Читать книгу Texas Outlaws: Jesse - Kimberly Raye, Kimberly Raye - Страница 9

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IT TOOK EVERY ounce of willpower Gracie had to bypass the one and only bakery in Lost Gun and head for the town square.

Sure, she eased up on the gas pedal and powered down her window to take in the delicious scent of fresh-baked goodies as she rolled past Sarah’s Sweets, but still. She didn’t slam on the brakes and make a beeline for the overflowing counter inside. No red velvet cupcakes or buttercream-frosted sugar cookies for this girl. And no—repeat no—Double-Fudge Fantasy Brownies rich in trans fat and high in cholesterol.

Which explained why her hands still trembled and her stomach fluttered when she walked into City Hall.

“How’s my favorite mayor-elect?” asked the thirtysomething bleached blonde sitting behind the desk in the outer office with a chocolate Danish in front of her.

Longing clawed down deep inside of Gracie, but she tamped it back down. “Fine.”

“Methinks you are one terrible liar.” Trina Lovett popped a bite of pastry into her mouth and washed it down with a sip of black coffee.

Trina had been working for Gracie’s uncle—the current mayor—since she’d graduated high school sixteen years ago—four years before Gracie. Trina had been part of a rise-above-your-environment program that helped young people from impoverished homes—a trailer on the south end of town in Trina’s case—find jobs.

He’d hit the jackpot with Trina, who was not only a hard worker but knew everything about everybody. She’d been instrumental in the past few elections—particularly in a too-close-for-comfort runoff with the local sheriff a few years back. E.J. had won, of course, due to his compassionate nature and Trina’s connections down at the local honky-tonk. The young woman had bought five rounds of beers the day of the election and earned the forty-two votes needed to win.

Trina had also been instrumental in the most recent campaign, which had seen Gracie take the mayoral race by a landslide.

In exactly two weeks to the day, Gracie Elizabeth Stone would take the sacred oath and step up as the town’s first female mayor.

Two weeks, three hours and forty-eight minutes.

Not that she was counting.

“You saw Jesse, didn’t you?” When Gracie nodded, Trina’s bright red lips parted in a smile. “Tell me everything. I caught him on the ESPN channel a few weeks back, but all I could see was a distant view of him straddling a bull for dear life.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “What I wouldn’t have given to be that bull.”

“You work for a public official. You know that, right?”

“Don’t get your granny panties in a wad. It’s not like I’m tweeting it or posting to my Facebook status. This is a private conversation.” She beamed. “So? What’s he really like up close? Does he still have those broad shoulders? That great ass?”

Yes and yes.

She stiffened and focused on leafing through the stack of mail on Trina’s desk. “I’d, um, say he’s aged well.”

“Seriously? I suppose you look ready to scarf an entire box of cupcakes because of some cowboy who’s aged well?”

“I suppose he’s still hot, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I am.” Trina beamed. “I most definitely am.”

Gracie frowned. “Not that it makes a difference. I went there strictly in an official capacity. I went. I spoke. He heard. End of story.”

Trina regarded her for a long, assessing moment. “He told you to get lost, didn’t he?”

“No.” The brave face she’d put on faltered. “Yes. I mean, he didn’t say it outright—there were no distinct verbs or colorful nouns—but he might as well have.”

“Ouch.” Her gaze swept Gracie from head to toe and she pursed her bright red lips. “But I can’t say as I blame him. You look like you’re going to Old Man Winthrow’s wake.”

“I do black for funerals. This is navy.”

“Same thing.” She gave Gracie another visual sweep with her assessing blue eyes. “Listen here, girlfriend, men don’t take time out of their day to notice navy. It takes a hot color to keep a man from tossing you out on your keister. Red. Neon pink. Even a print—like cheetah or zebra. Something that says you’ve got a sex drive and you know how to use it. And the skimpier, the better, too. Show a little leg. Some cleavage. Men like cleavage. It gets their full attention every time.”

“For the last time—this wasn’t a social visit.” Gracie eyed Trina’s black leather miniskirt. “I’m a public figure. I can’t prance around looking like an extra from Jersey Shore. Besides, he hates me, and a dress—skimpy or not—isn’t going to change that.”

“I’m telling you, a good dress is like magic. Slip it on and it’ll transform you from a stuffy politician into a major slut. You do remember how much fun being a little slutty can be, don’t you?”

As if she could ever forget.

She’d been the baddest girl in high school with the worst reputation, and she’d liked it. She’d liked doing the unexpected and following her gut and having some fun. And she’d really liked Jesse James Chisholm.

So much so that she’d been ready to put off attending the University of Texas—her uncle’s alma mater—to follow Jesse onto the rodeo circuit. To continue their wild ride together, cheer him on and take enough live-action shots to launch her dream career as a photographer.

