Chapter Two #3
"How much do I owe you?" I pulled out my wallet, afraid of what we'd get roped into if we stayed any longer.
She named a figure that made me blink twice, but I paid without comment. This was an investment. If the Vickerys signed on, it would be worth every penny.
"Just make out a check—you do know how to spell Laverne, right?" she winked. "Or just make it to Fringe Benefits if that's easier."
"Y'all come back anytime," she called as we staggered under the weight of Honey's new wardrobe to the truck. "And Heath? You treat this one right! She's a keeper!"
Outside, Honey waited until we were in the cab before turning to me. "A keeper, huh?"
"She's just being friendly," I said under my breath, starting the engine.
"I look ridiculous," she said, checking herself in the visor mirror. "This isn't me at all."
I glanced at her as I pulled onto Main Street. Under all that makeup and hairspray was still the woman who'd stood up to a judge, who'd driven two hours in the rain to rescue turkeys she thought were in danger. Who'd accepted my crazy proposition with blinking an eye.
"You look fine," I said gruffly. "The Vickerys will be impressed."
She let out a short laugh. "That I can stand upright under the weight of this hair? It's an engineering marvel."
I couldn't help but smile. "Hungry? We've got time for an early dinner at the Hungry Heifer before they arrive at eight."
"Sure," she agreed. "Though fair warning—if you take me somewhere with that name, I might just stick with soup."
My half-smile grew into a full one. "They make a decent tomato soup."
"Sold." She leaned back in her seat, then winced. "Ow. I think one of these rhinestones just stabbed me in the butt."
And just like that, the tension between us eased a fraction.
The drive to the diner took us past rolling hills dusted with the faded golds and browns of late autumn.
A few early Christmas decorations had appeared on the storefronts, mixing oddly with the Thanksgiving birds and cornucopias in the window displays.
The temperature had dropped since morning, and low clouds hinted at more rain on the way—typical for November in the Hill Country.
The Hungry Heifer hadn't changed in twenty years—worn vinyl booths in faded red, walls decorated with cattle brands and old rodeo photos, Patsy Cline playing softly from the ancient jukebox in the corner. Doris Jenkins, who'd been serving food here since before I was born, seated us by the window.
Honey ordered tomato soup and Caesar salad, while I went with the chicken-fried steak and gravy special.
"And some of your jalapeno cornbread," I added, glancing at Honey. "It's worth trying."
Honey gave a quick nod to Doris, who smiled and headed off to place our orders.
Between bites of cornbread and spicy jalapeno honey butter, we pieced together more of our story—how we'd reconnected at that charity event, our first date (dinner at an Italian place in Austin), even our first kiss (on the Congress Avenue Bridge at sunset, watching the bats).
"What about Thanksgiving plans?" Honey asked, spooning up the last of her soup. "I'm assuming the Vickerys will ask."
"We're hosting dinner at the ranch," I said. "My parents are in South Padre Island—they'll FaceTime, but they won't be here in person. Knox is coming, and..." I hesitated, not wanting to mention he’d be bringing Bitsy yet.
"And?" she prompted.
"And we'll have to talk ranch prep at some point," I dodged. "Since you're supposedly helping me get ready for the season."
She rolled her eyes. "You mean I'm going to have to learn turkey terminology? What's a tom versus a hen? Breeding cycles? Genetic lineages?"
My expression softened as I watched her. "Don't worry, I'll teach you enough to fake it."
Driving back to the ranch, we passed Buck Jessup's farm—the place Honey had actually been trying to infiltrate.
The contrast between his overcrowded barns and my open-range breeding pens couldn't be more stark.
I pointed out the differences, explaining how industrial turkey production sacrificed genetic diversity for standardized size.
"So that's why you're so passionate about this," Honey said, watching the Jessup facility disappear in the side mirror. "You're fighting a one-man battle against the industrial complex."
I didn't correct her on the "one-man" part. Soon enough, if the Vickerys came through, I wouldn't be alone in this fight.
***
We spent the remaining hours getting ready for our guests’ arrival. I gave Honey a crash course in stock development while we walked the property, pointing out the different pens where I kept the Bourbon Reds separate from the Narragansetts and Royal Palms.
"So the Bourbon Reds are the ones I tried to steal?" she asked, keeping a safe distance from the fence.
"Liberate," I corrected with a half-smile. "And yes, they're the rarest and most valuable of the breeding stock. The one you grabbed was Thomas Jefferson."
She cocked an eyebrow. "You name your turkeys after presidents?"
"Only the important ones."
By the time we finished the tour and headed back to the house, Honey actually seemed interested in the operation, asking surprisingly thoughtful questions about animal husbandry. Her lawyer brain tackled the issue like a case she needed to understand, which was... endearing.
At seven thirty, we were both dressed and waiting nervously in the living room.
Honey had changed into one of the outfits Laverne had picked out— leggings, a belted cranberry-colored sweater, and riding boots that actually suited her.
She'd toned down the makeup and managed to flatten her hair somewhat, though it still had considerably more volume than her usual style.
Just when I was about to check my watch for the twentieth time, the rumble of a large engine broke the silence. I took a deep breath and headed for the door, Honey close behind me.
"Showtime," she whispered.
What pulled into my driveway wasn't so much an RV as a small luxury apartment on wheels. The gleaming vehicle had to be at least forty-five feet long, with slide-outs that I knew would double the interior space. The Vickery Cattle Company logo was emblazoned on the side in gold lettering.
Earl and Dottie Vickery descended the automatic steps like royalty coming down from a private jet.
Earl was tall and weathered, with a silver Stetson and a bolo tie with a turquoise clasp the size of a chicken egg.
Dottie was petite but formidable, her white-blonde hair perfectly coiffed, a pearl necklace nestled against her cashmere sweater.
