Brodie Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  BRODIE

  First edition. June 14, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Lori Wilde.

  ISBN: 978-1540144522

  Written by Lori Wilde.

  Brodie

  Texas Rascals Book 8

  Lori Wilde

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: Dan

  Also by Lori Wilde

  About the Author

  1

  She couldn’t go through with it.

  Deannie Hollis sat on the antique four-poster bed in the south bedroom of the rambling Texas ranch house that until fifteen years ago had belonged to the Hollis family for four generations. Her parents had conceived her in this very bedroom.

  Now all she had to do to reclaim her birthright was to walk down the aisle and say “I do” to Brodie Trueblood. It was that simple, and that complicated.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks and pooled on the white lace collar of her western-cut wedding gown. A bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath rested in her trembling hands, and a salty lump burned her throat.

  Twisting Brodie’s engagement ring on her finger, Deannie shook her head, trying her best to fight the guilt clutching her heart. Her pearl cluster earrings danced below her earlobes, and the mesh bridal veil brushed lightly against her shoulders.

  She could not do this. Brodie deserved so much better. Sniffling, she reached for a tissue.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “C-c-come in.” Deannie hiccupped and smoothed her white satin skirt with one hand.

  Her sister-in-law to be, Emma Trueblood, poked her head in the door. “Preacher’s here. Everyone’s waiting.”

  “Could you give me ten more minutes?”

  “Cold feet?” Emma swished into the room in a lavender whirl and shut the door behind her. She plopped down on the bed beside Deannie.

  “Sort of.”

  “Oh, honey, you know you’re getting the best man in Presidio County.”

  “I know.” That was the problem.

  Emma patted her hand. “It’ll be all right, I promise. If you love Brodie, and he loves you, nothing else matters.”

  But Emma was wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  Because Deannie had a dark secret.

  “I know my marriage to Kenny isn’t perfect,” Emma chattered, “but we’re working things out. And believe it or not, after seven years, our life together is better than ever.”

  Deannie knew. She’d seen Kenny’s transformation firsthand. “I’m glad you guys are happy. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

  “We owe it to you and Brodie. If it weren’t for you two, Kenny and I would still be separated.”

  “Naw, Kenny’s a good man. He would have come to his senses eventually.”

  Emma hugged Deannie. “Come on, woman, don’t let marriage scare you. It really is worth the effort.”

  Marriage didn’t scare her, deceiving Brodie Trueblood did.

  “I need five more minutes alone,” Deannie pleaded. “Please, Emma.”

  “Okay.” Looking puzzled, her matron-of-honor left the room.

  Deannie tried to take a deep breath, but anxiety twisted around her throat, and claustrophobia gripped her stomach.

  She had to get out of here.

  Leave.

  Flee.

  Run.

  Now.

  Today.

  This minute.

  Before it was too late.

  Springing to her feet, she dashed to the window and pushed back the curtain. Brodie’s pickup sat around back, already desecrated by well-wishers. White shoe polish announcing Just Married muddied the windows, and dozens of aluminum cans dangled from the bumper. Even if she had access to the keys, they parked cars around the circular driveway, blocking her exit.

  Stuck, stranded.

  What to do?

  She couldn’t face Brodie, couldn’t call off the wedding while looking him in the face. She was too big a coward for that. Couldn’t bear to see the trust go out of his eyes.

  Strains of the wedding march came from the living room as their neighbor, Bonnie McNally, played the piano.

  In her mind, she saw the gaily decorated living room—vases of roses, white crepe paper streamers, satin doves, silk bows. She knew little Buster was there, clutching a pillow with their wedding rings pinned to it. And so was sweet Angel, dressed in ruffles and lace, carrying a basketful of white rose petals. Their friends, dressed in their best finery, gathered in the living room, waiting to witness the union of Brodie Trueblood and Deannie McCellan.

  Only she wasn’t Deannie McCellan as everyone believed.

  Closing her eyes, she saw Brodie standing before the altar, his dark hair combed back off his forehead, his brown eyes shining with radiant love. A love that would die the instant he learned the truth about her.

  Deannie moaned and fisted her hands as sorrow writhed through her. Better to leave him at the altar than marry him and live a lie.

  She’d tried to convince herself that love was enough. Self-denial had led her this far, but her conscience balked at finishing her mission. She could not do it.

  Peering out the window again, Deannie searched the grounds below, desperate for a solution. She spotted Brodie’s horse, Ranger, saddled in the paddock.

  Yes. That was it. She would take Ranger and clear out. Once she got to Rascal, she’d figure out where to go from there.

  Decision made, Deannie moved aside the sash and raised the window. With both hands, she pushed out the screen. Hiking her dress around her waist, she placed a booted foot on the sill. One look at those white boots and her heart lurched in her throat.

  Just two weeks ago, she and Brodie had gone to El Paso, where he’d picked out the boots especially for their wedding, saying they were perfect for his cowgirl bride.

  Don’t think about it. Just go.