But then Jackson had been killed, and Charlie had stopped talking for six months. She’d realized then that she couldn’t just turn her back on her little sister and go her own way as her brother had done after their parents had died. Charlie needed her.

And she needed Charlie.

So she’d packed up her camera and her dreams and started playing it safe. She’d followed in her uncle’s footsteps, securing a business degree before taking a position as city planner.

Meanwhile, Jesse had ridden every bull from here to Mexico.

They were worlds apart now, and when they did happen to land within a mile radius of each other, the animosity was enough to keep the wall between them thick. Impenetrable.

Animosity because not only had Gracie stood him up on the night they were supposed to leave, but she’d refused to talk to him about it, terrified that if she heard his voice or saw him up close, her determination would crumble. Fearful that the bad girl inside of her would rear her ugly head and lust would get the better of her.

Lust, not love.

She hadn’t been able to leave with Jesse, and she’d refused to ask him to give up his life’s dream to stay with her in a town that had caused him nothing but pain, and so she’d done the best thing for both of them—she’d broken off all contact.

And her silence had nearly cost him his career.

Not this time.

She’d given him fair warning about the inevitable influx of reporters and now she could get back to work and, more important, forget how good he smelled and how his eyes darkened to a deep, fathomless shade of purple whenever he looked at her.

She fought down the sudden yearning that coiled inside of her. “I don’t do slut anymore,” she told her assistant.

“Duh.” Trina shrugged. “You’ve been wearing those Spanx so long, you’ve forgotten how to peel them off and cut loose.”

If only.

But that was the trouble in a nutshell. She’d never really forgotten. Deep in her heart, in the dead of night, she remembered what it felt like to live for the moment, to feel the rush of excitement, to walk on the wild side. It felt good—so freakin’ good—and she couldn’t help but want to feel that way again.

Just once.

Not that she was acting on that want. No way. No how. No sirree. Charlie needed a home and the people of Lost Gun needed a mayor, and Gracie needed to keep her head on straight and her thoughts out of the gutter.

“So what’s on the agenda today?” she blurted, eager to get them back onto a safer subject. “City council meeting? Urgent political strategy session? Constituent meet and greet?” She needed something—anything—to get her mind off Jesse James Chisholm and the fact that he’d looked every bit as good as she remembered. And then some. “Surely Uncle E.J. left a big pile of work before he headed for Port Aransas to close on the new house?”

“Let’s see.” Trina punched a few buttons on her computer. “You’re in luck. You’ve got a meeting with Mildred Jackson from the women’s sewing circle—she wants the city to commission a quilt for your new office.”

“That’s it?”

“That and a trip to the animal shelter.” When Gracie arched an eyebrow, Trina added, “I’ve been reading this article online about politicians and their canine friends. Do you know that a dog ups your favorability rating by five percent?”

“I already have a dog.”

“A ball of fluff who humps everything in sight doesn’t count.” When Gracie gave her a sharp look, she shrugged. “Not that I have anything against humping, but you’ve got a reputation to think of. A horny mutt actually takes away poll points.”

“Sugar Lips isn’t a mutt. She’s a maltipom. Half Maltese. Half Pomeranian.” Trina gave her a girlfriend, pu-leeze look and she added, “I’ve got papers to prove it.”

“Labs and collies polled at the top with voters, and the local shelter just happens to have one of each,” Trina pressed. “Just think how awesome it will look when the new mayor-elect waltzes in on Adopt-a-Pet Day and picks out her new Champ or Spot.”

“Don’t tell me—Champ and Spot were top-polling animal names?”

“Now you’re catching on.”

Gracie shook her head. “I can’t just bring home another dog. Sugar will freak. She has control issues.”

“Think of the message it will send to voters. Image is everything.”

As if she didn’t know that. She’d spent years trying to shake her own bad image, to bury it down deep, to make people forget, and she’d finally succeeded. Twelve long years later, she’d managed to earn the town’s loyalty. Their trust.

Now it was just a matter of keeping it.

She shrugged. “Okay, I’ll get another dog.”

“And a date,” Trina added. “That way people can also envision you as the better half of a couple, i.e., family oriented.”

“Where do you get this stuff?”

“PerfectPolitician.com. They say if you want to project a stable, reliable image, you need to be in a stable, reliable relationship. I was thinking we should call Chase Carter. He’s president of the bank, not to mention a huge campaign contributor. He’s also president of the chamber of commerce and vice president of the zoning commission.”

And about as exciting as the 215-page car-wash proposition just submitted by the president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary for next year’s fundraiser.

Gracie eyed her assistant. “Isn’t Chase gay?”

