Trouble in Texas (15 page)

Faith shook her head. “No, I guess it doesn’t excuse him, but it might explain why
he’s so obsessed with the curse and his grandfather’s death. And Slate did say he
was going to find jobs for all the employees of Dalton with C-Corp.”

Hope rolled her eyes. “I’ll believe that when pigs fly.” She got to her feet. “Speaking
of which… we need to go pick up Sherman at Shirlene’s house. I figure the kids have
tuckered him out by now.”

Sherman was Hope’s pet, a cute pig that had won the entire town over with his sweet
disposition and almost human-like behavior.

“I’ll stop by the library later,” Faith said as she got to her feet.

Once they were gone, Elizabeth didn’t waste any time paying her bill and heading to
the library. Her conversation with the twins had made her a good five minutes late,
and she had to hustle to get back on schedule. While she took the books out of the
night drop-off box, she couldn’t help thinking about what Faith had told her about
Brant’s wife and son.

It was a tragedy. And Faith was right. It didn’t excuse
Brant’s actions, but it sure explained them. Elizabeth hadn’t even known her father.
He had left before she was born and never contacted her once in all the years after.
And yet, when she had gotten the news of his death, she’d been devastated. It didn’t
matter that she hadn’t ever met him, or he hadn’t loved her enough to want to be part
of her life. He was her father. She could only imagine how much more painful it would
be if you lost someone you knew and loved.

And not just one person, but your entire family.

For the rest of the morning, Elizabeth was kept busy with children’s story time and
a class field trip from Bramble Elementary. When she finally had a break, she found
herself back at her desk, typing Brant’s name into the Google search. The sites that
came up were staggering. There were so many articles about Brant on the internet that
Elizabeth only had time to skim through each one.

Still, it was enough. Besides learning more than she would ever want to know about
C-Corp, she learned about his personal life. Brant had been born in Dogwood, a small
town in east Texas. He was the second son to a family of five boys and one girl. Buckley,
Branston, Billy, Beauregard, Beckett, and Brianne. But Elizabeth soon discovered a
newspaper article about the oldest son, Buckley, dying after his car had been hit
by a train. And there was another article about Brant making a huge donation to The
Cancer Society in the name of his brother, Beauregard, who was undergoing treatment
for cancer.

Finally, she stumbled upon a story about Amanda and Branston Cates Junior, who were
killed when a tornado swept through east Texas. Elizabeth had found very few pictures
of Brant, and none of him posing for the camera. He
wasn’t posing in this newspaper photo, either. He was standing in the midst of the
remains of a demolished house, nothing more than a tall silhouette against the blue
of the sky.

Elizabeth’s hand slipped off the computer mouse. And suddenly, she wondered if maybe
Brant wasn’t so crazy after all. Maybe there
was
a Cates Curse that followed him around. How else could you explain the string of
tragedies?

She returned to her work, but her mind never strayed far from Brant and his Curse.
During her afternoon break, she returned to her computer to look up information on
William Cates. There was very little to be found. The only thing she discovered was
that he’d been born in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, in 1870, which meant that he had only been
twenty-two when he died. She had just pulled up an article from an old Lubbock newspaper
about a Cates metalsmith business when Moses Tate shuffled past the desk.

Moses was over ninety and hard of hearing so he didn’t even acknowledge Elizabeth
when she called out a greeting. He just continued over to the newspaper section, where
he would read a little and sleep a lot more. Normally, Elizabeth would go right back
to what she was doing. But today she realized that Moses’ arrival was perfect timing.
He was the one man in town who might be able to help her.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tate,” she yelled as she stepped out from behind her desk.

Moses dropped the newspaper he’d just pulled off the wooden rack and held a hand to
his chest before turning and squinting at her. “No need to yell, Ms. Murphy. I ain’t
deef. Besides, I thought you was supposed to be quiet in libraries.”

Elizabeth bit back a smile. “That’s true. I’ll try to keep it down.”

Moses nodded before grabbing another paper and heading over to one of the reading
couches.

Elizabeth followed him, picking up the newspaper he’d dropped and placing it back
on the rack. “So I was wondering if you could tell me a story, Mr. Tate.”

The newspaper rattled as he opened it up. “And which one would that be? At ninety-one,
I got my fair share of ’em.”

