Chapter Three

Beck cursed under his breath as his rescuer drove off in her giant truck. He should have asked her for directions. Too late now. Why did his first run-in with a local have to be with such a saucy blond? He hadn’t wanted to show it, but she’d rattled him a little. The way she jerked on that rope and knew just what to do to get his truck out of the ditch…she was tough. Pretty damn cute, too.

Oh well. No use getting too intrigued. He was only sticking around long enough to hear the will and make arrangements for his grandfather’s belongings.

He managed to make his way back to a paved road and onto what appeared to be the main street running through town. If it could be called a town. Took him about ninety seconds to drive from one side to the other, and that included waiting for an old woman with a cane to hobble across the crosswalk. She actually stopped right in the middle of the road and gave him a friendly wave. Wouldn’t see something like that in New York.

Finally, he stopped in front of a building marked Law Office. With any luck, Mr. Hill would still be waiting for him and he’d get everything cleared up.

A bell on the handle of the door jangled as he entered. An empty desk sat in what might be considered the reception area. He checked his watch. Five o’clock. If he’d missed the man and had to wait around until Monday morning to catch a different flight home, he’d be mad as hell.

Thankfully, that didn’t appear to be the case. A short, balding man with a bad comb-over walked into the room. “Mr. Holiday, I presume?”

Beck took the man’s hand; he had a surprisingly firm handshake. “Yes. Mr. Hill, thanks so much for waiting for me. I ran into some trouble finding you. Please, call me Beck.”

Mr. Hill led him into the office. “Sorry, my receptionist only works part-time. Things around here aren’t nearly as busy as what you’re probably used to in New York. Have a seat, son. My condolences on your grandfather’s passing. He was a good man.”

“Thank you. I know I’m late and don’t want to cut into your Friday night, so I’ll get right to the point. You mentioned something on the phone about his will?”

“Indeed.” He stepped to a sideboard cabinet and poured two tumblers of amber liquid, handing one to Beck as he gestured toward a chair. “A little local whiskey for you?”

“Thanks.” Beck sat down, tipped the glass back, and let the liquid slide down his throat. This kind of hospitality he could handle.

Mr. Hill drained his drink and took a seat behind the desk. “Now, about Sully’s will—”

“Sully?” His eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Oh, that’s what everyone called him. We’re not much for formalities around here. Your grandfather was a pillar of the community.”

Beck scoffed and set his empty tumbler on the edge of the desk. “Really?”

Mr. Hill sat up straighter, thick eyebrows crumpling into a wiggly line. “You doubt your grandfather’s contribution to the town?”

Great. Now he’d gone and offended the attorney. “It’s just that my dad never mentioned anything about my grandfather being such an important man.” Quite the opposite. On the rare occasions Beckett Sullivan Holiday Jr. spoke about his father at all, he shared nothing but negativity for his hometown and the family he’d left behind. Beck tried to recall his father’s exact words when he’d left the office before heading to the airport. Something about how he’d be better off burning down that hole-in-the-wall bar and collecting on the insurance.

Mr. Hill shuffled a stack of papers on his desk. “Well, folks around here sure thought so.”

“And about the will?” Beck pressed.

“Yes, yes. Your grandfather left everything to you. That includes his residence, about a thousand acres he currently rents out for pasture, and, of course, the Rambling Rose.”

“The Rambling Rose?” That must be the bar.

“Surely you’ve heard about your family’s connection to the Rambling Rose?”

Beck ran his palms over his thighs. “Look, Mr. Hill, let’s just say my dad and grandfather didn’t exactly get along. The only thing I’ve heard about my dad’s time spent in Texas was how my grandfather tossed him out on his ass and how happy he was to leave.”

“I remember your father.” Hill took his reading glasses off. The chair creaked as he leaned back and laced his fingers across his bulging beer belly. His voice took on a wistful tone. “Things in Holiday never seemed to be enough for him.”

“From what I’ve seen so far, I can’t imagine my dad spending any time here at all.”

“Well, he did. We went to school together. He was a year ahead of me, but we played on the same football team. That was the year we made it to State.”

“Huh.” Beck leaned forward in his seat. “He never mentioned that.”

“I don’t suppose he would have. We were up by three points when your father decided to ignore the coach’s call to take a knee. He wanted the glory of throwing another touchdown, especially during the final game of his senior year, but he fumbled the snap. With fourteen seconds left on the clock, he shoulda taken the damn knee.”

Beck’s stomach twinged, already anticipating the answer to his next question. “What happened?”

“The other team threw a Hail Mary pass and won the game. Your dad couldn’t handle it. He was always pulling stunts like that.”

