up the bouquets that Darla had made and Mama took one look at me and knew. Still, I didn’t believe her motherly ESP until I took the pregnancy test.” When he continued to stare at her, she socked him in the arm. “Would you please say something, Beau?”

Reverently, he lifted a hand and covered her stomach. “A baby.”

Then with a smile that rivaled any he’d ever given her, he tipped back his head and released a whoop that could be heard all the way to Bramble.

Downstairs, Minnie woke from a sound sleep. She didn’t know what had awakened her, but she knew what kept her from going back to sleep—the memory of something she had forgotten in the excitement of Jenna and Beau’s wedding. Not to mention her surgery and weeks of chemotherapy. Figuring that she couldn’t go to sleep until she’d taken care of the matter, she scooted into her wheelchair and rolled toward the library.

To take her mind off the side effects of her treatment, Starlet had insisted she learn how to use a laptop. And
over the last few months, Minnie had gotten pretty efficient at e-mailing the women in her cancer support group and ordering wigs off Amazon. It shouldn’t take her long to make the large contribution to the American Cancer Society.

She probably should feel a little guilty. After all, the money wasn’t exactly hers. But if she had given it over to the Feds, there was no telling what kind of government shenanigans they would’ve spent it on. This way, it went for a good cause.

Needing to know exactly how much to donate, Minnie rolled over to the bookcase and pulled out a book by Frances Hodgson Burnett,
The Secret Garden
. There was a click as the panel beneath the bookcase opened to reveal a safe. The safe had been Miss Hattie’s and had always been used for important papers, jewelry, and cash. Since Minnie had opened the safe so many times in her life, it didn’t take her long to dial the combination.

Having lived almost ninety years, there were very few things in life that surprised Minnie. When she pulled open the door of the safe and looked inside, she added another to the list.

The black backpack was gone.

S
LATE
C
ALHOUN SAT BACK IN THE DARK CORNER
and watched the woman in the conservative pants and brown sweater take another sip of her beer as if it was teatime at Buckingham Palace. Hell, she even held her little pinkie out. If that was Hope Scroggs, then he was Prince Charles. And he was no pansy prince.

Still, the resemblance was uncanny.

The impostor swallowed and wrinkled up her cute little nose. A nose that was the exact duplicate of Hope’s. And so were the brows that slanted over those big blue eyes and the high cheekbones and that damned full-lipped mouth. A mouth that had fried his brain like a slice of his aunt’s green tomatoes splattering in hot bacon grease.

The kiss was the kicker. Slate never forgot a kiss. Never. And the few kisses he’d shared with Hope hadn’t come close to the kiss he’d shared with this woman. Hope’s kisses had always left him with a strange uncomfortable feeling; like he’d just kissed his sister. It had never left him feeling like he wanted to strip her naked and devour her petite body like a contestant in a pie-eating contest.

But if the woman wasn’t Hope, then who the hell was she?

He’d heard of people having doubles—people who weren’t related to you but looked a lot like you. He’d even seen a man once who could pass for George W. in just the right lighting. But this woman was way past a double. She was more like an identical twin. And since he’d known Hope’s family ever since he was thirteen, he had to rule out the entire twin thing. Hope had two younger sisters and a younger brother. And not one of them was a lookalike whose kisses set your hair on fire.

The woman laughed at something Kenny said, and her head tipped back, her entire face lighting up. He’d seen that laugh before, witnessed it all through high school and off and on for years after. Hell, maybe she
was
Hope. Maybe his lips had played a trick on him. Maybe he was so upset about losing last night’s game that he wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe, it being a year since her last visit, he was so happy to see her that he read something in the kiss that wasn’t there.

It was possible. He’d been under a lot of stress lately. Football season could do crazy things to a man’s mind. Especially football season in West Texas. Which was why he had planned a two-week Mexican vacation after the season was over. Just the thought of soft rolling waves, warm sand, and cool ocean breezes made the tension leave his neck and shoulders.