“The one about William Cates,” she said as she took a seat on the couch across from
him.

His bushy white brows lifted. “I heard you was interested in one of them Cates boys,
but I didn’t put much store in it. Guess I was wrong.”

Giving up on correcting the assumption, she repeated Rachel’s description of Beau.
“Yes, well, he’s as hot as jalapeño sauce on a chile relleno.”

Moses shook his head. “Don’t eat spicy things myself. They give me gas.” He squinted
at the newspaper. “So I figure you’ve heard the town’s version of the story. And they
got the first part right. William did get all riled up about the mayor not paying
him for the plaque he’d made. And I can’t say as I blame Will. It wasn’t his fault
that the town hall wasn’t completed by the date on the plaque.” He shook his head
and turned to the next page. “The townsfolk have always been as slow as molasses.”

“So that’s when Sheriff Murdock supposedly shot him?” Elizabeth prompted.

“Yep, that’s the story the newspaper came up with. But my grandpappy saw Will that
very night at Miss Hattie’s and got the story straight from the horse’s mouth. It
seems
the mayor had calmed William down by offering him a night at Miss Hattie’s Henhouse.”

“Where he was shot,” Elizabeth finished for him. “And did your grandfather ever tell
you who shot him?”

“Nope. He was upstairs at the time.”

Not wanting to discuss what his grandfather had been doing upstairs, Elizabeth forged
on. “But he said it was in a poker game. Did he mention who was playing poker that
night?”

He licked his finger and turned to the next page. “Nope.”

Elizabeth fell back on the couch. “So all we know is that William Cates was shot to
death in a poker game on the night of August fifth.” She was so into her thoughts
that she didn’t realize that the afterschool program had come into the library until
a couple kids raced past on their way to the story pit.

Knowing that she would need to corral the children before they got out of hand, Elizabeth
got up from the couch. “Thank you, Mr. Tate. I’ll let you get back to your reading.”

She started to head to her desk to get the book she’d picked out for this afternoon
when Moses stopped her.

“It wasn’t on August fifth.”

Elizabeth turned back around. “Excuse me?”

“William Cates wasn’t killed on August fifth. That was the day he showed up in Bramble,
but that wasn’t the day he was shot.”

“But I thought you said that the mayor treated him to a night at Miss Hattie’s?” Elizabeth
said.

“He did.” Moses grinned, revealing his pink toothless gums. “But no man alive can
only stay one night at The Henhouse.”

A
STORM HAD MOVED INTO
D
OGWOOD
. It split the dark skies with jagged spears of light and left a crackle of electricity
in the thick humid air.

Brant stood on his bedroom balcony, staring out at the night.

Storms were the worst. He could ignore the pain in sunlight, but there was no ignoring
it when each gust of wind and rumble of thunder caused questions to pelt his mind
like the cold, unrelenting rain that fell from the sky.

Did they wake up in time to be scared? Did Branston Junior cry from his crib in the
other room? Did Mandy make it to him in time? Did they suffer any pain? Did they call
out his name?

The questions rolled around and around in his head until Brant tipped his face up
to the skies and dared the powers that be to finish the job. To strike him dead where
he stood and put him out of his misery. But as always, he was left standing on the
flagstone balcony drenched in rain… and pain.

He didn’t know how long he stood out there before he
finally turned and walked back inside. After a hot shower, he climbed in bed with
his laptop. Work seemed to be the only thing that helped shut out the storm. It was
well past one o’clock when the lightning finally stopped and the rain slowed to a
drizzle. Exhausted, he saved his files and shut off the computer. But when he went
to set his laptop on the nightstand, his gaze got caught by the books resting next
to the lamp.

The one on top was his great-grandmother’s diary. A book he’d read from cover to cover,
at least four times. Ever since Billy had discovered it at their Aunt Milly’s. Brant
hadn’t learned anything about his great-grandfather’s death in the diary. Most of
the entries consisted of his great-grandmother complaining about Texas and how much
she wanted to return to Iowa. The only time she’d mentioned his grandfather was at
the end of the diary, when she ranted on and on about William’s body not being returned
to her for a proper burial.