  She hesitated a moment, calculating the distance to the ground from the second story. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her skirt in her hands.

  “Here goes,” she whispered and jumped.

  Deannie landed feet first and stumbled backward from the impact. Recovering, she ran across the yard toward the paddock, flung open the gate, and clicked her tongue at Ranger.

  Obediently, the horse came to her. Pulse thudding, Deannie swung into the saddle.

  The cool September breeze ruffled her hair as she grabbed the reins and aimed Ranger west toward the setting sun. Clouds bunched on the horizon, threatening rain.

  Any minute now Brodie would discover her gone. Any minute the atmosphere would change from festive to gloomy. Any minute Brodie’s heart would break, shattered just as surely as her own, their hopes and dreams crushed like rose petals in a hailstorm.

  Oh, why had she fallen in love with him?

  Regret, heavy and unshakable, filled her. Blinking back more tears, Deannie galloped across the prairie. Her veil streaming out behind her, her train whipping against the saddle. Her hands, encased in soft white gloves, clutched the reins in a death grip.

  Her mind jettisoned back to that fateful day four months ago. The day she returned to Rascal, hell-bent on revenge.

  2

  Four months earlier

  * * *

  “I’m looking for Rafe Truebl
ood,” Deannie Hollis said to the man behind the bar.

  She swept her gaze through the dimly lit honky-tonk. Even at four o’clock on a Monday afternoon, Lonesome Dove was crowded. A sad commentary on the rough economic times in Presidio County. Too many people out of work. Too many people spending their unemployment checks drowning their sorrows. Too many people looking for love in all the wrong places.

  “Well, sugar, I’m afraid you’re about two weeks too late,” the bartender drawled, leaning on the counter with both elbows.

  “What do you mean?” Deannie asked, raising her voice above the jukebox where Hank Williams, Jr. sang about family traditions. “Rafe Trueblood’s dead.”

  Deannie stared at the bartender in stunned disbelief. It couldn’t be true.

  Rafe dead? No! Not after she’d spent the past fifteen years plotting her revenge against the man who’d cheated her father out of his house, his hometown, and her inheritance.

  She’d counted the years, months, weeks, days, hours until she was old enough, wily enough, and accomplished enough at poker to challenge that thieving Rafe Trueblood to a card game and win back the family ranch the same way her daddy had lost it.

  “Yep. Keeled right over during a poker game. I, for one, will sorely miss the man. Rafe spent a good three hundred dollars a week in here. He was a big tipper, too.”

  Deannie sucked in her breath. Her whole body trembled. The smell of stale cigarettes hung in the air, choking her.

  The noise from the jukebox echoed in her ears. A dry, bitter taste glutted her mouth. Blinking, she clutched the bar with both hands.

  “Sugar?” The bartender’s burly face blurred before her. “Are you all right?”

  Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

  The bartender hurried around the bar and gently pushed her down onto a stool. “Rafe a good friend of yours, was he?”

  “I didn’t expect this.” She lifted a hand to her throat.

  “Well, fifty-five years of hard, fast living finally caught up with him.”

  Staring at the scarred linoleum floor, Deannie tried to come to grips with the news. What was she going to do now? Her life’s goal of reclaiming the family homestead had died along with the gambler.

  “Rafe’s son, Kenny, is in the back room,” the bartender said, squatting down in front of her. “I don’t normally let strangers go back there because sometimes the boys indulge in a little illegal gambling, but seein’ as how you were a friend of Rafe’s…”

  “Thank you,” Deannie whispered. She’d forgotten Rafe Trueblood had two sons. She’d only been seven when she and her daddy were forced from their home at Willow Creek Ranch and moved into a squalid one-bedroom apartment in Midland.

  From what the bartender said, Kenny Trueblood must have followed in his father’s disreputable footsteps. Pressing a palm to her forehead, Deannie considered her next move. Should she give up and go back…where? She had no home. The only real home she’d ever had was right here in Rascal.

  Why did she have to change her plans? She could win Willow Creek Ranch back from Kenny just as easily as she could have won it from Rafe.

  Maybe even easier.

  “This way.” The bartender took her by the hand and led her past a string of curious customers eyeing them from the bar.

  They pushed through two sets of double doors and into a storeroom dominated with fat-bellied men and a poker table. Six pairs of suspicious eyes swung to take in Deannie.

  “Kenny,” the bartender said, gesturing to the youngest, most attractive man in the room. “This little gal came in looking for your daddy.”

  A huge smile rippled across Kenny Trueblood’s face as his gaze raked the length of Deannie’s body. His stark once-over left her feeling unclothed. Crossing her arms over her chest, she met his stare with a frown.

  “You’re a little young,” Kenny assessed, “even for the old man’s eclectic tastes.”

  “I wasn’t his girlfriend,” Deannie replied.

  The man’s intense scrutiny didn’t buffalo her. This wasn’t the first time she’d gotten ogled. She’d spent her fair share of time in honky-tonks following after her father, and she could take care of herself.

  “I gotta get back to work.” The bartender jerked his thumb toward the bar. “You fellas play nice.”

