Thunder Rolls: Episode 8 (Rising Storm) Page 7

  “Well, unfortunately, I think Tate’s going to be licking his wounds for a while. But then you never know.” Carol appeared at her side, and Tara automatically reached for a napkin to wipe off her daughter’s face. “If you’re finished we’d better go and find Danny and your dad.”

  The little girl’s smile disappeared, but she took the hand her mother offered and, with a nod from Tara, the two of them headed off in the direction of the dunking booth.

  “It’s so sad about Danny,” Anna Mae said.

  “It’s awful. But if anyone can figure out how to make it all work, it’s Tara and Bryce.” Rita Mae straightened the cutting board and cleaned off the knife she’d used to cut the pie.

  “Just the women I wanted to see.” Celeste Salt walked up to the booth, her face still lined with grief, despite the smile she wore. It looked as if she’d aged ten years. Grief would do that to you. Rita Mae knew that all too well.

  “If you’re after more pies for the contest, you’ll have to talk to Mary Louise.” Rita tipped her head toward her niece in the back.

  “No. I’m here to beg a piece of pie for Ginny. She’s feeling a little queasy, and since she’s working over at the information booth, she can’t leave. And she swears nothing will do but a bite of your pecan pie.”

  “Pregnancy will do that to you,” Anna Mae said, a shadow crossing her face. It had been a long time, but some pain never really left you.

  “No kidding. When I was carrying Lacey, all I wanted were strawberry Pop-Tarts. Nothing else would do.”

  “So where’s Travis?” Rita Mae asked. “Surely he isn’t working today?” Most of the businesses downtown were closed for the festival.

  “You know Travis.” Celeste sighed. “All work, no play. The pharmacy is closed, but he’s finishing up some paperwork. He promised he’d be here before the speeches.” She glanced down at her watch. “Which aren’t that far off. Guess I’d better get this back to Ginny.”

  Anna Mae handed her the piece of pie and the sisters watched as she walked away. “I worry about her. She’s covering it up nicely, but she’s not dealing with Jacob’s death and Ginny’s pregnancy as well as she’d like us all to believe.”

  “She’ll work it through.”

  “Would be better if she had Travis by her side.” The sisters exchanged knowing glances.

  “I guess the heart wants what it wants.” It was Rita Mae’s turn to sigh.

  “Unfortunately,” her sister said, “that’s usually just when the trouble starts.”

  * * * *

  “Why do I have to stay here? I’ve already been helping you all morning,” Dakota said with a scowl for her mother.

  “Because Ginny is sick, and I need someone to fill in.”

  “Well, seems to me eating a slab of pecan pie first thing in the morning is a sure way to guarantee you’ll be sick.” God, she was so tired of people fawning over Ginny Moreno.

  “She’s pregnant, Dakota. It comes with the territory.”

  “I think she’s just milking it for what it’s worth. Playing you all against each other to see who can cater to her latest whim.”

  The stolen medical report felt hot against her leg, where it was concealed inside her skirt pocket. It was so tempting to tell her mother exactly what Ginny truly was, but years of playing poker with her dad had taught Dakota a thing or two. You had to wait to play a winning hand until the time was right. And spilling her guts to her mother wasn’t going to accomplish anything. It might bring Ginny down, but Sebastian would probably manage to escape scot-free. And that wasn’t the plan. So she bit her lip and instead smiled up at her mother.

  “Fine, I’ll man the information booth. But no more than an hour.”

  “Thank you, Dakota.” Her mother spared her a quick look but most of her attention stayed focused on the papers in front of her. “I think we’ve got things fairly well in control. The volunteers are in place and the booths are set up, ready to go. All that’s left is the sound check and corralling the senator and the mayor for the opening ceremonies.”

  Dakota nodded, distracted by the thought of Sebastian. How dare the bastard dump her? Leave her behind like yesterday’s garbage. Dakota was no one’s garbage. And she wasn’t about to let him get away with treating her like that.

  As if conjured by her thoughts, or maybe her mother’s, Sebastian and Payton walked into view, the two of them talking earnestly as the meek little intern, no doubt his latest fuck, trailed behind them.

