Red-Hot Texas Nights (22 page)

Especially freewheeling, here-today-gone-tomorrow cowboys. She knew the type. Her mother had hooked up with one after the other, a parade of men through their small house that had always ended with a box of Cracker Jack for her and a bunch of heartache for her mother.

She'd vowed to spare herself the same angst and, so far, she'd done just that. No cowboys. No getting attached. No getting hurt.

Yet here she was with this cowboy, getting attached.

Physically, she reminded herself. It didn't have to go beyond to the hurt part if she didn't let it.

“We can stop.” He looked as if it was the last thing he wanted to do, but he said it anyway and she believed him. But then stopping would mean that she was scared she couldn't follow through and keep things in perspective.

Nope. She wasn't stopping.

“Let's do this,” she told him, tugging at the back clasp of her bra. The cups fell open and she reached for her pants. “Let's do this right now.”

He grinned and tipped the cowboy hat still sitting atop his head. “Whatever the lady wants.”

“I'm no lady,” she told him, stripping off her pants.

His grin widened. “I know, sugar. That's what I like most about you.”

 

CHAPTER 28

Tyler left a dozen voice mails for Cooper before climbing into his truck and heading for the Happy Times Trailer Park.

“Is he home?”

“Who?” His mom glanced up from the reality show she was watching, the remote in one hand, a
GIVE ME JAVA OR GIVE ME DEATH
coffee mug in the other. The familiar stench of liquor and the leftover perm supplies sitting on the kitchen table filled the air and burned his nostrils.

“Cooper. He called me.”

She didn't look half as interested as she should have. Then again, Tyler had bought her her weekly stash of cigarettes and booze, so she didn't have a reason to concern herself with Coop's disappearance. Until she ran out and needed more. That, and it was hair day. Nothing brought Ellen down when she had a fresh perm on her hair and booze in her cup. “So what did the little fucker say?”

“Nothing. I didn't get the call. It went to voice mail.” He glanced at the coffee table littered with magazines, a few bottles of nail polish, and the familiar bottle of Jack. “I thought maybe he'd come home.”

But then why would he?

The question echoed in his head as he stared at the run-down interior and the worn woman stretched out on the sofa. Cooper had nothing decent to come home to and now that he was eighteen, he'd made up his mind to get the hell out.

But not this way.

Tyler wanted more for his brother.

And maybe Cooper just wanted out.

The possibility followed Tyler back down the now sturdy steps of the porch and out to his truck. He was longing to head back to the rodeo arena, but he wasn't ready to give up on his brother yet.

That's what he would be doing if he went back to Brandy right now. He would be giving up on Cooper, on the chance that the boy had finally smartened up and come home, that he'd finally made the right choice.

Cooper's choice, Tyler knew.

But still.

Tyler wanted to at least talk to the kid, try to guide him down the right path.

Otherwise, while Cooper might be out of the Happy Times Trailer Park, he would never be out of Rebel for good, on his way to something better.

No, he'd be stuck, scrounging to make the next paycheck, to ace the next score.

Just the way their mother was stuck, living day-to-day, waiting for a dream that would never happen, a man that hadn't loved her or his kids enough to stick around.

Tyler couldn't let his brother do that.

He spent the next few hours combing the nearby bars, driving by Kenny Roy's, and looking for some sign of Cooper. He didn't find anything except a headache by the time he arrived back at the rodeo arena.

A headache and a mess of disappointment because Brandy Tucker was gone.

Hell's bell, son. Did you really think she'd stick around?

He hadn't, but there'd been that small hope deep in his gut. That Brandy wouldn't give up on him any more than he meant to give up on Cooper.

But she'd bailed.

And she always would.

He knew that. He'd always known that.

It just had never bothered him as much as it did at that moment. Enough to send him downstairs to the dark rodeo arena, straight to Junkyard Dog.

*   *   *

He'd left her.

The truth followed Brandy on the long cab ride home that night, and back to the bakery the next morning, where she mixed up enough muffins for the usual morning rush.

Wishful thinking because she opened her door to find exactly one customer waiting for her.

“I thought you'd never open up,” Sheriff DeMassi told her. “We need to talk.”

She smiled and tried to hide the sudden unease that stirred in the pit of her stomach. “Can I interest you in a muffin, Sheriff? I've got more than enough.”

He shook his head and disappointment ricocheted through her. So much for at least one customer.

“Actually, I was hoping you could take a ride down to the station with me.” His mouth drew into a taut line. “We've got a situation.”

The disappointment took a nosedive straight into a pool of
uh, oh
. “Is it about my grandpa?”

“Come on. I'll tell you on the way.”

Brandy swallowed her misgivings, handed over the reins to a very bleary-eyed Ellie, who looked as if she'd had exactly five seconds of sleep.

“Are you sure you can handle things?” Brandy asked the young woman.

“This I can handle. In case you haven't noticed”—Ellie eyed the empty bakery and shrugged—“we're not exactly catering to a full house.”

Tell me about it.
“True, but things can turn on a dime,” she reminded the young woman, drawing on the last of her optimism. “Half the town could waltz through here in the next hour.”

There. The well was now dry. Her career was tanking. Her bakery was shriveling up. And Tyler McCall had left her high and dry the night before.

Get used to it
, her conscience reminded her.

Because that's what would eventually happen once he found Cooper. He would roll out of Rebel the way he always did.

Only this time, he wasn't coming back.

She wasn't sure why the thought struck. He'd never said a word to indicate any such thing. But there was just something about the way he touched her whenever they were together. As if memorizing every detail.

Because this is it? Our last ride, so to speak?

The thought depressed her even more than the lack of customers and fed the anxiety that blossomed in the pit of her stomach as she climbed into the passenger seat of the beige SUV.

