Trouble in Texas (12 page)

“… I swear I’ve never seen such a sight in my life as Billy standing on stage in those
girlie tights, spouting out a bunch of crazy Shakespearean lines.” Beau heaped his
plate with another helping of chicken and dumplings. “The town of Dogwood didn’t know
whether to laugh or start looking for another quarterback.”

“Well, I think it was sweet,” Baby cooed. “Especially since he did it all for the
love of Juliet.”

Brant snorted. “Some Juliet. She dumped him after just a week for a freshman running
back at UT. Not that he didn’t deserve it for making such a fool of himself.”

“Something, I assume, you’ve never done,” Elizabeth said. Into her second glass of
chardonnay, she was feeling a lot more relaxed.

Before Brant could answer, Beau laughed. “Brant make a fool of himself? You don’t
know my big bro, Elizabeth. He doesn’t like to do anything that draws unwanted attention.
He broke up with a woman once just because she spoke too loudly.” Beau refilled Elizabeth’s
glass with wine before filling his own. “But enough about my family. Let’s talk about
Miss Hattie’s. How long have you been here, Minnie?”

Minnie took her time chewing before she washed it down with the same brand of beer
that Brant was drinking. “Longer than you’ve been around, squirt.”

Beau grinned. “That long, huh? Were you here when Miss Hattie was alive? Did you ever
meet her?”

Elizabeth assumed Minnie would be as vague as she always was when answering questions.
Instead she surprised her.

“Once,” she said. “She was old, of course. Most of her beauty hidden behind wrinkled
skin and fading eyes. Yet, there was still an aura about her that I can’t explain.
I remember she gave me a stick of gum from her pocket and a pat on the head. That
was when the henhouse was at its height of popularity. World War II was over and there
were plenty of boys who needed some tender lovin’ care to help them forget the calamities
they experienced. I wasn’t livin’ here then, but my mama gave me a tour of the house.
With its gleamin’ chandeliers and richly upholstered furniture, it was the most beautiful
place I’d ever seen.” Her eyes stared off as if remembering. “But my favorite spot
was always the lilac garden. The stone benches and fragrant flowers were right out
of a fairytale.”

Elizabeth didn’t know how having a prostitute for a mother was out of a fairytale,
but she kept her thoughts to herself.

Beau glanced around. “It’s a shame all that history was lost.”

“It’s here, Beau,” Minnie said. “All a person needs to do is look,” she glanced over
at Elizabeth, “with more than just their eyes.”

The only person who couldn’t see was Minnie. She refused to accept the fact that the
henhouse would never be what it had once been. Which was why Elizabeth had called
the real estate agent earlier that morning and asked her to come out tomorrow. The
sooner she got it on the market, the sooner Minnie would give up her fantasies and
Elizabeth could get back to her life.

“Who would like some coffee and dessert?” Baby asked. “I hope everyone likes homemade
apple pie and vanilla ice cream.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Brant said as he blotted his mouth. “But I think we need
to be going.”

Minnie shot him an annoyed look. “You can’t leave. Baby would be devastated if you
didn’t try her apple pie. In fact, why don’t you and Elizabeth head on out to the
front porch while Sunshine and Baby get dessert ready? Beau, you can help me get the
after-dinner brandy.”

Since the last thing Elizabeth wanted was to be alone with Brant, she pushed back
her chair with every intention of declining dessert and the front porch. Unfortunately,
Brant had other plans.

“As a matter of fact, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with Ms. Murphy,”
he said as he got up.

Minnie cackled. “In my day, the front porch was used for a lot more than just discussin’.”

“I
REALLY CAN’T TAKE ANY MORE VERBAL BATTLES
today,” Elizabeth said as she walked out the screen door Brant held open. “So if
that’s your intention, I’d rather go back in and help the hens.”

“Actually, I would like to call a truce.” Brant allowed the door to slam closed behind
him.

“What happened to retribution?” The cool night air had Elizabeth feeling a little
light-headed so she moved over to the porch swing and sat down. Or maybe it wasn’t
the night air as much as the wine she’d had for dinner.