Mr. Hill’s words hung heavily between them. Beck had never known his father to fail at anything. No wonder he wasn’t eager to come back to Holiday. It would be a slap-in-the-face reminder of the one time he hadn’t managed to pull off a win. But Mr. Hill had said stunts. “What other kind of stunts did he pull?”

“I’m not sure I’m the right person to talk to about this.” Mr. Hill ran his finger along the neck of his shirt like it had suddenly grown too tight.

“I’d just like to get a bit more information about my family’s history. You said you knew my dad. Can’t you tell me any more?”

Mr. Hill sighed. “All I can tell you is that Sully always wanted your dad to take over the Rambling Rose, to keep it in the family, but your dad hated the place.”

“Why?”

“Son, you’ll have to talk to your dad about that. They had a pretty big falling-out. Your dad left after graduation, and as far as I know, he’s never been back.”

A falling-out? The way his dad described it, Sully had tossed him out without a dime to his name. No wonder Holiday had never looked back.

Mr. Hill opened the desk drawer with a squeak and handed Beck a crowded ring of keys. “Here are keys to the residence and a set to the Rambling Rose. Any other keys to the outbuildings and gates are at the house.”

“You keep mentioning this Rambling Rose. Is that the bar my grandfather owned?”

Mr. Hill’s paunchy cheeks scrunched into a frown like a squirrel that’d just taken a bite of a rotten acorn. “Son, the Rambling Rose isn’t a bar.”

An uneasy knot formed between his shoulder blades. “Then what is it?”

The lawyer’s voice rose as he lifted his body out of the chair and placed his hands flat on the desk. “It’s the oldest honky-tonk in the great state of Texas, probably the whole United States.”

Beck couldn’t see the difference between a honky-tonk and a bar, but there was obviously no sense in arguing with the man. “Okay, got it. So now what am I supposed to do? It’s not like I’m going to move down here and take over a bar—” Mr. Hill’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me, I mean a honky-tonk. Any idea what the value might be?”

“You can’t be considering selling?”

Leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs, Beck shook his head. “Mr. Hill, my life is in New York. I have a business, my family. There’s no way I’m staying in Texas, especially in a town my dad couldn’t wait to leave.”

Mr. Hill held up a piece of paper, slid his glasses back in place, and lowered himself into his seat. “Yes, well, there is of course a stipulation to the will.”

“Of course there is.” Beck slumped against the back of the chair. “Please, go ahead. What is it?” This day was turning into a giant clusterfuck. He could use another pour of that smooth whiskey to settle his rattled nerves.

“Before the title or any other assets can be transferred into your name, your grandfather’s will requires you to spend time in Holiday and oversee the day-to-day operations of the Rambling Rose until the next Founder’s Day parade.”

Beck shook his head again. “That’s ridiculous. Why would he care about that?”

“In the 125-year history of Holiday, there’s never been a Founder’s Day parade without a member of the founding family of the town on the float.”

“And I’m supposed to represent the founding family?”

Mr. Hill nodded.

“When’s this parade happening?”

“Lucky for you, it’s only three months away—the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. The whole town comes out to celebrate.”

“September? That’s crazy.” Beck got to his feet and towered over the attorney. “This has been a waste of my time.”

“Mr. Holiday—”

“Beck.”

“Beck, you might want to think twice before walking away. If you don’t meet the requirements of the will, then all of your grandfather’s assets will revert to a third party.”

“Which is?”

Mr. Hill removed his glasses again and stood, putting him a good six inches shy of Beck’s eye level. “Regrettably, I’m unable to divulge that information at this point, but I suggest you consider your options carefully. Even without the Rambling Rose, your grandfather amassed quite a net worth over the years. Between the value of his land, the residence, and the cash bonds in his safety deposit box, we’re talking over five million dollars.”

That number caught Beck off guard. “What did you say?”

“Sully had some of the best pasture acres in the county. And he’d been buying savings bonds since he was old enough to ride his pony to the bank.”

“And if I stay here for three months, I can sell the Rambling Rose and everything else becomes mine?”

Mr. Hill’s shoulders lifted and sagged in a defeated shrug. “Well, he hoped that you’d stay. The Rambling Rose has been in the Holiday family for more than 125 years. I’m sure your grandfather wanted it to continue—”

“Like I said, my home is in New York. I can’t put my life on pause to fulfill an old man’s dream. Sully was a stranger to me. I’d love to learn more about my family and my past, but staying in Holiday for good is definitely not in my future.” Beck took a breath. “So, if I stay until this Founder’s Day deal, I can sell if I want, right?”

“That’s right. According to the will, you have to ride on the Rambling Rose’s float in the Founder’s Day parade. After that, everything is yours.”

