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  She’d failed the task, but she had accomplished one thing—she’d piqued his interest like no one else in this map-dot of a town.

  Sure, he’d managed to forget her for the most part once he’d left, but when he least expected it, she crept up on him. Into his thoughts, his dreams.

  She was the only one he’d actually had any desire to run into in the past two weeks since he’d been back at the Bootleg Bayou Ranch. He’d wanted to see her again. Talk to her. Touch her. He’d wanted it bad.

  All the more reason he’d kept his distance.

  Callie was the only woman who’d ever gotten under his skin, into his head, and shaken his precious control. She’d been the one thing he’d been forbidden way back when the world had handed him everything and so, naturally, she’d been the one thing he’d wanted most.

  Then, he reminded himself.

  Because he’d been a wet-behind-the-ears eighteen-year-old. Selfish. Entitled. Out of control.

  Just like his old man.

  No more.

  He’d spent the past several years battling his impulses and perfecting his self-control. He’d learned the hard way that it took work and effort to make it in this world. And self-discipline. Lots and lots of self-discipline. Never again would his damnable urges win out over his good judgment. He wasn’t his old man.

  Wanna bet?

  The doubt niggled at him, but he pushed it away. He hadn’t come back to Rebel after all this time to face his own demons.

  No, he’d come back to face his pappy’s.

  Brett tried to remember that all-important fact as he headed up the drive and pulled to a stop in front of the main house.

  The place had been built back in the 1950s and still stood as a shining example of his pappy’s excessive taste. The house was a sprawling one-story that stretched clear across two acres. A porch wrapped from the back all the way to the massive double doors that sat in the middle of the front steps. But while the size and architecture were more than impressive, the house itself had seen better days. The trim was peeling. Several of the window screens were frayed and cut. A massive storm had sent a tree crashing into the far corner of the house and a gutter hung down, touching the ground near an overgrown flower bed.

  It was nothing like the house he’d walked away from all of those years ago and he still marveled at how ten years could cause so much deterioration.

  With the house and his grandfather.

  Climbing out of the truck, he hit the decaying porch steps and headed inside. The place was big. Quiet. His pappy was probably taking his afternoon nap. He thought about looking in on the old man and stalled just shy of the door at the far end of the hallway. The door sat half open, the shadows inside still and overwhelmingly silent.

  There was no Willie Nelson drifting from the CD player. No fishing show blaring on the TV. No crinkle of the newspaper. None of the sounds he remembered so well from his childhood.

  Brett’s mind shuffled through memories of the past night, of the man’s agitation as he’d sat on his knees and dug through his closet looking for a pair of boots that had long since been tossed out.

  Thirty years ago, as a matter of fact.

  But to Pappy, the boots had been brand new and he’d been the fifty-year-old ready to get dressed up in them and take his wife out to dinner. A wife who’d been gone for the past twenty-nine years, lost to complications with pneumonia when she’d been only fifty-one.

  But in Pappy’s mind Brett’s mawmaw had been alive and well and, damn, but he’d needed to find those boots.

  That had gone on into the wee hours until Dolly, the cook/housekeeper who lived in the main house with Brett and his pappy, had managed to soothe the old man and get him back to bed.

  Sleep. That always calmed him down and made him feel more like his old self. And after last night, Pappy needed all he could get.

  Brett stalled a moment more before he turned on his heel and headed for the study. He found the ranch foreman waiting for him.

  Pepper Goodman was a sixty-two-year-old Vietnam vet who’d been working at Bootleg Bayou since his discharge back in ’72. Like most of the hands at the ranch, he’d been born and raised in Rebel. A descendant of the Sawyers, he was Brett’s cousin four times removed and one of the few people besides Brett who actually cared that the ranch was headed straight to Hell.

  Bootleg Bayou was Pepper’s home and so he’d been busting his ass to help out over the past few months. He worked from sunup to sundown and then some, but it still wasn’t enough.

  “We’re missing ten cows,” Brett told Pepper as he looked over the ledger page for the hundredth time. An ancient system according to today’s standard, but Pappy was old school and he’d resisted the automation craze. Even the laptop Brett had bought him for Christmas a few years back still sat in the original packaging in the back of the old man’s closet.

  “I don’t need some hifalutin’ machine to tell me how to do my business,” Pappy had said. “Why, I got all the computer I need right here,” he’d tapped his temple. “Up here in the old noggin’.”

  But things had changed and Pappy’s noggin’ wasn’t performing the way it once had. He was slower. Forgetful. Sick.

  Brett swallowed against the sudden tightening in his throat and focused his attention on Pepper.

  “According to this,” he told the foreman, “they were branded last year and turned out along with the other three hundred and fifty-five, but they weren’t rounded up for the sale this past week. That means they’re still out there.”

  “Let’s hope.” Pepper shrugged. “That hurricane that blew in at Port Aransas sent a mess of weather our way about six months ago. Blew the roof off the barn and the debris even took out some of the hogs. Those cows could have gotten separated from the herd and caught in the weather.”

  “Maybe.” And maybe they had a cattle thief among them.

  The thought struck, but Brett pushed it aside. The ranch was in a sad state because of Pappy’s poor business decisions.