  “Oh, good.” Joanne nodded. “Just who I was looking for.” She called across the short distance separating the Rushes from the information booth.

  Sebastian’s head came up and his icy gaze met Dakota’s before moving to her mother. Payton’s perfect smile didn’t waver for an instant when she saw Dakota. Oh, how her world would change when Dakota found her opening. But then again, maybe she knew but just didn’t care. The woman was as cold as they came.

  “I’ve got your schedule here,” Joanne was saying. “I just need you to report to the grandstand at the appointed time. I’ll make a few general announcements and turn things over to your mother, and then the mayor will introduce you. I have the media set up in their own section. We’ve got at least three networks here to cover your speech, as well as the usual assortment of newspapers.”

  Dakota tilted her head, considering the opening ceremonies as the perfect platform for her announcement. Once her revelations were made known to the press, not even Sebastian could make them go away. But how the hell was she going to get herself up onto that stage? Anything that messed with the schedule would not only bring down her mother’s wrath, but Marylee’s as well. Dakota would be off the stage before she ever had a chance to say anything.

  Better to stick to her idea of using social media. It wasn’t as satisfying as delivering the blow in person, but it had the advantage of being relatively easy—and anonymous.

  The senator thanked Joanne, handed the schedule to his aide, and walked away with his wife on his arm. Ever the consummate politician—who liked his women young and dumb. Dakota touched the diamonds gracing her ears. She might be young, but she wasn’t stupid.

  “Well, that’s that,” Joanne said. “Everything’s coming together nicely.”

  Dakota didn’t approve of her mother’s way of dealing with her father’s departure, but she had to admit that this new job suited her mother well. She’d managed the Founders’ Day activities quite nicely. Not that it changed anything really, but if Dakota were being honest, she did feel a tiny kernel of something that just might be admiration.

  “Joanne.” Clancy Prost ran up to the booth, clutching a boney hand to his chest. Clancy was easily the oldest man in Storm. The previous owner of the pharmacy, he’d retired eons ago and defied all kinds of natural laws by continuing to draw air. Maybe because he was so damn cantankerous. “We’ve got a bit of a problem.”

  Joanne, still clutching her lists, turned to face this newest threat to the festival. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

  “Adam Glenn was showing off for Lacey Salt and managed to fall out of the Storm Oak right into Mrs. Paulson’s pickle display.”

  “Oh dear Lord, is Adam okay?”

  Dakota rolled her eyes. Adam Glenn might be pretty to look at but he wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree.

  “He’s a little banged up, but he’s fine. Nothing Francine can’t handle.” Clancy wheezed. “But there are pickles and broken jars everywhere. And somehow when he fell, he managed to pull the canopy off her booth. So now the whole walkway is blocked. And you know Edna. She’s screaming bloody murder.”

  “I’m on my way. Dakota, can you mind things here?”

  Dakota swallowed a grumble. At least she didn’t have to deal with Edna Paulson.

  Joanne stepped out of the booth to follow Clancy. “Oh—” She turned back to Dakota, offering a sheet of paper. “—and if I’m not back in time, would you be good enough to read these announcements and introduce Marylee?”
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br />   Dakota took the paper, her eyes lighting with what she was sure was unadulterated glee. “Absolutely. Don’t think another thing about it. I’m more than happy to help.”

  Joanne eyed her daughter for a moment but then Clancy pulled at her elbow.

  Dakota looked down at her mother’s notes and patted the pocket with Jacob’s medical report, her heart jumping into her throat. Sometimes chance fell straight into your lap.

  And really, who was she to turn down opportunity?

  CHAPTER 8

  Kristin Douglas lay back against the cushions of the sofa with a sigh. Her fingers ran idly though the hair on Travis’s chest, his breathing still heavy with the release of their passion. It would have been a perfect moment, except that they were in Travis’s office at the pharmacy. And his wife was expecting him at the festival posthaste.

  Travis nuzzled her neck, kissing the soft spot just below her ear. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  “And you’re late.” The words came out of their own accord. But Kristin wasn’t sorry. Sometimes, as much as she loved him, she hated him, too. Hated that he got the best of both worlds and she was left picking up the crumbs.

