What kind of a brute owned it, anyway? Obviously, the kind who thought it went with his large penis. The kind who didn’t think it was overkill to have not one, but two huge flags (one American and the other who knew) hanging limply from poles on either side of the back window. A back window that displayed a decal of a little cartoon boy peeing on the Toyota symbol, two blue-starred football helmet stickers, and a gun rack with one empty slot.
Faith froze.
On second thought, maybe she wouldn’t ask questions
at this bar. Maybe she would drive down the main street again and try to find some other place open. Someplace that didn’t serve alcohol to armed patrons. Someplace where she wouldn’t end up Rebel Dead. Not that she was even close to being a rebel. Standing in the parking lot of Bootlegger’s Bar in Bramble, Texas, was the most rebellious thing she’d ever done in her life. If she had a bumper sticker, it would read:
CONFORMIST BORN, CONFORMIST BRED, AND WHEN SHE DIES SHE’LL BE CONFORMIST DEAD
. But she just didn’t want to be Conformist Dead yet.
Unfortunately, before she could get back to the leather-upholstered security of her Volvo, the battered door of the bar opened and two men walked out. Not walked, exactly. More like strutted—in wide felt cowboy hats and tight jeans with large silver belt buckles as big as brunch plates.
Faith ducked back behind the monster truck, hoping they’d walk past without noticing her. Except the sidewalk was as uneven as the parking lot and one pointy toe of her high heel got caught in a crack, forcing her to grab on to the tailgate or end up with her nose planted in the pavement. And as soon as her fingers hit the cold metal, an alarm went off—a loud howling that raised the hairs on her arms and had her stumbling back, praying that at least one of the men was packing so he could shoot the thing that had just risen up from the bed of the truck.
“For cryin’ out loud, Buster. Shut up.” One of the men shouted over the earsplitting noise.
The howling stopped as quickly as it had started. Shaken, Faith could only stare at the large, four-legged creature. With its mouth closed, the dog didn’t look threatening as much as… cute. Soulful brown eyes looked back at her from a woolly face. While she recovered from her
scare, it ambled over to the end of the truck and leaned its head out.
Faith stepped back. She wasn’t good with dogs. Or cats, gerbils, birds, hamsters, or fish. Pretty much anything living. She had a rabbit once, but after only three months in her care, it died of a nervous condition.
“Hope?”
The name spoken by the tall, lean cowboy with the warm coffee-colored skin caused her stomach to drop, and she swiveled around to look behind her.
No one was there.
“Baby, is that you?” The man’s Texas twang was so thick that it seemed contrived.
Faith started to shake her head, but he let out a whoop and had her in his arms before she could accomplish it. She was whirled around in a circle against his wiry body before he tossed her over to his friend, who had a soft belly and a chest wide enough to land a 747.
“Welcome home, Little Bit.” The large man gave her a rough smack on the lips, the whiskers of his mustache and goatee tickling. He pulled back, and his blue eyes narrowed. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”
“She cut it, you idiot.” With a contagious grin, the lean cowboy reached out and ruffled her hair. “That’s what all them Hollywood types do. Cut off their crownin’ glory like it’s nothin’ more than tangled fishin’ line.” He cocked his head. “But I guess it don’t look so bad. It’s kinda cute in a short, ugly kinda way. And I like the color. What’s that called—streakin’?”
The man who still held her in his viselike grip grinned, tobacco juice seeping from the corner of his mouth. “No, Kenny, that’s what we did senior year.”
“Right.” Kenny’s dark eyes twinkled. “But it’s like streakin’. Tintin’? Stripin’? Highlightin’! That’s it!” He whacked her on the back so hard she wondered if he’d cracked a rib. “Shirlene did that. But it don’t look as good as yours. She looked a little like a polecat when it was all said and done. Does she know you’re back? Hot damn, she’s gonna shit a brick when she sees you. She’s missed you a lot.”
His eyes lost some of their twinkle. “Of course, we all have. But especially Slate.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the door. “I can’t wait to see his face when he sees you. Of course, he ain’t real happy right now. The Dawgs lost last night—twenty-one to seven—but I’m sure you’ll put an end to his depression.”