  Because of the Alzheimer’s.

  A man who had once documented every egg that had come out of the henhouse could barely write his own name now. Hell, forget writing, the man could barely remember his own name.

  A complete one-eighty from the Pappy Sawyer he’d been just five years ago when he’d sat in the audience and watched Brett win his first gold buckle. He’d been lucid then. Coherent. Happy.

  But then the symptoms had started. The moments of forgetfulness. The whispers of confusion. Pappy had written them off as old age, but then he’d gone for his physical two years ago and the doctor had delivered the diagnosis.

  Not that Pappy had believed it.

  “I don’t care what that quack says. I feel fine. Ain’t nothing wrong with me that a bottle of castor oil can’t fix.”

  A teaspoon a day and he’d still taken a nosedive straight into Alzheimer’s Hell. Most of the time, he was stuck in the past, searching for his boots or digging outside in a tomato garden that he’d abandoned four decades ago.

  “Par for the course.” That’s what Doc Meyers had told Brett. “Just be patient and understanding and know that it’s probably going to get worse.”

  Brett knew that, but he also knew that his pappy still had good days. Days where he walked and talked and acted like himself. And while Brett couldn’t turn things around for his grandfather, he could turn things around for the old man’s pride and joy—the ranch itself. So that on those good days, when Pappy was lucid and aware, he would know that everything was fine.

  That his grandson had fixed everything instead of tearing it apart.

  Then Brett could go back to his life with peace of mind because he’d done the one thing his father had never been able to do—the right thing.

  That meant dealing with the endless pile of bills first and foremost. Even forking over every cent of his rodeo winnings—minus an overdue tuition bill for his sister, Karen—hadn’t been enough to push Bootleg out of the red.

 
They needed to sell all three hundred and sixty-five cattle they had on hand in order to buy some time to find a permanent fix.

  And once they were in the clear?

  He wasn’t sure. He only knew that he had to deal with the cattle first, then he could turn his attention to coming up with a solid plan for the future. One that included signing the pending contract with his new sponsor and getting his ass back on the circuit.

  “No one’s been out to the back forty in forever,” he told Pepper. “They could be out there.” Slim chance, but stranger things had happened.

  The Cowboys had actually made it to the playoffs last year, despite their hellacious offense.

  Ty Walker had been the first man to land a national title in the predominantly female-based sport of barrel racing.

  And Brett Sawyer had finally settled his ass down, despite all speculation to the contrary.

  Yep, much stranger things had happened.

  “I guess they could be holed up somewhere.” The foreman shrugged again. “But I still say we stop worrying about a few and focus on the shitload waiting to board the truck first. We’ve got a ton of work to do before the transport to the buyer in two days. They need to be weighed, tagged, logged in. With all of us working around the clock, we’ll still be pushing it. We can worry about the last few once we get the majority taken care of.”

  But a few meant several thousand dollars, and Brett needed every penny, otherwise he was going to have to go into his grandfather’s safe and sell off a couple of pieces of heirloom jewelry. His great-grandmother’s bracelet. Or maybe a ring.

  Maybe both.

  He shook away the notion. He wasn’t going into the safe if he could help it. Hell, he didn’t even have the combination. His pappy had long since forgotten it and the only existing copy resided with Miles Cole, the family lawyer. The man had been out of town on a fishing trip the week that Brett had come home. While he’d been in the office the past few days, Brett had been too busy combing the ranch for cattle to actually stop by.

  Not that it mattered. He wasn’t going into the safe.

  “Speaking of worry,” Pepper added, “I sent one of the boys into town on a feed run today and old man Mills refused to load him up. He said our bill is past due and he needs a payment if we want any more grain. We’re clean out,” he added, his expression grave. “We can’t do any more feedings without a delivery.”

  Brett glanced at his watch. It was just after four. “I can still get there before they close. I’ll head in and see what I can do about getting a load. In the meantime, you gather up the boys and finish the roundup.” Brett pushed to his feet. “When I get back, I’ll head out and take a look around for the missing ten.”

  He was going to find those cows and get the ranch back on track. And he wasn’t going to think about Callie Tucker and the way she’d smelled like fresh strawberry pie smothered in rich vanilla ice cream.

  Or the disturbing fact that he was suddenly very, very hungry for both.

  CHAPTER 6

  The worst was almost over.

  Callie held tight to the hope as she said yet another thank you to the last few lingering volunteers at the church and headed out to her truck, her arms overflowing with the monstrous plant that Brett Sawyer had delivered earlier that day.

  Not that it was anything special.

  No, it was just big. The few lingering volunteers—Betsy, Etsy, and Willamina Hammond—aka the Hammond triplets—weighed about two hundred pounds collectively and could barely wrestle a tea rose into the front seat, much less something larger. That had left Callie to deal with the monstrous ficus.

