Chapter 1 #2
Adrenaline rushed through her body as she turned to head back to her car to call her daddy.
The sound of squeaky hinges had her startling and dropping her flashlight.
She whirled to see the door slowly opening.
A spike of fear raced through her before her law enforcement training kicked in and she raised her gun, her voice shaking as much as her hands.
“This is the C-C-Culvert C-C-County Sheriff’s Department. You are trespassing on private property. C-C-Come out slowly with your hands held high and in clear sight.”
The door finished opening, but it was impossible to see anything in the dark shadows of the dancehall. A tense, palm-sweating moment passed before a man stepped out the doorway and into the moonlight.
A man that did NOT go with the classic truck.
She’d pictured a clean-cut, city guy who wore Eddie Bauer, ate kale salad, and ran in marathons. She had not pictured a tattooed, muscular cowboy with a chiseled, stubbled jaw and long, ebony hair that brushed broad shoulders.
She should have trusted her first instincts and called for backup right away. Especially since those muscular, tatted arms weren’t raised in surrender. In fact, there was nothing submissive about the man’s stance. All he exuded was defiance.
From his tense jaw to the wide spread of his scuffed cowboy boots.
“I said get your hands in the air!” She inwardly cringed at her high-pitched voice . . . especially when compared to the deep, controlled reply.
“I’m not going to raise my hands like some criminal. Not when this is my property and you’re the one trespassing.”
“Your property? The owner of this bar passed away a week ago.” She adjusted the gun in her sweaty hands. “Now explain what you’re doing here or I’ll be forced to arrest you.”
She couldn’t see his eyes in the shadow of his black Stetson, but she could feel their intense gaze. “Doubtful. Now holster that gun before you accidentally shoot me. I can see your hands shaking from here.”
“Shooting you won’t be an accident. Now explain who you are and what you’re doing here.”
He hesitated. “Jaxon Hennessy. And since the owner of this property was my mama, I now own this . . .” He glanced over his shoulder. “Toasted piece of shit.”
Tully couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d claimed to be the devil himself.
Of course, Jaxon Hennessy was about as close to the devil as you could get. As were his three younger siblings.
The Hennessy kids had been hell raisers since birth.
If there was a fight at school, a cuss word spray-painted on the side of the church, a missing tractor found in a ditch, or a broken window on a car in town, the Hennessys’ monstrosity of a house, just a stone’s throw down the road, was the first place her daddy would head.
More nights than not, the Hennessy Hooligans’ antics were the subject of dinner conversations at Tully’s house. Before they all grew up and moved away, they had been as much the bane of her daddy’s existence as Honky Tonk Heaven.
Mama had only felt pity for the kids whose parents had allowed them to run wild. She had often reminded her husband that they were just children looking for love and attention.
Not that the Hennessy boys lacked for that.
Every girl in town had been half in love with the three brothers and followed them around like love-struck groupies. It was hard not to fall for their bad boy personas and devilish good looks. The two younger brothers, Dawson and Huck, had been quite the ladies’ men.
But not Jaxon.
Jaxon had never had a girlfriend.
Tully knew.
Like Honky Tonk Heaven, she’d had a major infatuation with him.
Maybe it was his midnight hair that shone in the sunlight like a wellspring of rich Texas oil.
Or his piercing eyes the color of browned butter.
Or the protective way he watched out for his siblings—holding their hands when they crossed the street, wiping their snotty noses with the bandana he always carried in his back pocket, giving them his ice cream when they’d eaten all theirs.
And every time her daddy came calling at the Hennessys, it was Jaxon who had always taken the blame for his siblings’ pranks and antics.
In her teenage hormone-soaked brain, Tully put Jaxon in the category of misunderstood hero and she spent most of her freshman year in high school fantasizing about him . . . until the night her daddy had caught him robbing Mickey’s Gas Station. Then she realized how stupid she’d been.
Jaxon was no hero to idealize. He was a bad boy through and through.
Still, he wasn’t doing anything wrong tonight. His family did own Honky Tonk Heaven.
She started to lower her gun when something fell from the tree and hit her arm. The loud shot that rang out had her ears ringing. When her confusion cleared, she stared in stunned horror at Jaxon face down on the ground.
“Oh my God!” She holstered her gun and raced to him.