“A small technicality.” Trina waved a hand. “This is about image, not getting naked on the kitchen table. I know he isn’t exactly a panty dropper like Jesse James Chisholm, but—”

“Call him.” Chase wasn’t Jesse, which made him perfect dating material. He wouldn’t be interested in getting her naked and she wouldn’t be interested in getting him naked. And she certainly wouldn’t sit around fantasizing about the way his thigh muscles bunched when he crossed a rodeo arena.

She ignored the faint scent of dust and leather that still lingered on her clothes and shifted her attention to something safe. “Do you know anything about Big Earl Jessup?” She voiced the one thing besides Jesse Chisholm and his scent that had been bothering her since she’d left the training arena.

“I know he’s too old to be your date. That and he’s got hemorrhoids the size of boulders.” Gracie’s eyes widened and Trina shrugged. “News travels fast in a small town. Bad news travels even faster.”

“I don’t want to go out with him. I heard through the grapevine that he might be cooking moonshine in his deer blind.”

Trina’s eyebrow shot up. “The really good kind he used to make for the annual peach festival?”

“Maybe.”

“Hot damn.” When Gracie cut her a stare, she added, “I mean, damn. What a shame.”

“Exactly. He barely got off by the skin of his teeth the last time he was brought up on charges. Judge Ellis is going to throw the book at him if he even thinks that Big Earl is violating his parole.”

“Isn’t Big Earl like a hundred?”

“He’s in his nineties.”

“What kind of dipshit would throw a ninetysomething in prison?”

“The dipshit whose car got blown up the last time Big Earl was cooking. Judge Ellis had a case of the stuff in his trunk at the annual Fourth of July picnic. A Roman candle got too close and bam, his Cadillac went up in flames.”

“Isn’t that his own fault for buying the stuff?”

“That’s what Uncle E.J. said, which was why Big Earl got off on probation. But Judge Ellis isn’t going to be swayed again. He’ll nail him to the wall.” And stir another whirlwind of publicity when Lost Gun became home to the oldest prison inmate. At least that was what Uncle E.J. had said when he’d done his best to keep the uproar to a minimum.

“I need to find out for sure,” Gracie told Trina.

“If you go nosying around Big Earl’s place, you’re liable to get shot. Tell you what—I’ll drop by his place after I get my nails done. My daddy used to buy from him all the time when I was a little girl. I’ll tell him I just stopped by for old times’ sake. So what do you think?” She held up two-inch talons. “Should I go with wicked red or passionate pink this time?”

“Don’t you usually get your nails done on Friday?”

“Hazel over at the motel called and said two reporters from Houston are checking in this afternoon and I want to look my best before the feeding frenzy starts.”

“Reporters?” Alarm bells sounded in Gracie’s head and a rush of adrenaline shot through her. “Already?”

Trina nodded. “She’s got three more checking in tomorrow. And twenty-two members of the Southwest chapter of the Treasure Hunters Alliance. Not to mention, Lyle over at the diner called and said the folks from the Whispering Winds Senior Home stopped by for lunch today. They usually go straight through to Austin for their weekly shopping trip, but one of them read a preview about the documentary in the TV listings and now everybody wants to check out Silas Chisholm’s old stomping grounds. A few of them even brought their gardening trowels for a little digging after lunch.”

“But there’s nothing to find.” According to police reports, the wad of cash from Silas Chisholm’s bank heist had gone up in flames with the man himself.

“That’s what Lyle told them, but you know folks don’t listen. They’d rather think there’s some big windfall just waiting to be discovered.” Which was exactly what the documentary’s host had been banking on when he’d brought up the missing money and stirred a whirlwind of doubt all those years ago.

Maybe the money hadn’t gone up in flames.

Maybe, just maybe, it was still out there waiting to be discovered. To make someone rich.

“I should head over to the diner and set them all straight.”

“Forget it. I saved you a trip and stopped by myself on my way in.” Trina waved a hand. “Bought them all a complimentary round of tapioca, and just like that, they forgot all about treasure hunting. Say, why don’t you come with me to the salon?”

“I can’t. The remodeling crew will be here first thing tomorrow and I promised I’d have everything picked out by then.”

It was a lame excuse, but the last thing she needed was to sit in the middle of a nail salon and endure twenty questions about her impromptu visit with Jesse Chisholm and the impending media circus.

“That and I still need to unpack all the boxes from my old office.”

“Suit yourself, but I’d take advantage of the light schedule between now and inauguration time. You’ll be up to your neck in city business soon enough once you take your oath.”

A girl could only hope.

Trina glanced at her watch and pushed up from her desk. “I’m outta here.” Her gaze snagged on the phone and she smiled. “Right after I hook you up with Mr. Wrong, that is.”