Ignoring the diary, Brant slid out the book beneath it. It was a history book, one
of the many he had read before heading to Miss Hattie’s. But this one he had kept
for the picture on the cover. It wasn’t as sensual as the one painted on the mirror
above the bed. This woman was dressed in a high-collared dress with big puffed sleeves.
But it had never been Hattie Ladue’s clothes that had intrigued Brant.

His gaze wandered over her face—the pointed chin, the full mouth, the slim nose—until
he reached the eyes. Even in the dull grays and browns of the sepia-toned photograph,
there was a sparkle of life in the depths that held Brant transfixed.

As he stared at the picture, another pair of eyes
drifted into his mind, eyes that were similar yet drastically different. Elizabeth’s
eyes didn’t carry a sparkle. They were direct and at times disconcerting, but never
filled with the joy of a life well lived. Maybe that was what intrigued him so much
about Miss Hattie. In her eyes, she seemed to have held the secret of what made life
worth living—something Brant had lost the night of the tornado.

Placing the book back on the nightstand, he reached out and turned off the light.
To keep the nightmares at bay, he visualized the picture of Miss Hattie in the red
satin gown. But somewhere between sanity and fantasy, Elizabeth’s hot kisses slipped
in, and his dreams were filled with both women.

Brant awoke to sunlight streaming in through the balcony doors and the ringing of
his cell phone. He sat up and made a grab for his phone on the nightstand.

“Mornin’, Big Bro,” Beau’s voice came through the receiver.

“What time is it?” Brant asked as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Around seven, I think,” Beau said.

“And exactly what are you doing up so early in the morning? I’ve never seen you get
up before—” A thought struck Brant, and he jumped to his feet. “Is something wrong?
Did you get the results back from your last doctor’s visit?”

Beau laughed. “Nothing’s wrong. I just thought you’d like to know that we found some
of Miss Hattie’s journals.”

Brant released his breath and sank down on the bed. “Journals? I thought I looked
through every trunk in the attic.”

“They weren’t in the attic.” Beau’s voice grew softer, like he’d pulled the phone
away from his mouth. “Thanks, Sunshine, but I don’t need a massage right now. But
I sure could use a cup of coffee.” Brant heard Sunshine’s muffled voice before Beau
returned to their conversation. “I guess Minnie found them in some old trunk out in
the barn.”

“How did Minnie get out there in her wheelchair?”

“Beats me,” Beau said. “The hens are always slipping around. For a bunch of old women,
they’re pretty damned quick.”

“So have you read them?” Brant asked.

“I thought I’d leave that up to you.”

Brant didn’t know why he felt so relieved by the information. This weird connection
he had with a dead person had to cease. Still, he couldn’t stand the thought of Beau
looking through Miss Hattie’s private journals.

“Overnight them to me,” he said.

“Sorry, bro, but no can do. Minnie insists that they stay at Miss Hattie’s. She says
if you want to read them, you’ll have to read them here. Of course, I tried to tell
her you were much too busy a man to be able to do that.”

Beau was right. Brant was busy. Even with this being Saturday, he had numerous phone
calls to make and a couple of contracts he needed to go over. But it was doubtful
he’d get anything done when his mind was consumed with all the secrets he might discover
in the books. As if reading his thoughts, Beau jumped back in.

“Of course, if you can’t come, I can start reading them to see if there’s anything
about our grandfather. Although I figure they’re probably just filled with a bunch
of dirty sex stories.”

“I’ll be there by noon,” Brant said. Before he hung up the phone, he heard his brother’s
laughter.

“If I had known you were so damned filthy rich,” Minnie yelled above the sound of
the helicopter lifting off from the circular driveway, “I would’ve had Elizabeth ask
for more money.”

Brant took the cigarette from Minnie’s mouth and flipped it down to the porch where
he stubbed it out with the toe of his boot. “So where are they?”

Minnie shot him a mean look before reaching in the side pocket of her wheelchair.
“I’ve got one right here.” She pulled out a battered, bound book. Brant reached for
it, but Minnie pulled it back. “Of course, it wouldn’t be right to let you read it
before Elizabeth gets to—her being Miss Hattie’s relative and all. She works today,
but tonight I’ll give her a call and have her come out first thing tomorrow.” She
placed the book back in the side pocket. “And in the meantime, you can help your brother
weed the lilac garden.”