“Please be okay . . . please be okay,” she pleaded as she leaned over him.
One second, she was checking for a pulse with two fingers pressed beneath his stubbled neck, and the next second, she was lying flat on her back with her hands pinned over her head.
Angry golden eyes glared at her.
“What the fuck! Have you lost your mind?”
She tried to take in the breath he’d knocked out of her, but the weight of his muscled body made that impossible. She felt like a solid brick wall had fallen on her. All she could get out was a squeaky wheeze.
He rolled his eyes and released a breath that smelled like mint Tic Tacs. “Je-sus.”
He got to his feet, effortlessly pulling her up with him. She wobbled like a drunken sailor for a second before she bent at her waist and tried to catch her breath. A hand settled on her back. A large hand that rubbed in a soothing circle.
“Don’t try to force the air in. Just let it come naturally.”
She followed his instructions, and a few seconds later, blessed oxygen filled her lungs.
After inhaling and exhaling two deep breaths, she was able to straighten.
Her gaze quickly ran over Jaxon. His hat had been knocked off and there was dirt on his white T-shirt and faded blue jeans, but no blood.
“So you’re okay?” she asked. “I didn’t shoot you?”
“Only because I was smart enough to drop to the ground when I saw the raccoon fall from the tree and hit your arm.”
“A raccoon?” She glanced around, then looked back to find him staring at her nametag.
“Officer Tallulah Gentry?” His eyes lifted to hers.
“You’re little Tully Gentry?” Before she could answer, he tipped back his head and laughed.
His laughter was as deep and rich as her mama’s dark chocolate fudge cake .
. . and annoying as hell. As were his next words.
“Little Tully Gentry almost shot me dead.”
If there was one thing Tully hated, it was being called little. “I’m not little.”
His laughter died as his gaze settled on her breasts. “Yeah, I guess you’re not little anymore.” His eyes lifted, along with one side of his mouth. “But I wouldn’t exactly call you full-grown either. Who thought it was a good idea to give such a nervous thing a gun?”
“I wasn’t expecting a raccoon to fall from a tree. And I’m not nervous.”
His dark brows popped up. “Really? If I remember correctly, you were always a nervous, fidgety kid.” She couldn’t argue.
Around him, she had always been a bundle of nerves.
Which resulted in embarrassing moments—tripping over her own feet, poking herself in the eye with straws, walking into light posts.
“And just so you know,” he continued. “An uncoordinated raccoon isn’t a good reason for almost killing a man. ”
“You’re right,” she said. “But if you hadn’t been acting so cocky and just told me who you were right away, I would’ve holstered my gun much sooner.”
“Sorry, but cops make me nervous. Especially Promise Springs’ cops.
And I’m sure you can figure out why.” He picked up the plywood as if it weighed nothing and set it against the doorframe before grabbing the crowbar and hammering the loosened nails back in place.
Once he finished, he headed around the side of the building.
She was going to let him go, but then a thought struck her and she raced after him. She caught up with him just as he reached his truck.
“Jaxon!”
He turned. In the bright beam of her patrol car’s spotlight, she could see how much he’d changed over the years. His boyish face had aged into a man’s. An unhappy man with no dimple creases or crinkled laugh lines. Just smooth harsh angles.
She didn’t know why that made her sad.
His eyebrows lifted beneath the swoop of ebony hair and she realized she was staring.
She cleared her throat. “I was wondering if you could keep what happened tonight between us. I don’t want folks thinking I can’t handle my job.”
“Folks or your daddy?”
The question didn’t surprise her. Everyone in Promise Springs knew how much she idealized her father. “Both.”
He studied her with those piercing gold coin eyes. “What’s in it for me?”
She didn’t know why she felt so disappointed. He was a Hennessy, after all.
“Never mind.” She turned and was almost to her patrol car when he stopped her.
“Hey, Officer Gentry!” When she looked back, her brain couldn’t help but register the extremely hot image he presented with his tatted, muscled arm resting on the open door of his truck and his dark hair framing his strong features. “I’m not a tattler.”
Relief flooded her. “Thank you.”
He nodded and went to get in his truck when a thought struck her.
“Jaxon!” When he glanced over his shoulder, she spoke much softer. “I’m real sorry about your mama.”
Nothing registered on his face. No sadness. No pain. Nothing.
“Well, that makes one of us.”