In the back parking lot of the church, Callie headed for the beat-up ’69 Ford pickup truck that sat near the end of the first row.
It was a far cry from her mother’s late-model green Oldsmobile, but she’d been in a hurry that morning to get her grandfather’s only suit to the church and so she’d left the car for her sisters.
The truck was the one and only thing her grandfather had owned outright. A rusted-out pile of blue metal that should have died a long, long time ago. Even so, it cranked right up every time because despite being old and beat to hell, it was at least reliable.
Unlike the man who’d driven it for the past forty-odd years.
She ignored the strange tightening in her chest and turned the key. The engine crackled to life like a two-pack-a-day smoker clearing her throat. The ancient eight-track tape player mounted under the dash fired up and the smooth, country twang of Hank Williams Sr. filled the small cab.
Back in the day, Hank had been hell on wheels, which explained why Callie’s granddaddy had always liked him so much. She and her sisters had learned the words to “Honky Tonk Blues” long before the Lord’s Prayer. No wonder Pastor Harris had been more than a little surprised when Callie had asked him to conduct an actual church service.
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she blinked against the heat behind her eyes. Tears were a wasted emotion. That’s what James had told her when her parents had died. He’d taken the news of his only son’s death with a somber shake of his head, followed by a forty-eight-hour drinking binge during which he’d sang and cussed and even slobbered a little.
But no tears.
He hadn’t even cried when he’d lost his beloved wife, Rose. At least that’s what Callie’s mom had told her. She couldn’t remember herself because she’d been only two at the time, but the story wasn’t all that hard to buy. James had always been as prickly as the fields of cacti that lined the nearby interstate.
He’d been a hateful, mean SOB who’d never done anything for anybody other than himself. Even taking in his granddaughters had been self-serving. He’d needed someone to cook and clean and look after him whenever he drank himself into a stupor, and Callie had been right there. Ready, willing, and able at seventeen to get the job done if it meant keeping her younger sisters out of foster care.
That’s why she’d forfeited her dreams for the time being and put up with James for so long. Not because he was family and she had some misguided sense of loyalty to him.
She’d sacrificed for her sisters. So that they could stick together and see their own dreams realized.
Mission accomplished. Jenna had graduated high school early—while she was hell on wheels, she was as smart as a whip—and finished her bachelor’s in animal husbandry. She’d just landed an internship at a local veterinary office while she did her medical training. Brandy had opened up a small bakery in the heart of Rebel. While they were both just starting out, Callie knew her sisters would be just fine on their own.
They could make it without her now.
If she could figure a way out of the mess that James had made and keep a roof over their heads. Jenna was barely making anything as a first-year animal med student and Brandy had stuffed every bit of cash she had into Sweet Somethings. Both women needed a place to stay and time to get on their feet, and Callie had to give it to them if she ever meant to get out of this town.
But first things first …
She was just about to shift the truck into reverse and head for the nearest convenience store when she caught the movement in her rearview mirror. She turned in time to see a shiny black pickup trimmed in shimmering chrome rumble into the parking lot.
The monster engine vibrated the ground, temporarily drowning out Hank’s familiar whine. Tires crunched gravel as the truck swung into an empty spot. The engine died. Metal groaned as the door pushed open and a man climbed out. Dressed in faded jeans, a soft white T-shirt, and dusty brown cowboy boots, he looked like any of the ranch hands that called Rebel home.
At the same time, there was something oddly familiar about him.
Wranglers caressed his firm thighs, cupped his crotch, and outlined his long legs. The warm breeze flattened his T-shirt against his strong, muscular chest. Several days’ growth of beard darkened a strong jaw and cheeks, drawing attention to a firm mouth. A pair of Costa del Mar sunglasses hid his eyes. A straw Resistol sat atop his short, dark hair.
He pulled off the cowboy hat and left it on the front dash of his truck. Slowly he removed the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose and hooked them on the front pocket of his tee. He turned his head just enough and his blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight.
Her breath caught and her heart stopped because this wasn’t just some random working man come to pay his respects. He was the owner of the biggest spread in the county.
Her first love.
Her most hated enemy.
The one and only Brett Sawyer.