Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2)

A COTTONMOUTH NOVEL, BOOK TWO

Copyright 2011 Jennifer Skully

Cover design by Rae Monet Inc

Smashwords
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Previously published
in 2005

Summary

Goldstone, Nevada: It’s not your typical
vacation getaway.

Sheriff Tyler Braxton hightails it out of
Cottonmouth to Goldstone for a little R&R, when his sister puts
out a distress call. Suddenly, instead of vacationing, Brax is
offering advice to the lovelorn! And to top it off, he has to start
his own investigation on his sister’s behalf: Is his brother-in-law
having an affair with the local erotic author?

Simone Chandler has found her haven in
Goldstone; she loves the forsaken town and its lovable but somewhat
beleaguered residents. With a thriving Internet business penning
made-to-order erotic fantasies, some of her friends in Goldstone
just happen to be her clients, too. The problem: The hunky sheriff
from out of town wonders if she’s not only writing stories for his
brother-in-law, but acting them out with him, too.

Then murder comes to Goldstone, and Brax is
suddenly hip-deep in small-town secrets, with sexy Simone Chandler
at the head his suspect list.

Is Simone the real thing, or, as with
everything else in Goldstone, is she Fool's Gold?

Author Note: This book contains explicit
sex

Dedication

To my Mom

For making the best trifle ever!

Acknowledgements

Thank you to everyone who made this book
possible. Rose Lerma, Jenn Mason, Terri Schaefer, Dee Knight,
Cheryl Clark, Ann Leslie Tuttle, Lucienne Diver. To my lunch girls,
Bella Andre, Jenny Andersen Shelley Bates, and Jackie Yau, and my
good friends Laurel Jacobson and Rosemary Gunn, you girls keep me
sane! Thanks for the great cover, Rae! If I forgot anyone, I thank
you, too!

Chapter One

“Maggie’s
your
sister.” Desperation
crept into Carl Felman’s voice. “You tell me what I’m supposed to
say to her.”

Tyler Braxton suppressed a shudder. What man
truly knew how to talk to a woman? “Maybe if I understood the
problem better, I could help.” He had grave doubts that would be
the case. Marital issues were not Brax’s area of expertise. If Carl
wanted advice on how to take down a fleeing suspect without firing
a shot, he could help. But advice to the lovelorn, especially to
his brother-in-law? A scary thought for any male.

Brax had arrived in Goldstone, Nevada, that
morning with a mission. To answer Maggie’s call for help. The tone
of her email had been dire enough to have him make arrangements for
a visit. Because a short vacation fit neatly into his schedule for
other reasons, he hadn’t bothered asking Maggie for any
specifics.

He hadn’t figured he’d be entering a war
zone.

Admittedly, it was a silent war, with both
sides refusing to meet at the bargaining table, or, for that
matter, even talk to their opponent. In other words, The Cold War
all over again. Despite staying at ground zero, Brax didn’t have a
clue how to negotiate a peace settlement.

“I’m afraid she doesn’t want me anymore.”
Carl’s chin drooped close to the foam on his beer, and his usual
goofy grin was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t excite her.”

“Please don’t let this degenerate into the
lowdown on your sex life.” His
sister’s
sex life. God
forbid.

“This isn’t about sex.” Carl sighed long and
hard. “It’s about our marriage.”

Country music strained through the worn-out
speakers, barely making it over the
ka-ching
of a slot
machine in the back of the bar. The once-padded chair he sat in had
long since lost its resilience beneath too many butts, and the
tabletop was gummy with age, elbow grease and sweaty palms. Brax
had thought going out for a friendly beer down at the Flood’s End
might ease the tension. He’d been wrong. Being county sheriff back
in Cottonmouth was a cakewalk compared to this, but he would do his
duty to his sister. Even if he’d rather be breaking up bar
fights.

“How long have you and Maggie been married?”
His question was rhetorical; Brax knew exactly how long. The Las
Vegas wedding in Dr. Love’s Chapel would forever live in his
memory. Maybe the pink flamingos flanking the altar had something
to do with that. Who in their right mind would want lawn ornaments
at their wedding ceremony?

Carl took his time before replying, “Ten
years.”

“Well, things can get a bit routine after ten
years.” A wild guess, since Brax had gotten divorced after only
five.

“That what happened to your marriage?” Carl
asked.

Damn. He’d opened himself wide for that
one.

Brax sat back and crossed his arms over his
chest.

Then he gave it his best shot, because that’s
what his sister needed. “It’s all about communication, Carl.”
Something he’d never been able to do worth a damn. At least not
where women were concerned.

“We communicate. She says do something, and I
do it.” Carl shook his head as if he were totally mystified. “What
more does she want?”

“Women don’t want you to just agree with
everything. They want you to...” What? Brax started over. “They
want you to help them find the solution that works for both of
you.”

“But she always ends up with the same
solution she started with, no matter what I suggest. It’s like
talking in circles. So why do we have to go over and over it for an
hour?”

Damn. Brax didn’t have an answer. He was out
of his depth here. “It’s the talking things through that makes them
feel better.” That sounded like a reasonable explanation to
him.

“She just wants me to say, ‘yeah, you’re
right, honey,’ after she proves how I’m wrong.”

Sometimes it did seem like that, but Brax was
sure women didn’t mean it that way. “When in doubt, just listen.
Women want to be heard.” Now that was his ex-wife almost verbatim.
He’d never
heard
, and he took full responsibility for his
lacking.

Carl leaned forward. “But if I’m supposed to
listen and not say anything, then how is that communication?
Doesn’t it take two?”