Brant leaned a shoulder on one of the posts and crossed his arms. “As much as you
think otherwise, I’m not the type of man who punishes someone for another’s crime.
Despite the panty story, I’ve decided that you weren’t lying when you said you stumbled
into Miss Hattie’s bed accidentally.”

“Well, thank you so much, Mr. Cates. Now I can die happy.”

An “almost” smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “After last night, Mr. Cates
seems a little formal, don’t
you think? Why don’t you call me Brant. And do you like Elizabeth, or do you prefer
Lizzie?”

It was a bad idea. Elizabeth was having a hard enough time remembering she didn’t
like the man without adding the familiarity of first names. But he did have a valid
point. “Mister” should be reserved for men who hadn’t placed their tongues in your
mouth.

“Elizabeth,” she said. “I hate Lizzie. Although don’t tell Minnie or she’ll use it
twice as much.”

The slight smile returned. “She is an ornery old thing, isn’t she?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Elizabeth said as she leaned back in the swing. “I guess
it’s understandable given her childhood.”

Brant sat down next to her. The scent of starched shirt and man made her even more
light-headed, and she edged as close to the arm of the swing as she could get without
being obvious. “Her story about coming here as a child was pretty eye-opening.” Using
just a boot heel, he set the swing in motion. “I never thought about the women who
worked here having children.”

Elizabeth nodded. “When the lawyer called and informed me that I had inherited the
henhouse, I did some research. One book that I found online had entries from numerous
journals and diaries. I was surprised to discover that a lot of working women got
pregnant and decided not to get rid of the children. Instead, they farmed them out
to relatives who raised them as their own.”

He glanced over at her. “Is that what happened to you?”

Elizabeth had never enjoyed talking about herself and, like Minnie, had become quite
adept at vague answers. But for some reason—the wine or the man who stared back at
her—she answered truthfully. “No. My mother was raised right here at Miss Hattie’s,
but left before I was born.”

“So she chose not to take up her mother’s profession?”

Elizabeth laughed at just the thought of her tight-laced mother working at Miss Hattie’s.
“My mother decided to go in the opposite direction.”

“Ahh.” He looked away. “A man hater. That explains a lot.”

Elizabeth scowled. “What do you mean? I do not hate men.”

He glanced back at her. “Then why haven’t you married?”

“Just because I enjoy my single life, doesn’t mean I don’t like men.” She pointed
a finger at him. “You’re single, and no one thinks you hate women.”

“I don’t dress in a way that wards women off, either.”

The insult had her spine stiffening. “I dress professionally, Mr. Cates.”

“You dress frumpy,” he hesitated for a brief second before adding, “Elizabeth.” His
gaze wandered down to her pointy breasts. “But I must say that I like that outfit.
Of course, I liked the red dress better.”

She blushed and looked away, crossing her arms over her chest. “No doubt, every man
in Texas loved that gown.”

“And is there something wrong with dressing to please a man?”

Was there? Her mother had always thought so. Harriett Murphy had believed in dressing
to please oneself. But now that Elizabeth thought about it, maybe Brant was right.
Maybe there was nothing wrong with dressing to please a man. Not every man, but just
one. One man who looked at you in a mirror like you were a vision he couldn’t take
his eyes off of.

“So why
did
you try on the dress?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’m finding out that one’s history is hard to ignore.”

“Amen to that,” he said as he turned away.

As he continued to push the swing with his boot heel, she studied his profile. He
had obviously shaved before dinner. His jaw was smooth, as was the skin above his
lips. Lips that smiled much too rarely.

“Is that why you’re so wrapped up in finding out where your grandfather died?” she
asked. “After meeting you, I can’t believe you’re the type of man to buy into a fanciful
legend about a curse.”

His gaze stayed pinned on the stars that glittered on the horizon. “When a man needs
answers, you’d be surprised at what he’s willing to believe in.”

It was an unusual choice of words. He didn’t want answers. He needed them. And “need”
was a much more vulnerable word than “want.”

“So I’m assuming you didn’t find any proof in the attic that your grandfather was
here,” she said.

