Lone Star Nights

Other than Manuel, the funeral director and Lucky, the only other guests were two women.

And Lucky used that term loosely.

It was hard to tell their ages, probably in their early twenties. Purple hair, purple nails, purple lips and boobs practically spilling out of their purple tube tops. Yet another loosely used term because the tops were more like Band-Aids.

Since Dixie Mae’s only child, her estranged son, Mason-Dixon, owned a strip joint on the outskirts of town, it was possible these two were his employees. Perhaps he’d sent them to see if his mom had left him some kind of inheritance.

Good luck with that.

Dixie Mae had probably figured out a way to take every penny to the grave. Or skip the grave completely. Plus, Dixie Mae wasn’t exactly fond of her son and would have given her money to his strippers rather than the man she’d called her shit-head spawn.

Lucky hadn’t been able to get in touch with Dixie Mae’s only other living relative, her granddaughter, Cassie, though Lucky and Dixie Mae’s doctor had left her a couple of messages at her office in Los Angeles. Whether she’d show up was anyone’s guess.

He heard someone come in and turned, hoping it was a mourner who’d make this memorial service actually look like one. But it was only his twin brother, Logan.

Logan and he were identical in looks, but that was where any and all similarities ended. Logan was the responsible, successful tycoon who ran the family business, McCord Cattle Brokers, and had been in charge of it since their parents had been killed in a car wreck fourteen years ago. Lucky was the screwup. Considering their other brother had been an Air Force special-ops super troop and his sister was the smartest woman in Texas, it meant all the good family labels had been taken anyway.

Screwup suited him just fine.

Fewer expectations that way.

After having a short chat with Manuel, Logan came to the front where Lucky was standing. Even though Logan ran a cattle-brokerage company—and ran it well, of course—there were no bullshit smells coming from his boots that thudded on the parquet floor. With his crisp white button-up shirt and spotless jeans, he looked as if he were modeling for the cover of Texas Monthly magazine.

Logan had done exactly that—a couple of times.

“Are those Mason-Dixon’s girls from the strip club?” Logan hitched his thumb to the pair in the back.

Lucky shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. I introduced myself when they arrived, but the only response I got was a grunt from one of them.” He’d been afraid to ask anything else since even the smallest movement might cause those tube tops to explode.

“Did Dixie Mae go peacefully?” Logan asked.

“As peacefully as Dixie Mae could ever go anywhere. Thanks for coming. She would have appreciated it.”

“No, she wouldn’t have, but I didn’t come here for her. Are you okay?”

The funny thing about having an identical twin was being able to look into eyes that were a genetic copy of Lucky’s own. The other funny thing about that was despite the screwup label, Logan’s eyes showed that his question and his concern were the real deal.

“I’m fine.” Lucky patted his back jeans pocket. “Dixie Mae gave me a letter right before she died.”

“What does it say?” Those genetically identical eyes got skeptical now. So did Logan’s tone. Lucky couldn’t blame him. Dixie Mae brought that out in people.

“Haven’t read it yet. Thought I’d wait until this was over.” Until after he’d had a little more time to deal with her death. A few shots of Jameson, too. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ll miss her.”

Lucky didn’t see Logan’s hand move before he felt it on his back. A brotherly pat. Just one. It was more than most folks got.

“What will you do with the rodeo business now that she’s gone?” Logan asked.

“Dixie Mae and I talked about it. She wants me to keep it going.” It was her legacy in a way. His, too, since the name of the company was Weatherall-McCord Stock Show and Rodeo Promotions. “But it’s a lot of work for one person.” He poked Logan with his elbow. “Want to help me?”

Logan shrugged. “We could incorporate it into McCord Cattle Brokers. That way you could use the administrative staff I have in place. Plus, there’s an office already set up for you here in Spring Hill.”

Considering that Logan hadn’t even paused before that suggestion, it meant he’d been giving it some thought. Well, Lucky had, too, and the rodeo business was his. He didn’t know how he was going to run it all by himself, but he wasn’t going to be lured back to Spring Hill and be under Logan’s thumb.