With that much cash, he’d be able to invest in some projects of his own. The possibilities began to spin infinite webs in his head. But could he do it? Three months in Podunk? What would happen to the lot in Morris Park? And the town…why would he want to willingly stay in a place that had given his dad such painful memories?

“Why don’t you take the weekend to think about it?” Mr. Hill walked around the desk and held out his hand.

Beck grasped it in a firm shake. “I will. Where do I find this Rambling Rose? I want to swing by and check it out.”

“Head south out of town and take a right. You can’t miss it. Charlie Walker is in charge for now. They’ve actually got a big concert there tonight to celebrate Rocky Mountain Oyster Days. It’ll give you a chance to see the place hopping and the whole team in action.”

“Rocky Mountain oysters?”

“They’re a local delicacy. One thing you’ll find out about Holiday is that we don’t need much of an excuse for a celebration.” The man laced his fingers over his stomach and rocked back on his heels. “Folks around here will celebrate just about anything.”

“I appreciate your help. Thanks, Mr. Hill.”

“Good luck to you, Beck. I’ll expect to hear something from you by the beginning of next week.”

Beck nodded and showed himself out. Standing on the front porch of the law office, he slid his sunglasses back over his eyes and looked up and down the street. A mini-mart occupied the building across the road. Next to that, an antique store took up the first floor of an old stone building. A diner, a western wear shop, and a gas station lined the road. His side held a post office, a couple of gift shops, and a barbecue joint. Not much else going on. How could anyone consider spending more than an afternoon here?

He turned toward the western shop, the advice of the very competent blond playing on repeat in his ears. The least he could do was turn in his loafers for a pair of boots. Then he could get settled into the bed-and-breakfast and think about dropping in on the honky-tonk.

His rubber-soled boat shoes padded across the wood-plank walkway. A loud moo sounded over his head as he entered the front doorway of Whitey’s Western Wear. Cowboy hats in various colors were stacked to the ceiling. Suede chaps, jeans studded with sparkly rhinestones, and belt buckles the size of his head plastered the walls. Maybe he wasn’t up for this. Surrounded by a sea of denim and plaid, he located the single employee.

“Well, hi there, stranger. What can I do you for?”

“I guess I need some new jeans and boots.”

“Hmm”—the string bean of a man tapped his finger against his lip—“we’ve got some new ropers. Or were you thinking more like a dress boot?”

What the hell was a dress boot? “I’ll put my faith in your capable hands.”

“Come on over. I think I’ve got just the thing.”

Beck followed the salesman through racks of plaid and floral-print shirts. Three months. He could do anything for three months once he set his mind to it. And for five million dollars in assets, he’d figure out a way to make this work. As he passed yet another rack of shirts, he fingered a purple paisley long-sleeved oxford with pearlized buttons and at least five pounds of sequins stuck to each sleeve.

Well, maybe not anything.

* * *

Charlie scanned the main room of the honky-tonk. Her only full-time waitress, Dixie, had strung giant foam seashells from the overhead beams and draped fisherman’s netting over the tables. If that’s how she wanted to decorate for the annual Rocky Mountain Oyster Days, Charlie was more than happy to let her take the lead. Once less thing for Charlie to take care of.

Sully would have been proud.

Everyone had rallied after his death and done their part to keep things going. The place would never be the same without him, but Charlie would do her best to make sure the Rambling Rose retained the down-home, Texas hospitality it had been known for over the years.

And to think, all of this could be hers.

A lightness filled her chest as she considered what that would mean. She’d met with Mr. Hill that morning, and he’d gone over Sully’s will. She’d known how important it was to Sully that the Rambling Rose stay in the family. Toward the end, he’d sent multiple letters to his son and grandson. They’d all gone unanswered.

Charlie always felt like the granddaughter he’d never had, but to hear him express the same sentiment right before he died made her more determined than ever to find his family and convey how important it was to keep the place going. Yet as close as they’d been, she’d never expected Sully to see her as a potential heir.

So when Mr. Hill told her the will stipulated that Sully’s grandson had until the Founder’s Day parade to prove himself or the Rambling Rose would be hers, Charlie had almost fallen out of her chair. Now she had a decision to make—either help the floundering fish out of water, or make sure he didn’t succeed. Based on what she’d seen so far, it wouldn’t take much to run him out of town.

She sighed and stepped behind the long bar. Playing dirty wasn’t her style. Unless she was knee-deep in mud, wrestling with Baby Back. She’d do what she needed to do to make good on her promise to Sully and try to keep the Rambling Rose in the Holiday family. Although, spending three months with the wise-cracking, good-looking New Yorker might feel like an eternity.