  She adjusted her grip on the decorative planter and reached for the door handle. It was late afternoon and her gramps was now safely in the ground in the small cemetery that sat just outside of town. Tuckerville was a four-acre spread that dated back to the early 1800s where, as the name implied, nothing but Tuckers and a few marriage-related kin were laid to rest. While it wasn’t half as fancy as Sawyer Hill, a picturesque landscape of rolling green grass dotted with carefully trimmed shrubs and lush flowers and fancy headstones, the grass was mowed every other week and the weeds pulled at least once a month. Most of all, Tuckerville was a free resting place to any member of the family bloodline.

  And free was all that Callie could afford at the moment.

  She jiggled the handle until it clicked and the door creaked open. All the leftovers had been Saran-wrapped and packed into the car with her sisters, while the houseplants had been loaded into the back of Callie’s truck. The flowers—what few fresh bouquets there were—had been transferred to the grave to mark the spot until they withered and dried over the next few weeks in the blistering Texas heat. Pastor Harris had nailed his hole-in-one, or so the tweets floating around the church during cleanup had claimed, and Callie had made it the past few hours without eating an entire box of cupcakes.

  Four. That was it.

  Now all she had to do was pick up the stuff for the open house tomorrow and drop everything off at the Bachman place on her way home. The idea of getting her mind off of the day’s events and onto work for a little while eased the anxiety knotting her muscles and she drew a deep breath.

  Yep, the worst was over, all right.

  “Callie Tucker?” The name rang out as she fed the plant onto the front seat and pushed it toward the passenger side before turning in time to see the man who climbed out of a beat-up green Ford Explorer.

  He looked to be in his midtwenties, with dark brown hair that was spiked into the latest style and a clean-shaven face. He wore a white dress shirt, his collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of navy dress slacks. Polished dress shoes completed the urban professional look and told her he wasn’t from anyplace nearby.

  “Can I help you?”

  “The name’s Mark Edwards.” The man thrust out his hand as he caught up to her, his dark brown eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled. “Foggy Bottom Distillers. We’re located just outside of Austin, about an hour from here.”

  “You’re the one who sent me the text,” she said as she remembered the Austin area code that had popped up on her phone.

  He nodded. “Your grandpa gave me your number as backup in case I needed to reach him. We’re business associates.”

  The admission sent off a burst of warning signals. “Listen, if you’re here to score a few jars of his moonshine, I’m afraid it was all destroyed in the fire. Not that I’d sell it to you anyway because selling moonshine is illegal.”

  “I’m not trying to buy any moonshine.” He held up both hands as if to say, ‘Don’t shoot.’ “We make our own, or we’re trying to. Right now we only manufacture one product. Foggy Bottom Brew is our trademark whiskey.” Hope glimmered in his eyes. “Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t say that I have.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. But hey, it was worth a shot, right?” Frustration edged his expression. “My partner and I used to brew the stuff in college. When we graduated, we applied for our license and three years later, here we are. We’re still fairly new to the game and the product didn’t take off quite as well as expected. Not that we’re giving up.” Determination pushed his spine a little straighter. “It’s only been six months since our launch and we’ve got a full marketing campaign we’re going forward with. That should give us some good customer exposure. We’re also trying to expand our product line.” He plucked a card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “I was hoping your grandfather might have mentioned us to you.”

  She shook her head. James had been a Wild Turkey man when it came to anything store-bought. That, or peach schnapps. “How exactly did you know my grandfather? Was he a customer?”

  “No, no. I mean, I did give him a few samples of our stuff, but only as a courtesy. He was working for us.”

  “You must have the wrong person. My grandfather didn’t have a job.”

  “I
t wasn’t anything official. He was working on a recipe for us. See, we’re interested in buying your family’s Texas Thunder recipe.”

  “My family doesn’t have a Texas Thunder recipe.”

  “No, but you’ve got half. It’s the other half that James was working on. We know all about the big falling out with the Sawyers. Hell, it was in our Texas history book back in college. Big fight. Recipe split in half. Both men too stubborn to keep up with a good thing, so Texas Thunder just disappeared off the face of the earth. Until your granddaddy. He was trying to find the missing ingredients. He was close, too, according to the last message he left me a few days ago. He managed to nail down three more of the ingredients and the right combination of everything. He was pretty certain he was just two ingredients shy of hitting the jackpot.”

  Callie remembered all those nights James had spent out in the woods over the past few months. She’d assumed he’d been cooking his usual home brew and selling the jars on the side for drinking money. That, and downing a good bit of the product himself.

  Instead, he’d been working on something bigger.

  Something that could have benefited them all.

  The thought struck and she pushed it right back out. James might have been motivated by a higher goal, but it had nothing to do with helping his family. He’d been completely self-serving his entire life.

  “He was supposed to call me yesterday with an update,” Mark went on. “When I didn’t hear from him, I decided to drive out. I heard the news over at the diner on my way into town. I have to say, I was pretty stunned.” He shook his head. “I just talked to him last week.” He stared at the toe of his shoe and kicked at a few pieces of gravel. “I’m really sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks.” Awkward silence fell over them for several moments before Callie glanced inside the truck. “I’ve got a lot of leftovers to get home. I appreciate you driving out. If you paid him anything up front, I’m afraid I’m not in a position to pay you back—”

  “No, no. He didn’t owe us. We were only going to pay him for a finished recipe. He put all his own money into the research.”