That thumb might also be a genetic copy of Lucky’s own, but it had a way of crushing people.

“I need to get back to the office,” Logan added, already looking at the exit. “We’ve got a cutting-horse trainer coming in today, and I could use some help. Maybe when you’re finished here, you can come on home?”

Most of his conversations with Logan went that way. There was always something going on at either the office in town or at the ranch where Logan stashed some of the livestock he bought. And Lucky would indeed make an appearance, maybe try to smooth over things with the horse trainer Logan was sure to soon piss off if he hadn’t already. Logan was good with four-legged critters and paperwork. People, not so much.

“I’ll be there later,” Lucky told him.

After he read the letter from Dixie Mae, he’d probably need to get drunk. Then sleep it off. Of course, after that he had a rodeo all the way up in Dallas. Even though he didn’t spell that out to Logan, his brother must have tuned in to that twin telepathy thing that Lucky had never experienced. But Logan seemed to know exactly what Lucky had in mind.

“Also, remember the wedding and the Founder’s Day picnic next month,” Logan added. “You should at least put in an appearance.”

Lucky nodded. He’d make an appearance all right. For both. His brother Riley and his bride-to-be, Claire, were getting married at the family ranch and then having the reception at the picnic so that everyone in town could attend. It made sense since the McCords hosted the event. That not only meant they footed the bill, but that the entire family was expected to show up and have fun. Or at least look as if they were having fun. It’d been much easier to do that when Lucky was a kid, and his mom and dad had been running the show. Now it was just another place for him to have memories of things he didn’t want to remember.

Still, he’d be there. Not just because of Logan and Riley, either, but because the picnic was something his mother had started, and despite the bad memories it would bring on, the event was her legacy.

Logan went to the guest book and signed it before he left, his boots thudding his way to the exit. That’s when Lucky noticed the purple-tube-top girls were gone. Manuel, too. Heck, even the funeral director had ducked out again.

Lucky sank down in one of the creaky wooden chairs, wondering if he should say a prayer or something. Dixie Mae had left specific instructions with the funeral home that there would not be a service, music or food. No graveside burial, either, since she was to be cremated. The only thing she’d insisted on was the creepy picture of her that would ensure no passerby would just pop in to say goodbye to an old lady. However, she hadn’t said anything about a guy praying.

Footsteps again. Not boots this time. These were hurried but light, and he thought maybe the tube-top visitors had returned. It wasn’t them, but it was a woman all right. A brunette with pinned-up hair, and she was reading something on her phone. That’s why Lucky didn’t see her face until she finally looked up.

Cassie.

Or rather Cassandra Weatherall. Dixie Mae’s granddaughter.

She practically skidded to a stop when she spotted him, and he got the scowl he always got when Cassie looked at him. He got his other usual reaction to her, too. A little flutter in his stomach.

Possibly gas.

Lucky sure hoped that was what it was anyway. The only thing he’d been good at in high school was charming girls, but nothing—absolutely nothing—he’d ever tried on Cassie had garnered him more than a scowl.

“You’re here,” Cassie said.

Lucky made a show of looking at himself and outstretched his arms. “Appears so. You’re here, too.”

She slipped her phone into the pocket of her gray jacket. Gray skirt and top, as well. Ditto for the shoes. If those shoes got any more sensible, they’d start flossing themselves.

But yep, what he’d felt was a flutter.

Probably because he’d never been able to figure her out. Or kiss her. He mentally shrugged. It was the kiss part all right. When it came to that sort of thing, he was pretty shallow, and it stung that the high school bookworm with no other boyfriends would dismiss him with a scowl.

He’d considered the possibility that she was gay, but then over the years he’d seen some pictures she’d sent Dixie Mae. Pictures of Cassie in an itty-bitty bikini on some beach with a guy wrapped around her. Then more pictures of her in a party dress, a different guy wrapped around her that time. So apparently she liked wraparound guys. She just didn’t like him.

“Is your dad coming?” he asked.