She punched in a number on the phone. “Hey, Sally. It’s Trina over at the mayor’s office. Is Chase in?...The mayor-elect would like to invite him to be her escort for the inauguration ceremony....What? He’s hosting a pottery class right now?...No, no, don’t interrupt him. Just tell him the mayor-elect called and wants to sweep him off his feet....Yeah, yeah, she loves pottery, too....”

Gracie balled her fingers to keep from pressing the disconnect button, turned and headed for the closed door. A date with Chase was just what she needed. He was perfect. Upstanding. Respectable. Boring.

She ignored the last thought and picked up her steps. Hinges creaked and she found herself in the massive office space that would soon be the headquarters of Lost Gun’s new mayor.

Under normal circumstances, the new mayor moved into the old mayor’s office, but just last week the city had approved budget changes allocating a huge amount to renovate the east wing of City Hall, including the massive space that had once served as a courtroom. Gracie was the first new face they’d elected in years and change was long overdue. She was getting a brand-new office and reception area, as well as her own private bathroom.

Everything had been cleared out and the floors stripped down to the concrete slab. A card table sat off to one side. Her laptop and a spare phone sat on top, along with a stack of paint colors and flooring samples and furniture selections all awaiting her approval. A stack of boxes from her old office filled a nearby corner.

She drew a deep steadying breath and headed for the boxes to decide what to keep and what to toss.

A half hour later she was halfway through the third box when she unearthed a stack of framed pictures. She stared at the first. The last rays of a hot summer’s day reflected on the calm water of Lost Gun Lake and a smile tugged at her lips. She could still remember sitting on the riverbank, the grass tickling her toes as she waited for the perfect moment when the lighting would be just right. She’d taken the photograph her freshman year in high school for a local competition. She hadn’t won. The prize—a new Minolta camera—had gone to the nephew of one of the judges, who’d done an artsy shot of a rainy day in black-and-white film.

A lesson, she reminded herself. Photography was a crapshoot. Some people made it. Some didn’t. And so she’d given it up for something steady. Reliable.

If only her brother had done the same.

But instead, he’d enlisted in the army on his eighteenth birthday, just weeks after their parents had died. He’d gone on to spend four years on the front lines in Iraq while she and Charlie had tried to make a new life in Lost Gun with Uncle E.J. and Aunt Cheryl. But it had never felt quite right.

It had never felt like home.

Her aunt and uncle had been older and set in their ways—acting out of duty rather than love—and so living with them had felt like living in a hotel.

Cold.

Impersonal.

And so Gracie had made up her mind to leave right after graduation, to make her own way and forget the tragedy that had destroyed her family. She’d snapped picture after picture and dreamed of bigger and better things far away from Lost Gun. But then Jackson had died and Charlie had become clingy and fearful. She’d followed Gracie everywhere, even into bed at night, terrified that fate would take her older sister the way it had snatched up their brother.

Gracie couldn’t blame her. She’d felt the same crippling fear when their parents had died. She’d reached out for Jackson, but he’d left and so she’d had no one to soothe the uncertainty, to give her hope.

She stuffed the framed picture back inside the box, along with a dozen others that had lined the walls of her city planner’s office, and reached for a Sharpie. Once upon a time, she’d hated the idea of tossing them when they could easily serve as cheap decoration, and so she’d kept them.

No more.

With trembling fingers, she scribbled Storage on the outside and moved on to the next box loaded with old files.

She rifled through manila folders for a full thirty minutes before she found herself thinking about Jesse and how good he’d looked and the way he’d smelled and—

Ugh. She needed something to get her mind back on track.

Maybe a brownie or a cupcake or a frosted cookie—

She killed the dangerous thought, grabbed her purse and headed out the door. Forget waiting on Trina. She would head out and check on Big Earl herself, and she wouldn’t—repeat, would not—stop at the bakery on the way. She’d cleaned up her eating habits right along with everything else when she’d decided to play it safe and stop being so wild and reckless.

And safe meant looking both ways when she crossed the street and wearing her seat belt when she climbed behind the wheel and eating right. She had her health to think of and so she followed a strict low-carb, low-sugar, low-fat diet high in protein and fiber. That meant no brownies, no matter how desperate the craving.

No sirree, she wasn’t falling off the wagon.

Not even if Jesse himself stripped naked right in front of her and she desperately needed something—anything—to sate her hunger and keep her hands off of him.

Okay, so maybe if he stripped naked.

A very vivid image of Jesse pushed into her thoughts and she saw him standing on the creek bed, the moonlight playing off his naked body. Her lips tingled and her nipples tightened and she picked up her steps.

No naked and no brownies.