  But then one had to lie in the bed one made—crumbs and all. Kristin suppressed the urge to laugh. She’d been lowered to making ridiculous jokes. And excuses.

  “We’ve still got time,” Travis whispered, blissfully unaware of the turn of her thoughts. “And you know I’d rather be here with you.”

  “Yes. But not enough to leave your wife.”

  Travis frowned and rolled onto his back. “You know I can’t leave her now. Not with our grief for Jacob so fresh. Celeste is fragile right now. And I don’t know if she could survive another loss.”

  Kristin felt ashamed of herself. Celeste wasn’t the only one who’d lost a son. Travis was grieving, too. And here she was pressuring him to upend what was left of his life. Of his family. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean to push. It’s just that sometimes I feel like I’m only circling on the edges of your life. And I just wish it could be something more.”

  “But you are more,” Travis insisted, his arms tightening around her. “You’re my heart. You know that. And if things were different—”

  “But they’re not.” She knew she sounded petulant, and quite honestly she wasn’t sure where the words were coming from. She was always so careful to keep her fears locked deep inside.

  “I know.” He dropped a kiss on her temple. “And I know this is hard on you. But I swear to you, you’re not standing on the fringes. You’re my center. My core. Without you, I don’t know if I’d be able to deal with the pain of Jacob’s death.”

  “You’d find a way.”

  “Maybe, but with you by my side, I don’t have to. And I promise you that once Jacob’s boy is safely born, I’ll talk to Celeste.”

  “You’re so sure it’s going to be a boy?”

  Travis smiled, his thoughts clearly with Ginny and the baby she carried. “I’m not. But Celeste is. She’s positive. Has even been painting the nursery blue.”

  “God help your granddaughter if she manages to beat the odds.”

  “It’ll be a grandson.” Travis nodded as if it were a royal proclamation. “And once he’s here, Celeste won’t even notice if I’m gone.”

  Kristin wasn’t so sure about that. She’d seen the way Celeste looked at Travis. Maybe not with passion but definitely with possession. Especially since the accident and the loss of their son. She didn’t believe for a minute that it would be as easy as Travis believed. But at least he was still talking about leaving her.

  She struggled for a moment with a wash of guilt. She’d never in her wildest dreams believed she’d be a home wrecker. But then again, said home wasn’t in any immediate danger of wrecking. Maybe she was overestimating her power. Maybe Travis was just placating her.

  Fear replaced guilt. Celeste wasn’t the only one who was fragile. Kristin wasn’t certain she’d be able to withstand losing Travis. He was her world. She closed her eyes, pleasure rippling through her as he bent his head to suck one of her nipples into his mouth.

  She arched her back, letting all thoughts slip away, except the knowledge that she’d do anything she had to to keep him here with her.

  Always.

  * * * *

  “Give me another.” Tate Johnson leaned onto the bar at Murphy’s, just barely retaining his hold on the barstool.

  Marcus Alvarez watched as Tate wobbled for a moment, then seemed to regain his balance. Technically, Murphy’s was closed for the celebration. And despite the fact that this was a bar, Tate owed his inebriated state to his father’s whiskey and his own store of booze.

  Tate’s mother, Alice, had been afraid that Tate might try to drive—or worse, try to take on his brother. And it was because of that fear that she’d asked her father, Michael Murphy, Tate’s grandfather, to take him to the pub. But that was so Michael could keep an eye on him. Not so that Tate could get even more liquored up.

  “Pub’s closed, Tate,” Michael said, his grizzled face looking stern as he eyed his grandson.

  “Aw, come on, Grandpa. If you’d had the night I’d had, you’d know how much I need this.” He shot a look over his shoulder. “Tell him, Marcus.”

  “Hey, man, I’m just here to pick up some more beer for the booth.” He lifted his hands in supplication.

  “Maybe I should go over there.” Tate started to stand.

  “I think maybe it’s best that you stay here,” Michael said.