“Hey, Boss.” Shep, one of the regular bartenders, shot her a smile as he unloaded a rack of beer mugs onto a shelf. “Looks like we’ll be packin’ ’em in tonight.”

Charlie nodded while she ran a rag over a spill on the counter. “You need any help behind the bar tonight, just holler, okay? I’m still looking for a backup for you.”

“Oh, I’ll be able to keep up. And if I get into a jam, I’ll grab Cash or Waylon or someone to help.”

“Sounds good.” Her brothers had really come through for her over the past couple of months. Family came first. That was one of the values her parents had instilled in all of the Walker kids.

It was still early, but most of the long wood tables had already been claimed. Folks lined the hard-plank benches, enjoying the warm-up band. They were here for the headliner—a kid from San Marcos who had taken Nashville by storm. Playing the Rambling Rose was a rite of passage, especially for a relative local, and though she’d been in charge of managing the nightly shows for the past eight years, even Charlie didn’t know who might show up and take the stage for an impromptu set.

Shep set the empty rack on the ground, then stepped around her to pull on the tap and fill a mug. Charlie moved down to an empty section of the bar. She leaned on her elbows, resting her chin in her hands. Dixie bobbed through the tables, delivering mugs and bottles of beer. Music blared from the speakers while the crowd clapped along to the beat. The neon signs cast a warm glow around the edges of the room, and the scent of just-smoked ribs drifted out of the kitchen.

Looked like another successful Friday night was on tap at the Rose. Before things got rocking, she’d better make sure Baby Back got her dinner.

“Hey, I’m gonna go feed Baby Back,” she called out to Shep as she hung the dishrag on a hook.

“That crazy-ass pig’s given you more trouble than the last two or three combined,” Shep said.

“I know, I know. But it’s a tradition, right?”

“If you ask me, they got some pretty strange traditions around here.” Shep held the empty dish rack to his side and passed her on his way to the kitchen.

He was right about that. He’d only been there for about four months. Just wait until he saw what kind of “traditions” they had coming over the summer.

Charlie followed him down the hall and grabbed the bucket of kitchen scraps the cook always saved for Baby Back. The pig was spoiled rotten. Maybe that was part of the reason she took off all the time. She was probably bored to within an inch or her life and looking for adventure. Baby Back had gotten used to being coddled with kitchen scraps and behind-the-ear scratches. If she had to do more than pose for pictures and sniff out marshmallows, she might not have the energy to take off every chance she got.

With thoughts of how to unspoil Conroe County’s most precious pig running through her head, Charlie pushed the screen door open right into the late-afternoon humidity.

And right into the rock-solid body of Beck.

Apple shavings, corncobs, and juicy slop splattered between them, covering them both in a mixture of solids and liquid. The slippery mess splattered onto the stairs, and as she took a step forward, her feet slid out from under her.

Charlie’s arms flailed. She tried to grab onto the rail, the door, anything before she hit the ground. Her fingers briefly hooked on something, slowing her fall.

Ripppppppppppppppppppppp.

The noise dragged on, her fist now closed around a swatch of denim. Beck caught her around the waist seconds before her butt bounced on the top step, and she took him down with her. He flung one hand out to his side in an attempt to brace himself. He must have slipped because his body collided with hers.

“Oooooof.” Her breath rushed out as she caught his chin in the center of her breastbone.

The bucket clattered down the steps, banging and clanging until it hit the grass. Finally, the movement ceased.

Charlie was afraid to move. She couldn’t take in a deep breath. Not with the hit to her chest and the head of sandy-blondish hair nestled in between her belly button and her—oh my God—her pubic bone.

The hair moved. Beck lifted his head, his mouth hovering just inches above the apex of her thighs. She battled the overwhelming urge to jerk her knee to his groin.

“What was that?” He lifted himself up with one arm and swiped at his eyes with the other. A slow smile spread across his face as recognition took root.

Charlie scrambled backward like a crab. She couldn’t get out from under him fast enough. “What are you doing? Nobody’s supposed to come through this door. Didn’t you see the sign? Employees only.”

He rose onto his knees while he wiped the slop off his cheeks with his sleeve. “I know you from earlier. You’re the angel with the truck who pulled me out of the ditch.”

“Guilty as charged.” Although she was feeling anything but angelic at the moment. She got to her feet, not sure what part of her had suffered the bigger bruise: her backside or her pride.

“And you work here?” He stood, towering over her, making her feel small and all of a sudden unsure of herself.

Smart as a whip, this one. “You figure that out all by yourself there, Einstein?” She didn’t mean to lash out, but he set her off balance, and firing back with words had always been her go-to move.

