Promise Me a Slow Texas Dance (Honky Tonk Heaven #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

At one time, Honky Tonk Heaven had been the most popular bar in Texas.

Maybe even the world. Some of the greatest country music stars of all-time had graced its stage: Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson.

It was rumored that even Elvis had stopped in and sung a few gospel songs with the band before sneaking out the side door when the crowd got a little too spiritually rowdy.

Of course, rumors couldn’t always be believed.

Especially in Promise Springs, Texas.

But even if Elvis hadn’t made the huge overhead rafters ring with “How Great Thou Art,” Honky-Tonk Heaven was infamous.

The large white clapboard building started out as a dancehall in the late eighteen hundreds, hosting dances, cotton festivals, and town meetings.

When the town church had burned to the ground after the pastor got drunk and passed out in his office with a lit cigarette in his hand, the townsfolk had slapped a steeple on the pitched roof of the dancehall and used it for their place of worship until the church was rebuilt.

It had taken twenty-three years. By that time, the townsfolk had gotten used to the steeple being on their dancehall, so they decided to keep it . . . and add a stage and a full bar that served more than just beer.

Thus, the name Honky Tonk Heaven was born.

From that point on, until eight years ago when a fire—this time caused by lightning—gutted it, Honky Tonk Heaven had been the place to go to listen to good country music, kick up your heels on the solid oak dance floor, play pool or darts with your friends in the backroom, kiss a pretty country gal under the big oak tree by the river, or just sit at the long mahogany bar and enjoy a beer.

But after the fire, Honky Tonk Heaven had been boarded up tight.

No country music legends stopped by to sing a set.

No hordes of two-steppers shuffled around the solid oak floors.

No lovers kissed beneath the big oak tree .

. . or did naughtier things in the backseats of the dusty trucks that had once filled the football field-sized dirt parking lot.

And it just about broke Tallulah Gentry’s little ol’ heart in two.

From the time she was old enough to listen, Tully had heard stories about Honky Tonk Heaven. Not just the rumors that spread around town, but the actual truth of what happened inside those clapboard walls.

And Sheriff Delbert Gentry didn’t lie.

Not that her daddy had told his only child those sordid stories.

But Tully’s childhood bedroom had been right above the kitchen.

And if she placed her ear on the floor vent exactly right, it hadn’t been hard to hear her daddy relaying the stories of what had taken place that night at Honky Tonk Heaven to her mama.

And, oh, the stories he told . . .

Table-breaking brawls between Longhorn and Aggie football fans. Jealous women’s whiskey-throwing tirades. Betraying-spouses bathroom rendezvouses. Avid country fans’ screaming panty-tossing.

And those were just the nightly happenings.

Occasionally, something really exciting happened.

Like the time Earl Talbot snuck his beer-loving bull into the bar to win a bet. He won the bet, but after drinking six-beers, Budweiser had gone nuts and destroyed a bunch of tables and chairs and sent Earl’s best friend to the emergency room to get his butt stitched up.

Even now, Tully couldn’t help but giggle at the thought of the drunk bull sending tables and chairs . . . and Mickey flying.

Of course, her daddy hadn’t found any of these stories humorous. Probably because he was the one who had to deal with the fallout. He was more than relieved when Honky Tonk Heaven closed down.

But Tully wasn’t.

She had waited all her life to witness the wild happenings at the bar in person. And then before she could turn twenty-one and legally get inside, lightning had struck. Almost as if God were punishing her for her infatuation with a wild country bar.

But that hadn’t stopped her infatuation.

Every time she worked the night patrol, she couldn’t help driving past the bar and fantasizing about what it had been like in its heyday. It was sad to see such a legendary, historical building boarded up and the parking lot completely emp—

Tully slammed on the brakes of her patrol car so quickly the bag of kettle corn she’d been munching sailed off her lap and spilled all over her boots.

She might have been concerned about how to get the popcorn out from under her seat before her daddy’s inspection tomorrow if her mind hadn’t been trying to figure out why a truck, that looked like it should be at a classic car show, was sitting in front of a boarded-up building at close to midnight.