Faith barely listened to the man’s constant chatter as he dragged her through the door and into the dark, smoky depths of the bar. She felt light-headed, and emotion crept up the back of her throat. Did they really look so much alike that these men couldn’t tell the difference? It made sense, but it was still hard to absorb. All this time, she thought she was an only child and to realize…
“Here.” Kenny slapped his black cowboy hat down on her head and tipped it forward. “We don’t want to start a stampede until Slate gets to see you. Not that anyone would recognize you in that getup.” He shook his head as his gaze slid down her body to the tips of her high heels. “Please don’t tell me you got rid of your boots, Hope. Gettin’ rid of all that gorgeous hair’s bad enough.”
Faith opened her mouth with every intention of telling him she never owned a pair of western boots to get rid of, or had long gorgeous hair, for that matter. But before she could, he tucked her under his arm and dragged her past
the long bar and around the crowded dance floor with his friend following obediently behind.
“So how’s Hollywood treatin’ ya?” Kenny yelled over the loud country music, then waved a hand at a group of women who called out his name. “It’s been way too long since you came for a visit. But I bet you’ve been busy knockin’ them Hollywood directors on their butts. Nobody can act like our little Hope. You flat killed me when you was Annie in
Annie Get Your Gun
. Of course, you did almost kill Colt—not that I blame you since he was the one who switched out that blank with live ammo. But the crowd sure went crazy when you shot out them stage lights. I still get chills just thinkin’ about it.”
Chills ran through Faith’s body as well. Hollywood? Actor? Live ammo? Her mind whirled with the information she’d received in such a short span of time.
“Yep, things sure ain’t been the same without you. I can barely go into Josephine’s Diner without gettin’ all misty-eyed. ’Course those onions Josie fries up will do that to a person. Still, nobody serves up chicken-fried steak as pretty as you did. Rachel Dean is a nice old gal, but them man hands of hers can sure kill an appetite.”
Kenny glanced down at her, then stopped so suddenly his friend ran into him from behind. From beneath the wide brim of her hat, she watched his dark brows slide together.
“Hey, what’s the matter with you, anyway? How come you’re lettin’ me haul you around without cussin’ me up one side and down the other?”
Probably because Faith didn’t cuss—up one side
or
down the other. And because she wasn’t a pretty waitress who was brave enough to get on stage and perform in
front of a crowd of people. Or move away from the familiarity of home for the bright lights of Hollywood.
Hollywood.
Hope was in Hollywood.
For a second, Faith felt an overwhelming surge of disappointment, but it was quickly followed by the realization that all the hundreds of miles traveled had not been in vain. This was where Hope had grown up. And where Faith would find answers to some of the questions that had plagued her for the last year.
Except once Kenny found out she wasn’t Hope, she probably wouldn’t get any more answers. She’d probably be tossed out of the bar without even a “y’all come back now, ya hear.” She’d become a stranger. An uppity easterner with a weird accent, chopped-off ugly hair, and not one pair of cowboy boots to her name. A person who was as far from the popular Hometown Hope he’d described as Faith’s Volvo was from the redneck’s truck.
But what choice did she have? She had never been good at lying. Besides, once she opened her mouth, the truth would be out. Unless… unless she didn’t open her mouth. Unless she kept her mouth shut and let everyone assume what they would. It wouldn’t be a lie exactly, more of a fib. And fibs were okay, as long as they didn’t hurt anyone. And who could possibly get hurt if she allowed these people to think she was someone else for just a little while longer?
Hope wasn’t there.
And Faith wouldn’t be, either, after tonight.
Swallowing down the last of her reservations, she tapped her throat and mouthed, “Laryngitis.”
Those deep eyes grew more puzzled. “Huh?”
“My throat,” she croaked in barely a whisper.
His brows lifted. “Oh! Your throat’s hoarse. Well, that explains it.” He gathered her back against his side and started moving again. “For a second, I thought I had someone else in my arms besides Miss Hog Caller of Haskins County five years runnin’.” He chuckled deep in his chest. “ ’Course, Slate’s gonna love this. He always said you talked too much.”