The ride took less than five minutes and contrary to what Hunter had said, he didn't fill Brandy in on the details for her sudden trip. Instead, he spent the ride on the radio with dispatch trying to organize the monthly spaghetti dinner at the station.

“Fine,” Hunter finally said. “I'll bring the garlic bread.”

“And the salad,” the woman told him. “Don't forget that.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Gladys.” He slid the mic into its holder just as he pulled into the station. “Sorry about that,” he told Brandy as he climbed out of the vehicle and ushered her inside.

“The reason I brought you in today,” Hunter finally said when they were seated at a conference table in a small room lined with large cabinets, “is that we made an arrest last night and you were implicated.”

“What?”

Hunter turned and pulled the familiar mash bucket from a nearby cabinet, an evidence tag hanging from the handle. “Do you recognize this?”

“I…” She caught her lip, gathered her courage, and then told Hunter the entire story of how she'd come up with a new mash recipe while trying to re-create the legendary Texas Thunder, how she'd had some anonymous person run it, and how she'd been trying to run a second batch in order to get her hands on a sample for her meeting with the distillers later that day. And all because the bakery was tanking and her dream right along with it. “Who knew doughnuts would be my downfall?” she ended, her voice catching just shy of a sob.

“Moonshining is a federal offense, you know that, right?” He wiped a hand over his face. “Although you didn't technically run any moonshine, now did you? You just made mash. Still, with the intent of turning it into moonshine.”

“With the intent of letting someone else turn it into moonshine.” She wiped at her suddenly watery eyes. “I'm sorry, Hunter. I was just trying to do something that could help my bakery business. I wasn't trying to cause any trouble or hurt anyone.”

“I know that. You're a good person, Brandy. You've always been a good person. I think you were a little off track with your thinking. You should have forfeited a sample and just tried to sell the recipe, but you didn't. So how did you hook up with Mitchell and Betty?”

“Come again?”

“Miss Betty. We found her and her grandson cooking in their garage. The neighbor smelled the fumes. Made the bust myself. When I arrived, she told me she was exercising her God-given rights, albeit using a mash she'd stolen from you.”

Brandy's memory stirred and she remembered Betty's words. She also remembered the woman's trip to the bathroom a few days ago and suddenly the pieces started to fall into place. “She must have found it in my utility closet. I had it fermenting in there one minute and the next, it was gone.” Because Betty had found it and told her grandson and then, together, they'd stolen it.

“Since my main concern was over them setting something on fire since they have zero experience in the actual distilling process, I'm letting them off on minor charges. Particularly since Miss Betty's eighty-seven and has a bad heart. I doubt she could handle a run at Huntsville and my own grandma would tan my hide if I even suggested it. But the grandson is actually going to do a little jail time since he's already got a record.”

“And what about me?”

“I'm going to let you off with a promise to leave the mash and the moonshine to the professionals.”

“That's what I want to do, but there's no chance of that now.”

The sheriff seemed to think before he turned and went back to the large closet. He emerged with a small jar filled with two fingers' worth of liquor. “It's not much. Mitchell started dumping as soon as we walked in, but we did manage to confiscate one jar.”

She stared at the jar he handed her. “I don't understand.”

“It's really good stuff, Brandy. It seems a shame for you to miss your shot. I don't need the whole thing anyway. Mitchell and Betty confessed to everything. If I leave it here, it'll just sit in that evidence closet and collect dust. Until I come in one day and find it missing, that is. The deputies like to play cards on slow nights and sometimes they go rummaging for a little something extra to give the night a much-needed kick. Since I know you're not going to turn around and sell it, I'm going to let you have it. Good luck at your meeting today.”

“You're kidding, right?” The enormity of what was happening hit her and a rush of joy went through her.

One that followed her through the next few hours as she headed back to the bakery to check on things, print out a final copy of her refined recipe, and get ready for her meeting with Mark Edwards.

*   *   *

“It's really good,” Mark said after his third sip. He set the jar on his desk and stared at the recipe in front of him. “I've never seen strawberries added at this point in the process. Most go in after the brew, but you're mixing it directly into the mash.”

“Some people cook them and heap them in. I've seen that, but I sugar them first and cook them down so that they all but disintegrate during the fermenting process. They dissolve, but the flavor doesn't. It packs a fruity punch to the finished product. That, and the spices. It's all about the right balance in the mix.”

“I can see that.” He took another sip before turning to the iPad on his desk and punching in some notes. “You know that your sister hasn't decided whether or not to sell us the recipe? But even if she did, I can't imagine it could be better than this.”

“What are you saying?”

“That I think we can work out a deal. We'll do an advance, of course, and then a royalty per jar.”

“An advance? Really?”

“Not a big one. I mean, we'll have to test it in a few markets and see how it does. It might tank.” Another sip and a smile tugged at his mouth. “But I highly doubt that.” He did a few more calculations on his iPad before turning it toward her and sliding it across the desk. “This is the best we could do at this point.”

Brandy stared at the amount and her heart jumped. While it was modest, it was still enough to buy her a new oven and tide her over for the next few months while she pushed her specialty cakes among the Hill Country wedding set and made a name for herself as a top wedding-cake baker.

“You've got yourself a deal,” she murmured, sliding a hand toward Mark.

They spent the next few minutes signing the preliminary paperwork and talking about marketing ideas until his phone buzzed and he had to leave to catch his flight.

“I'll have our accountant draw up a check. It should be ready in a week or so once legal goes over everything and then it's a done deal.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Thank you. We've been trying for a good moonshine recipe ever since we got our distillers permit. This is going to take us into new markets and make us both a lot of money.”

But Brandy wasn't half as concerned with the future of her recipe. She had what she needed to save her business and all was right with the world.