Christ, he was digging himself a bigger hole
with every word of advice. Best to stop while he was...well, he
couldn’t call it
ahead
. “You need to read that book.”

“What book?”

Uhh... “One of those ‘how to’ books.” How not
to flush your marriage down the toilet. “It’s got something about
the planets in the title.”

“Did you read it?”

Brax hadn’t known of the book until after the
divorce. “I’ve heard it’s great.” Though he didn’t know any men
who’d read it. “If I’m ever considering marriage again, I’ll sure
pick up that book.” Not that he planned on taking that particular
risk any time soon. “Read it, Carl. It’ll help.”

He wasn’t ducking his responsibilities here.
He was simply handing Carl over to a greater authority.

“I guess I’ll give it a try.”

“Atta boy.” Thank God. His duty was done. On
to less dangerous ground. “Not very crowded here tonight, is
it?”

Carl’s glance strayed over Brax’s shoulder,
and not for the first time that evening. No small wonder when one
considered the woman seated at the far end of the bar. Brax shifted
in his chair for a better look.

Surrounded by three books opened flat on the
bar top, she tapped a pencil against full lips, then hunched over
to write furiously in a spiral notebook. Her blond hair fell
forward, caressing her shoulders. Flipping a page, she underlined
something, scratched out a line in her notebook and began
scribbling again.

“It’s Sunday” was all the answer Carl
supplied.

And Sunday in Goldstone meant what? The
town’s dusty streets had never been paved, the rusted hulks of dead
cars outnumbered working vehicles two to one, and the only church
Brax had seen was made of corrugated steel like the Quonset huts
that cropped up in the fifties. He’d thought it abandoned due to
the weeds choking its garden, but maybe that was a false
assumption.

“You boys need a refresher?” the white-haired
bartender called. A good salesman always asks, even when he sees
half-full beers. Obviously, he considered theirs half-empty.

“We’re fine, Doodle,” Carl said, once more
sucking at the foam that hadn’t yet dissipated.

“What about you, Whitey?” Doodle tipped his
head toward the lone man seated at the bar.

Whitey’s garbled, scratchy answer was
incomprehensible, but the bartender grabbed his mug and held it
beneath the tap. Half foam, half beer, he slammed it down on the
scarred wooden bar without spilling a drop. Whitey tucked his long
white beard to his chest, sipped, licked his mustache, and sighed
as he closed his eyes to savor the brew. When he spoke once more,
his words were still indistinguishable, as though rocks filled his
mouth.

“Whitey, I swear, you have
the
most
amazing way with words,” the blonde said, her answer giving no clue
as to what the man had uttered. “I really think you should be a
writer.”

Whitey sat straighter, smoothed his beard,
and Brax could see his face in the mirror behind the bar fairly
glowing with her compliment. He mumbled something, maybe a
thank-you, and the woman beamed back at him with a heart-flipping
smile. Brax had the feeling she often paid the old man sweet,
unsolicited compliments he soaked up like a sponge.

Slapping her books closed, she piled them up
and hugged the stack to her chest. Climbing down from her stool to
land on spike-heeled shoes, she pivoted and headed straight for
their table.

Brax lost his voice. Hell, he might have lost
his mind. She moved with the graceful glide of a runway model. A
short jean skirt showcased her bare legs, and a white T-shirt
highlighted her tanned skin. Gorgeous hair spread over her
shoulders, bouncing with a riot of curls.

She stopped close enough for him to draw in
her light perfume. Subtle, yet intoxicating.

Sliding into the chair beside Carl, she
plopped the pile of reading material onto the table. “Did you get
my email?”

Red seeped into Carl’s face, spread across
his cheeks, and rose to his receding hairline.

Glancing first at Brax, she touched Carl’s
rigid arm. “Oops, sorry, didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of
your friend.”

Carl could do nothing more than nod his
forgiveness. Any man would forgive her everything when she smiled
like that.

She gave Carl’s forearm another soothing pat.
“Are you all right? You look a little flushed. Mr. Doodle,” she
called. “I think Carl needs a glass of water.”

A mason jar filled with ice and water
miraculously appeared at her elbow. She pushed it to Carl and
curled his fingers around the glass.

Though his delivery was made, the bartender
didn’t leave the side of the table. “Did ya figure out a witty
euphemism for tallywhacker, Simone?”

Simone, a very classy name. But a euphemism
for tallywhacker? Brax wouldn’t touch that one with a ten-foot
pole.

A slight blush colored her flawless
cheekbones. “Why no, Mr. Doodle, I didn’t,” she said, then politely
added, “But thank you for being concerned.”

“I call it the Doodle,” the bartender
continued. “I ask Mrs. Doodle if she wants to be diddled by the
Doodle.” He cackled. “Works every time.”

Simone smiled. “Well, that’s wonderful, Mr.
Doodle, but I think our conversation is further embarrassing Carl
and his friend. My mother would be horrified. She always says a
lady never talks about”—she nipped her lower lip—“um...about
tallywhackers in mixed company.” She glanced at Brax. “Especially
when we haven’t been formally introduced.”

Lush eyelashes framed her hazel eyes, and her
nose tilted endearingly, but it was her smile that damn near
knocked a man’s socks off. Sweet and genuine, it was the same one
she’d given Whitey as she praised him.

“I’ll introduce ya,” Doodle announced. “This
is the brother-in-law we’ve all heard about.” He tapped Brax’s
shoulder. “Sorry, son, I forgot your name.”