Brant leaned back in the swing. “Actually, I did.”

“What?” She stared at him. “You found the register? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because a faded and barely legible signature isn’t exactly proof.”

She leaned closer and pointed a finger at him. “It’s his, and you know it. You just
don’t want to admit to being wrong.”

“I’ll admit that the handwriting looks like his, but I wouldn’t start gloating just
yet,” he said. “None of the pages were dated, which means he could’ve shown up here
before he went to Bramble.”

Elizabeth couldn’t argue the point. Nor could she argue the fact that the mystery
of William Cates was starting to intrigue her. This was much better than an Agatha
Christie novel, and she had the opportunity to be right in the middle of it.

She turned to him. “Have you done a lot of research about your grandfather online?”

“A little,” he said. “But my internet skills leave a lot to be desired.”

“I could help,” she blurted out.

Elizabeth didn’t know who was more surprised by the offer. Brant stopped pushing the
swing and cocked an eyebrow while her face burned like a late August brush fire. He
recovered much more quickly than she did.

“I’d appreciate it.” He went back to pushing the swing.

After that, they didn’t talk. The swing creaked back and forth as they stared out
at the barren country that stretched as far as the eye could see. Soon she found herself
relaxing back against the swing. But it only took a subtle tightening for her to realize
that the hardness she rested against wasn’t the wood of the swing but Brant’s arm.
She started to sit back up when Brant shifted toward her, and she found herself looking
up into a pair of deep-set eyes.

If someone had told Elizabeth a few days ago that a mere kiss could scramble your
brains like a whisk through eggs, she would’ve thought they had read too many romance
novels. But that’s exactly what Brant’s kiss did to her—scrambled her brains so much
that all logical thought fled and all that was left were the feelings the man evoked
with his hot mouth and skilled tongue.

He kissed like he seemed to do every other task, with
complete concentration and focus. Elizabeth, on the other hand, couldn’t focus at
all. Her mind was a whirl of sensations that bounced from one point to the other.
The heat of his mouth on her lips. The hard press of his knee between her legs. The
feather touch of his fingers on her breast.

Brant lifted his head and looked down. “What the hell is this bra made of—cast iron?”
His hand slipped under both sweaters and to the hooks at the back. With a couple of
flicks of his fingers, the bra billowed up.

“I think we need to—” Elizabeth started, but then Brant’s warm hand settled over her
bare breast, and she forgot what she was going to say. It was like he held her heart
in his hand and increased the beat with each caress of his fingers. When her head
tipped back and a moan escaped her lips, he pulled her onto his lap and kissed his
way along her neck.

“So this entire virgin thing,” he spoke against her throat. “Minnie was kidding, right?”

“Mmm,” she hummed as he nibbled his way to her ear. Elizabeth didn’t understand what
he was talking about, nor did she care. She was like a kid in a candy store, and she
wanted to taste everything offered to her before the store closed. She turned her
head and hesitantly touched her lips to the side of his neck.

His breath rushed out. “I just want to make sure you’re not some religious nut saving
herself for her husband.”

“What husband?” She ran her tongue over his earlobe, and he released a hiss from between
his teeth.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” he groaned before bringing his lips back to hers.

Their kisses grew more heated and Brant’s hands more marauding. If his caresses weren’t
causing her nipples
to pucker with desire, they were fanning the flame that burned beneath the crotch
of her cigarette pants. She could feel the hardness of him beneath her bottom, and
she wiggled her hips, wanting to get closer to that hardness. His breath hitched,
and he pulled away from the kiss.

“The way I see it, we have two choices,” he said. “We can go up to Miss Hattie’s room
or we can go to my truck. But make the decision quickly, sweetheart, because I don’t
think I can wait much longer. And I’d hate to freak out a bunch of little old women.”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure if it was the mention of Miss Hattie that dropped a bucket of
ice water on her desire or the mention of the hens. Either way, the heat slipped out
of her body like a cup of coffee placed in the deep freeze.

“Let me go,” she said as she pushed against his shoulders.

His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Let me go. I want to stop.”