  “Why? You think my bastard of a brother and that woman are out there? Celebrating the way they cut off my testicles?” He took a wobbly step and then thought better of it, settling back onto the barstool, his glare encompassing both Marcus and Michael.

  Despite the fact that there was little similarity between Marcus’s father, Hector, and Tate Johnson, he couldn’t help a small wash of revulsion at the man’s inability to hold his liquor. But then again, maybe if he caught Brit with Logan—the closest thing he had to a brother—he’d get knee-walking drunk too.

  “I don’t think anyone cut off your testicles.” Michael was soothing in his own gruff way. “You’re just hurting and you don’t know what to do with the pain.”

  “I know what to do with it,” Tate expounded. “I’m going to shove it right up my brother’s ass.” He pounded the bar with his fist. “Right after you pour me another glass of whiskey.”

  “I haven’t poured you the first yet.”

  “Then how’d I…” Tate scrunched up his face. “Oh yeah… I drank at the ranch and then at my apartment and I was on my way to my office when Mom found me.” He glared at his grandfather. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Because of my mother. Now I’m in some sort of drinking purgatory where I’m surrounded by booze but there’s not a drop to drink?”

  “Strangely compelling argument, coming from a drunk,” Marcus observed.

  “Ah, hell, it’s not like I’m going to let him go anywhere.” Michael grabbed a bottle and filled three shot glasses. “Might as well join the party, no?”

  Marcus shrugged. “I guess Aiden can wait a few more minutes.”

  “More likely the good citizens of Storm. Nothing like a festival to bring on early morning tippling.”

  Marcus snorted over the word as he sat down at the bar.

  “Now that’s the grandfather I know and love.” Tate lifted his glass. “To bastard brothers.”

  Marcus exchanged a look with Michael as they clanked glasses and then drained their whiskey.

  “Medicinal purposes,” Michael mouthed with a grin as he refilled the glasses.

  “I’m going to have to move out of town,” Tate said, staring down into the amber depths of his shot glass. “Or maybe I’ll just run the two of them out. After all, I’m the injured party.” He took a sip. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “No, Tate, you didn’t.”

  “It’s Tucker’s fault. Hell, it’s always about Tucker.” He finished the shot and
held the glass out for his grandfather to refill.

  “Maybe you should slow down a bit?” Marcus hazarded to say.

  “Why? Better to drown in my sorrows. It’s either that or I’m going to kill them both with my bare hands.”

  Since there was little chance of that happening in his current state, they let the comment pass, but Marcus noticed that Michael didn’t refill Tate’s glass again.

  “Did you know I’m going to be the mayor?”

  Michael lifted an eyebrow as Marcus tilted his head in question. “I thought your dad was the mayor.”

  “He’s retiring. And they want me to take his place.”

  “They who?” Marcus asked, more to keep Tate’s mind off his empty glass than because he cared. Hell, for all he knew, he might not even be staying in Storm.

  “Sebastian and my father. Then they want me to be lieutenant governor. When Sebastian is governor, of course. They’ve got it all planned. And I was going to ask Hannah to marry me. A politician needs a wife.”

  “Not exactly the number one reason women want to hear when receiving a proposal,” Michael observed.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Tate blew out a potent breath. “Wouldn’t marry her now if she was the last woman on earth.”

  “Can’t say that I blame you there,” Marcus said, wishing to hell he could figure out an easy way to escape this conversation.

  As if in answer, the pub door flew open. “Grandpa,” Tucker Johnson said, “Patrick sent me over for more beer. Marcus was supposed to…” he stopped, his eyes falling first on Marcus and then on his brother, who spun around on the stool, eyes blazing.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Tate took another step toward his brother, his stance remarkably stable considering. “Nobody asked you.” He clenched his fists, his intent unmistakable.

  Tucker raised his hands. “I’m sorry, bro. I had no idea you were here.”

  “But your mother…” Michael started and then stopped, his sharp-eyed gaze on both of his grandsons.

  “Isn’t at the booth,” Tucker finished for him. “Joanne pulled her away. Something about pickles. So I had no way of knowing.” He looked at his grandfather askance.