Her first instinct was to reach for the radio receiver hanging on the dash behind the mobile data terminal and call for backup.

And if she were a deputy sheriff in some big city with plenty of backup to call, she would have.

But she was a deputy for Culvert County, a county that had one sheriff and one deputy.

The sheriff was her overprotective daddy who still didn’t think she could handle the night shift alone.

She drew her hand back from the receiver.

Just because a strange truck was parked in front of the old dancehall that didn’t mean something nefarious was going on.

Criminals didn’t usually drive pristine classic trucks.

The truck had probably broken down. Old trucks broke down all the time.

The old Ford truck Tully had inherited from her granddaddy broke down every other week.

Looking at the beautifully restored Chevy in the flood of her SUV’s headlights, Tully couldn’t help feeling guilty about not fixing up Granddaddy Lowell’s gift.

She had fond memories of sitting next to her beloved grandfather as they drove down the rutted roads of his small cotton farm.

Since the truck only had lap seatbelts, every time he came to a stop, Granddaddy would reach out his weathered, sun spotted arm to hold her back in the seat.

The memory brought the sting of tears and a stubborn flare of determination. She would fix up the old Ford and make it look just as nice as this one. Better. Everyone knew Fords were better than Chevys. And maybe whoever owned this truck would share the name of his, or her, body shop.

Although as she pulled her patrol car behind the truck and shone her spotlight in the back window, it looked like the owner had deserted the truck. No doubt to walk into town for help.

Still, it was better to err on the side of caution. As soon as she got out, she unhooked her gun safety before moving cautiously closer. Once she confirmed no one was in the truck, she removed the small torch flashlight from her belt and shined it in the side window.

The inside of the truck was as pristine as the outside.

No empty beer cans or fast-food wrappers littered the floor mats; no cheesy souvenirs sat on the dash or dangled from the rearview mirror.

The only clutter in the truck was a half-empty bottle of Smartwater and a container of Tic Tacs sitting in the middle of the turquoise leather bench seat.

Which confirmed her scenario.

Someone had taken their classic truck out for a Saturday drive when it broke down. At that very moment, the owner was probably walking around town trying to get phone reception. Or find something open.

Good luck with that.

Promise Springs rolled up their sidewalks tight at nine o’clock. And as for cell reception, it had never been good. Probably because the town council was convinced cell towers were part of a worldwide conspiracy to collect information from unsuspecting folks and take their lifesavings.

Which probably explained why gossip was still the main source of information.

Tully didn’t doubt for a second that rumors of the stranded Chevy truck would be spreading through town while everyone enjoyed their first cup of morning Joe at Grounds For Divorce, the only coffee shop in town .

. . along with how Little Tully Gentry had handled the situation.

Like her daddy, the townsfolk did not believe in her deputying skills. To them, she would always be the freckled-face, curly-haired, clumsy little girl who never could get things quite right.

Tully was determined to prove them wrong.

First things first, she needed to locate the stranded traveler and help him, or her, get back on the road.

She headed to her vehicle, intending to cruise through the town square, when a loud crash had her freezing in her tracks.

With her heart thumping overtime, she whirled and flashed her torch at the dancehall where the sound had come from.

But the windows and front door were boarded up tight so she couldn’t see inside.

Now was the time to call her daddy. But that would only prove she wasn’t a capable law officer who could handle situations by herself.

She took a deep, shaky breath and slowly released it.

Stop freaking out, Tully, and review the facts.

First and foremost, there wasn’t anything of value left in the dancehall.

So the only crime being committed was trespassing.

And maybe it wasn’t even a person. Maybe a rodent searching for food or a rotted beam falling from the ceiling had caused the crash.

Those scenarios seemed more likely than the driver of the classic pristine truck breaking into a burned-out building.

Still, she needed to make sure.

Pulling her gun from the holster, she moved around the dancehall, flashing light at each boarded up window. Everything was secure . . . until she reached the back of the dancehall and saw the crowbar lying on the ground next to the door-sized piece of plywood.

So much for the rodent and rotten beam theory.