"Heath, my boy!" Earl boomed, striding forward to shake my hand with bone-crushing force. "Good to see you again. Ain't you a sight for sore eyes!"
"Earl," I nodded respectfully. "Dottie. Welcome to McGraw Heritage Ranch."
Dottie's sharp eyes immediately zeroed in on Honey. "And who is this sweet little thing?" Her smile was pleasant, but her eyes were cold and calculating, like a cat watching a mouse hole.
"This is Honey March," I said, placing my hand at the small of Honey's back. "My girlfriend."
"Girlfriend?" Dottie's eyebrows rose slightly. "Well, isn't that lovely. Earl, Heath has a girlfriend."
"Well, slap my face and call me Sally," Earl exclaimed with a laugh that was a little too hearty. "Boy your age needs a good woman. Keeps a man from goin' strange."
I felt Honey stiffen beside me but she kept her expression neutral.
"It's wonderful to meet you both," she said, extending her hand. "Heath's told me so much about you."
"All good things, I hope," Dottie said, taking Honey's hand in a brief shake.
"Of course," Honey assured her. "I hear you're interested in Heath's breeding program. He's been working so hard on it."
"That's right," Earl said. "Got to preserve the old bloodlines. Too many factory operations these days pumping out those bland birds with no flavor. Genetic propagation, that's where the money is now. People will pay top dollar for a real turkey."
"Come on in," I said, gesturing toward the house. "Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?"
"Got any bourbon?" Earl asked with a wink.
"Of course."
As I led them inside, Dottie linked arms with Honey, drawing her closer with Southern hospitality.
"So, dear," she said, her voice honeyed with polished charm, "What is it that you do?"
"I'm a public defender in Austin," Honey replied.
Dottie's hand flew to her pearl necklace, clutching it like Honey had just announced she was starting a motorcycle gang. "A public defender? You mean you... defend criminals?"
"I represent individuals who are constitutionally entitled to legal counsel regardless of their financial circumstances," Honey corrected, straightening her spine. "Everyone deserves a fair trial under our judicial system."
Earl snorted as he accepted the bourbon I handed him. "Why bother with all that rigamarole? If they got arrested, they done it. Lock 'em all up and throw away the key, I say!"
I saw Honey take a deep breath before responding. "Well, Mr. Vickery, the judicial system—"
"Earl, please," he interrupted. "Mr. Vickery was my daddy."
"Earl," Honey amended, her mouth forming a smile while her eyes remained frosty. "The system works best when both sides are properly represented."
"I suppose," Earl conceded, not sounding convinced. "Though I don't know why a cute little thing like you would want to spend her days with a bunch of hooligans. That's about as useful as a pocketwatch on a pig."
Honey's nostrils flared slightly, but she held her tongue. I quickly steered the conversation toward safer ground.
"Dottie, Earl, can I show you around the ranch? The barn's been completely renovated since your last visit."
"Actually," Dottie said, glancing at her diamond-encrusted watch, "it's getting late. We've had a long drive. Perhaps in the morning?"
"Of course," I agreed.
"We'll just settle into the RV for the night," Earl said. "Got everything we need in there. Queen-sized bed, satellite TV, full kitchen."
"You don't want to stay in the guest room?" I asked.
Dottie laughed lightly. "Oh no, dear. We're quite comfortable in our rolling home. It's nicer than most hotels."
"Nicer than this here house," Earl added with a chuckle that he probably thought was good-natured.
I forced a smile. "Well, if you're sure. Join us for breakfast?"
"Perfect," Dottie confirmed. "We'll come by around eight."
After they retreated, Honey let out a long, slow breath.
"'Lock 'em all up, I say!'" she mimicked Earl's booming voice. "'Pretty little thing.' I swear I felt my law degree shrivel up and die."
"You did great," I assured her, genuinely impressed by her restraint. "I was sure you were going to read him the riot act when he said that thing about criminals."
"The night is young," she muttered.
We headed back through the foyer to the living room where Earl's half-drunk bourbon still sat on the coffee table. I picked it up and downed it in one gulp.
"So," Honey said, kicking off her uncomfortable boots. "About that investment. How much are we talking?"
"Quarter million," I said, sinking onto the couch. "Enough to expand, build a new barn, maybe hire a full-time specialist."
"They seem interested?"
I gave a noncommittal half-nod. "Hard to tell with Earl. He plays his cards close."
"And Dottie plays with a loaded deck," Honey added.
That startled a genuine laugh out of me. "You're not wrong."
We sat in companionable silence for a moment. Then Honey turned to me, her expression serious.
"I think I can do this," she said earnestly. "It's just acting, right? And they'll be gone after Thanksgiving."
"Right," I agreed, ignoring the strange twist in my chest. "Just acting."
She yawned, the day's events clearly catching up with her. "But I need sleep if I'm going to face another round with those two tomorrow."
I nodded, feeling the weight of the day myself. "Go ahead. I'll lock up."
"Thanks." She hesitated at the hallway entrance. "This is really happening, isn't it? Playing house for a quarter million dollars."
"Afraid so." I gestured toward the bedroom. "Your new sleeping chambers await, Counselor."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide her smile. "Don't forget—floor duty for you, Rancher."
"As agreed," I said with a mock salute.
After she disappeared down the hallway, I took my time securing the house, giving her privacy to get ready for bed. When I finally entered the bedroom, she was already tucked under the covers. Her clothes were neatly folded on the dresser, next to my family photos—the juxtaposition oddly intimate.
I grabbed a spare blanket from the closet and made a makeshift bed on the floor, listening to her steady breathing from the other side of the room.
I was in trouble. Because fake girlfriend or not, there was nothing pretend about the way my blood warmed just being in the same room with her.
This was going to be one hell of a week.