“Hey, Kenny! What ya got there?” A skinny man stepped off the dance floor with a young woman in a tight T-shirt with the words “Keepin’ It Country” stretched across her large breasts and an even tighter pair of jeans that pushed up a roll of white flesh over her tooled leather belt.
“None of your damned beeswax, Fletch.” Kenny winked at the young woman. “Hey, Twyla.”
She scowled. “I thought you was goin’ home, Kenny Gene.”
“I was, darlin’, but I have to take care of something first.”
“I got eyes, Kenny. And if this is the somethin’ you need to take care of, then don’t be callin’ me to go to the homecomin’ game with you. I got other plans.”
“Now don’t be gettin’ all bent out of shape, honey,” Kenny yelled at the woman’s retreating back. “Man, that gal’s got a temper,” he chuckled. “Almost as bad as yours.”
Faith didn’t have a temper. At least not one anyone had witnessed.
“Now don’t go and ruin the surprise, Hope. Let me do all the talkin’.” He shot her a weak grin. “Sorry, I forgot about your voice. Man, is Slate gonna be surprised.”
For the first time since allowing this man to take
charge of her life, Faith started to get worried. Surprises weren’t always well received. Her mother had dropped a surprise a few months before she passed away, a surprise Faith was still trying to recover from.
But this was different. It sounded like this Slate and Hope had been good friends. He would probably whoop like Kenny had done, give her a big hug and possibly a little more razor burn—and hopefully a lot more information before she made her excuses and slipped out the door.
And no one would be the wiser. Except maybe Hope, if she came home before Faith found her. But that wouldn’t happen. Faith had every intention of finding Hope as soon as possible. She might not be a rebel, but she was tenacious.
Tenacious but more than a little scared when Kenny pulled her inside a room with two pool tables, a gaggle of cowboy hats, and a sea of blue denim. The light in the room was better but the smoke thicker. The music softer but the conversation louder. They hesitated by the door for a few seconds as Kenny looked around; then Faith was hauled across the room to the far table where a man in a crumpled straw cowboy hat had just leaned over to take a shot.
Faith had barely taken note of the strong hand and lean forearm that stretched out of the rolled-up sleeve of the blue western shirt before Kenny whipped the hat off her head and pushed her forward.
“Lookie what the cat drug in, Slate!”
The loud conversation came to a dead halt, along with Faith’s breath as every eye turned to her. But she wasn’t overly concerned with the other occupants of the room. Only with the man who lifted his head, then froze with
his fingers steepled over the skinny end of the pool cue. He remained that way for what seemed like hours. Or what seemed like hours to a woman whose knees had suddenly turned as limp as her hat hair.
Someone coughed, and slowly, he lifted his hand from the table and unfolded his body.
He was tall. At least, he looked tall to a woman who wasn’t over five foot four in heels. His chest wasn’t big enough to land a 747 on but it looked solid enough to hold up a weak-kneed woman. It tapered down to smooth flat cotton tucked into a leather belt minus the huge buckle. His jeans weren’t tight or pressed with a long crease like most of the men in the room; instead the soft well-worn denim molded to his body, defining his long legs, muscular thighs, and slim hips.
The hand that wasn’t holding the cue stick lifted to push the misshaped sweat-stained cowboy hat back on his high forehead, and a pair of hazel eyes stared back at her—a mixture of rich browns and deep greens. The eyes sat above a long, slim nose that boasted a tiny white scar across the bridge and a mouth that was almost too perfect to belong to a man. It wasn’t too wide or too small, the top lip peaking nicely over the full bottom.
The corners hitched up in a smile.
“Hog?”
Hog?
Her mind was still trying to deal with the raw sensuality of the man who stood before her; there was no way it could deal with the whole “hog” thing. Especially when the man leaned his pool cue against the edge of the table and took a step toward her.
She prepared herself for the loud whoop and the rough
manhandling that would follow. But what she was not prepared for was the gentleness of the fingers that slid through her hair, or the coiled strength of the hand that pulled her closer, or the heat of the body that pressed up against hers. And she was definitely not prepared for the soft lips that swooped down to bestow a kiss.