“Whoa. Are you always this friendly, Miss Charlotte?”

She blew out a breath, embarrassed. Her mama had raised her with better manners than this. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“You’re telling me.” Beck looked over the slop covering his sleeves. “What is this? Smells like someone’s leftovers.”

“That’s one thing you’re right about. I was on my way to feed the pig her freaking dinner.” She held the swatch of denim out to him. “I think this belongs to you.”

He squinted at the offering. “What’s that?”

Flushed, she lowered her gaze to the tips of his boots. “I believe it’s…sorry, was your pocket.”

Beck patted his ass with his hand, then twisted around, trying to see where the pocket had been. “You stole my pocket?”

Charlie bit her lip and cast her eyes toward the sky, wishing, hoping, maybe even saying a little prayer that this was all a dream. A bad one. A nightmare of epic proportions.

The clouds didn’t part. Looked like she was on her own. “Hey, I’m sorry about ripping your jeans.”

“My new jeans.” He finally took the piece of fabric.

“Your new jeans. I’d be happy to replace them.” She scooted past Beck to retrieve the bucket from the grass. He put out a hand to catch her, but the slop had lubed up her forearm and it slid from his grip.

He called after her. “Before you stomp off into the sunset, can you direct me to the man in charge? Mr. Hill said I needed to ask for Charlie.”

She whirled around to face him. “Are all of you Yankees so obtuse?”

“Excuse me?”

“Charlotte Walker. I go by Charlie.”

“Oh crap.” Beck lifted a hand to his head like he wanted to run it through his hair but thought better of it and let it fall to his side. “You’re the one who’s been taking care of the place since my grandfather passed?”

“Since he passed and for about eight years prior.” So much for making nice. She bit her tongue to keep from unleashing everything she wanted to say to Sully’s sorry-ass grandson. How could he let Sully’s letters go unanswered? Why didn’t he ever call or write or visit? How much effort would it have taken for him to give the poor old man a tiny bit of joy in his final months?

“And you’re a woman.”

She couldn’t have prevented her eyes from rolling even if she had wanted to. “Last time I checked.”

“I’m sorry. I assumed…Ms. Walker…Charlotte…can I call you Charlie?”

“Suit yourself.”

“I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot. Can we start over?” A smile she was sure had prevented many women from getting a good night’s sleep graced his face. Even covered in splatters of slop, undeniable charm rolled off this man in waves. He offered her his hand. “Charlie. It’s nice to officially meet you.”

Her gaze lingered on his fingers, which were still covered in potato peelings and a thin layer of slop. What the heck—hers were just as bad. She gripped his hand, feeling the warmth, even through the slime. His smile hit her with a slow burn, low in the gut.

She squeezed her eyes shut into a long blink and gave a jerky shake of the head. Don’t even go there, Charlie. She slid her hand from his. If he thought he could barge in here, flip on the charm, and instantly earn her support, well, he had another think coming.

This day had gone from bad to worse. Of all the men in New York City, why had she been saddled with this one?

Because he was Sully’s grandson, that’s why. At the thought of her old boss, her anger petered out. For Sully, she reminded herself. At the rate she was going, she’d have to chant the reminder for the next three months.

“Do you have a towel or something I can use to clean up?” Beck asked.

“Sure.” Charlie wheeled around and led him inside a few steps, to the storeroom. She handed him a clean bar towel and pointed toward the sink. “You can clean up over there, although you’ll probably want to run over to the B and B to shower and maybe change your jeans. When you get back, I’ll show you around and introduce you to the rest of your staff.”

His head cocked at the emphasis. “Thanks.” He turned toward the sink, wiping his face free of Baby Back’s dinner.

She lingered, letting her gaze run up the long, denim-clad legs, over his perfect ass, snugly encased in a new pair of Levi’s. Minus the pocket, of course. Her gaze darted to his feet. The sockless loafers were gone, replaced by a pair of working man’s ropers. Whitey had probably had a heyday giving Beck a proper Hill Country makeover. If he was willing to take her advice, maybe he wasn’t completely hopeless.

A drop of slop slid down her forehead, onto her nose, reminding her she probably looked like a modern-day Swamp Thing. She figured she had just enough time to find something to feed Baby Back, then run home and get cleaned up herself.

“So, I’ll be back in a bit, okay?”

“Sounds good.” Beck lifted his hand in an awkward wave.

She headed toward the door, dipping her finger into her front pocket and brushing over the lucky Texas Centennial half-dollar Sully had given her right before he died. Even in death, that man knew how to keep her tripping around on her toes.

For Sully, she chanted in her head. And if Beck ruined his chances on his own, she’d be happy to pick up the pieces.