  “We’re always nice,” one man grumbled and swallowed a long swig from his beer. The rest of them chuckled.

  Deannie lifted her chin and tried her best to look tough. This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for, although the showdown was anticlimactic after the news of Rafe’s death.

  “Why did you come looking for my old man?” Kenny asked, dusting off an empty chair and patting the seat. Tentatively, Deannie inched over and perched next to Kenny. He smelled of beer and peanuts and aftershave.

  “I came to play cards,” she declared. “I heard if you want to test your skills at Texas Hold ’Em, Rafe Trueblood is the man to beat.”

  One fellow hooted. “Are you serious?”

  The guy sitting on Deannie’s right choked on his beer and sputtered. His friend pounded him on the back.

  “What’s this?” The bearded giant shuffling cards raised an eyebrow. “The kid thinks she could have beaten Rafe?”

  Kenny held up a hand and tried hard to disguise his smile. “Come on, Lou, give the lady a chance. If she can pay, let her play.”

  “Are you saying we should deal her in?” Lou looked incredulous.

  “Got something against taking money from children?” Kenny asked.

  “I’m no child,” Deannie insisted, thrusting out her jaw. “I’m twenty-two.”

  “Hmm, you look younger,” Kenny said.

  “All right.” Lou dealt the cards. “If you’re dumb enough to play, ante up, girly. It’s a ten-dollar minimum.”

  Deannie pushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “I’ll need some chips.”

  “Here you go, sugar,” one man said, presenting her with a rack of poker chips.

  “Don’t,” she growled, “call me sugar.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The man grinned. “Feisty. You’ll fit right in.”

  As if she wanted to fit in with this bunch.

  “What’s your name?” Kenny asked, leaning closer and striking a match against his thumbnail to light a cigar.

  The action, so much like his father’s, sent a shudder through her at the memory. “Deannie McCellan,” she said, using her mother’s maiden name.

  “Where are you from, Deannie?”

  “Midland.”

  “Where’d you hear about Rafe?”

  Deannie shrugged. “Here and there.”

  “You can do better than that.” Kenny casually draped one arm across the back of her

  chair.

  Deannie stared hard at him until Kenny laughed nervously and removed it.

  “Keep that up…” chortled the man who’d called her sugar. “…and you’ll pull back a stump.”

  “My father used to play cards with a man named Gil Hollis. From what I understand, Rafe was such a good card player he won Mr. Hollis’s ranch in a poker game. Is that correct?” She reeled out the lie she’d practiced smooth as a velvet ribbon.

  Looking uncomfortable, Kenny gnawed on the end of his cigar. “Yeah. It’s true.”

  “Your father must have been some gambler, Mr. Trueblood. Did you know Gil Hollis got so depressed he committed suicide over the shame of losing his family homestead? He never recovered from the humiliation.” A hard bite of hatred crept into her voice; she heard it but prayed the men didn’t.

  Kenny cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. “No. I wasn’t aware of that. Sorry to hear about it. But a bet’s a bet. It wasn’t Rafe’s fault that Hollis was a weak fool.”

  Deannie bit down hard on her bottom lip to contain the jabbing burst of anger shooting through her at Kenny’s callousness. The man was speaking about her daddy! How she longed to tell him exactly what she thought about him and all the scum-of-the-earth Truebloods.

/>   “Are we gonna play cards, or we gonna chat like the ladies at Dorothy’s Curl Up and Dye?” Lou grunted.

  Just then the door creaked open.

  Raising her head, Deannie looked up to see a tall, lean cowboy silhouetted in the light from the bar.

  He walked with an easy, self-confident stride. His mouth was set in a hard, firm line, his brown-eyed gaze glancing harshly around the table. Settling his hands on his low-slung hips, he stared at Deannie, then shifted his attention to Kenny and back again.

  The look flitting across his face told Deannie he’d made an erroneous assumption about her relationship with Kenny.

  “Dammit, Kenny,” the man exploded, his voice booming in the room’s small confines. “What in the hell are you up to?”

  “Don’t get your underwear in a knot, little brother; it’s not what you think.”

  “Hey, Brodie, pull up a chair,” Lou invited.

  “I got better things to do than get drunk and lose money at cards,” Brodie said. “For your information, Kenny, while you’re sitting here playing footsie with some underage bar dolly, your wife’s in labor with your third child. Thought you might like to know.”

  This Trueblood was a sight to behold. He held his head high, his shoulders straight. He was a man of principle. Deannie read his character in his stance, and the way he chose his words.

  Brodie’s nostrils flared, and his bottom lip curled in disgust as he glowered at his brother.

  Deannie’s heart raced. He looked like tightly contained dynamite. He would not explode unprovoked, but heaven help the creature who earned this man’s wrath.

  Kenny stood, his chair scraping loudly across the cement floor. “Hey! Don’t get high and mighty with me. You aren’t married—you don’t understand what it’s like. Besides, Emma and I are separated. She’s the one who left me, remember?”