What it didn’t do was change his mind about the woman who sat on top of the bar with her legs crossed—showing off those sexy red high heels. Hope didn’t cross her legs like that. And she hated high heels. She also hated going to the beauty salon, which was why her long
brown hair was down to her butt. This woman’s hair was styled in a short layered cut that made her eyes look twice as big and was highlighted the color of Jack Daniels in a fancy crystal glass.

Of course, Hope had lived in Hollywood for five long years. Maxine Truly had gone to Houston for only two years and had come back with multiple piercings and a tattoo of a butterfly on her ass. So big cities could screw you over. He just didn’t believe they could change someone from an outspoken extrovert to an introvert who hadn’t spoken a word, or even tried to, in the last hour.

Laryngitis, my ass.

That couldn’t be Hope.

But there was only one way to find out.

Pushing up from his chair, he strolled around the tables to the spot where her adoring fan club had gathered. It didn’t take much to part the sea of people. Hope might be the hometown sweetheart, but he was the hometown football hero turned high school coach. In Bramble, that was as close as a person could get to being God.

As usual, Kenny Gene was talking to beat the band. Sitting on the bar stool next to her, he was monopolizing the conversation with one of his exaggerated stories.

“… I’m not kiddin’, the man blew a hole the size of a six-year-old razorback hog in the side of Deeder’s doublewide, then took his time hoppin’ back in his truck as if he had all day to do—hey, Slate.”

Slate stopped just shy of those pointy-toed shoes and trim little ankles. Slowly, he let his gaze slide up the pressed pants, up the brown sweater that hugged the tiny waist and small breasts, over the stubborn chin and the full mouth that still held a tiny trace of pink glittery gloss,
to those sky blue eyes that widened just enough to make him realize he hadn’t made a mistake.

The woman before him wasn’t Hope.

But he was willing to play along until he found out who she was.

“Kenny, what the heck are you doing letting Hope drink beer?” He pried the bottle from her death grip as he yelled at the bartender. “Manny, bring me a bottle of Hope’s favorite and a couple of glasses.” He smiled and winked at her. “If we’re going to celebrate your homecomin’, darlin’, then we need to do it right.”

“I wanted to order Cuervo, Slate,” Kenny defended himself. “But she didn’t want it.”

“Not want your favorite tequila, Hog?” He leaned closer. “Now why would that be, I wonder?”

Before she could do more than blink, Manny slapped down the bottle of Jose Cuervo and two shot glasses, followed quickly by a salt shaker and a plastic cup of lime wedges. He started to pour the tequila but Slate shook his head.

“Thanks, Manny, but I’ll get it.” Slate took off his hat and tossed it down. Stepping closer, he sandwiched those prim-and-proper crossed legs between his stomach and the bar as he picked up the bottle and splashed some tequila in each glass—a very little in his and much more in the impostor’s. He handed her the salt shaker. “Now you remember how this works, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“ ’Course she knows how it works, Slate,” Twyla piped in. “She’s been in Hollywood, not on the moon.”

Slate didn’t turn to acknowledge the statement. He remained pressed against her calf, the toe of her shoe teasing the inseam of his jeans and mere inches from his
man jewels. His body acknowledged her close proximity but he ignored the tightening in his crotch and continued to watch those fearful baby blues as they looked at the salt shaker, then back at him.

“Here.” He took the shaker from her. “Let me refresh your memory, Hog.”

Reaching out, he captured her hand. It was soft and fragile and trembled like a tiny white rabbit caught in a snare. He flipped it over and ran his thumb across the silky satin of her wrist, testing the strum of her pulse. As he bent his head, the scent of peaches wafted up from her skin, filling his lungs with light-headed sweetness and his mind with images of juicy ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.

Easy, boy. Keep your eye on the goal line.

With his gaze pinned to hers, he kissed her wrist, his tongue sweeping along the pulse point until her skin was wet and her pupils dilated. Then he pulled back and salted the damp spot he’d left.

“Now watch, darlin’.” He sipped the salt off, downed the shot, then grabbed a lime and sucked out the juice—all without releasing her hand. “Now you try. Lick, slam, suck. It’s easy.”