Texas Outlaws: Jesse

“Isn’t Big Earl like a hundred?”

“He’s in his nineties.”

“What kind of dipshit would throw a ninetysomething in prison?”

“The dipshit whose car got blown up the last time Big Earl was cooking. Judge Ellis had a case of the stuff in his trunk at the annual Fourth of July picnic. A Roman candle got too close and bam, his Cadillac went up in flames.”

“Isn’t that his own fault for buying the stuff?”

“That’s what Uncle E.J. said, which was why Big Earl got off on probation. But Judge Ellis isn’t going to be swayed again. He’ll nail him to the wall.” And stir another whirlwind of publicity when Lost Gun became home to the oldest prison inmate. At least that was what Uncle E.J. had said when he’d done his best to keep the uproar to a minimum.

“I need to find out for sure,” Gracie told Trina.

“If you go nosying around Big Earl’s place, you’re liable to get shot. Tell you what—I’ll drop by his place after I get my nails done. My daddy used to buy from him all the time when I was a little girl. I’ll tell him I just stopped by for old times’ sake. So what do you think?” She held up two-inch talons. “Should I go with wicked red or passionate pink this time?”

“Don’t you usually get your nails done on Friday?”

“Hazel over at the motel called and said two reporters from Houston are checking in this afternoon and I want to look my best before the feeding frenzy starts.”

“Reporters?” Alarm bells sounded in Gracie’s head and a rush of adrenaline shot through her. “Already?”

Trina nodded. “She’s got three more checking in tomorrow. And twenty-two members of the Southwest chapter of the Treasure Hunters Alliance. Not to mention, Lyle over at the diner called and said the folks from the Whispering Winds Senior Home stopped by for lunch today. They usually go straight through to Austin for their weekly shopping trip, but one of them read a preview about the documentary in the TV listings and now everybody wants to check out Silas Chisholm’s old stomping grounds. A few of them even brought their gardening trowels for a little digging after lunch.”

“But there’s nothing to find.” According to police reports, the wad of cash from Silas Chisholm’s bank heist had gone up in flames with the man himself.

“That’s what Lyle told them, but you know folks don’t listen. They’d rather think there’s some big windfall just waiting to be discovered.” Which was exactly what the documentary’s host had been banking on when he’d brought up the missing money and stirred a whirlwind of doubt all those years ago.

Maybe the money hadn’t gone up in flames.

Maybe, just maybe, it was still out there waiting to be discovered. To make someone rich.

“I should head over to the diner and set them all straight.”

“Forget it. I saved you a trip and stopped by myself on my way in.” Trina waved a hand. “Bought them all a complimentary round of tapioca, and just like that, they forgot all about treasure hunting. Say, why don’t you come with me to the salon?”

“I can’t. The remodeling crew will be here first thing tomorrow and I promised I’d have everything picked out by then.”

It was a lame excuse, but the last thing she needed was to sit in the middle of a nail salon and endure twenty questions about her impromptu visit with Jesse Chisholm and the impending media circus.

“That and I still need to unpack all the boxes from my old office.”

“Suit yourself, but I’d take advantage of the light schedule between now and inauguration time. You’ll be up to your neck in city business soon enough once you take your oath.”

A girl could only hope.

Trina glanced at her watch and pushed up from her desk. “I’m outta here.” Her gaze snagged on the phone and she smiled. “Right after I hook you up with Mr. Wrong, that is.”

She punched in a number on the phone. “Hey, Sally. It’s Trina over at the mayor’s office. Is Chase in?...The mayor-elect would like to invite him to be her escort for the inauguration ceremony....What? He’s hosting a pottery class right now?...No, no, don’t interrupt him. Just tell him the mayor-elect called and wants to sweep him off his feet....Yeah, yeah, she loves pottery, too....”

Gracie balled her fingers to keep from pressing the disconnect button, turned and headed for the closed door. A date with Chase was just what she needed. He was perfect. Upstanding. Respectable. Boring.

She ignored the last thought and picked up her steps. Hinges creaked and she found herself in the massive office space that would soon be the headquarters of Lost Gun’s new mayor.

Under normal circumstances, the new mayor moved into the old mayor’s office, but just last week the city had approved budget changes allocating a huge amount to renovate the east wing of City Hall, including the massive space that had once served as a courtroom. Gracie was the first new face they’d elected in years and change was long overdue. She was getting a brand-new office and reception area, as well as her own private bathroom.

Everything had been cleared out and the floors stripped down to the concrete slab. A card table sat off to one side. Her laptop and a spare phone sat on top, along with a stack of paint colors and flooring samples and furniture selections all awaiting her approval. A stack of boxes from her old office filled a nearby corner.

She drew a deep steadying breath and headed for the boxes to decide what to keep and what to toss.

A half hour later she was halfway through the third box when she unearthed a stack of framed pictures. She stared at the first. The last rays of a hot summer’s day reflected on the calm water of Lost Gun Lake and a smile tugged at her lips. She could still remember sitting on the riverbank, the grass tickling her toes as she waited for the perfect moment when the lighting would be just right. She’d taken the photograph her freshman year in high school for a local competition. She hadn’t won. The prize—a new Minolta camera—had gone to the nephew of one of the judges, who’d done an artsy shot of a rainy day in black-and-white film.

A lesson, she reminded herself. Photography was a crapshoot. Some people made it. Some didn’t. And so she’d given it up for something steady. Reliable.

If only her brother had done the same.

But instead, he’d enlisted in the army on his eighteenth birthday, just weeks after their parents had died. He’d gone on to spend four years on the front lines in Iraq while she and Charlie had tried to make a new life in Lost Gun with Uncle E.J. and Aunt Cheryl. But it had never felt quite right.

It had never felt like home.

Her aunt and uncle had been older and set in their ways—acting out of duty rather than love—and so living with them had felt like living in a hotel.

Cold.

Impersonal.

And so Gracie had made up her mind to leave right after graduation, to make her own way and forget the tragedy that had destroyed her family. She’d snapped picture after picture and dreamed of bigger and better things far away from Lost Gun. But then Jackson had died and Charlie had become clingy and fearful. She’d followed Gracie everywhere, even into bed at night, terrified that fate would take her older sister the way it had snatched up their brother.

Gracie couldn’t blame her. She’d felt the same crippling fear when their parents had died. She’d reached out for Jackson, but he’d left and so she’d had no one to soothe the uncertainty, to give her hope.

She stuffed the framed picture back inside the box, along with a dozen others that had lined the walls of her city planner’s office, and reached for a Sharpie. Once upon a time, she’d hated the idea of tossing them when they could easily serve as cheap decoration, and so she’d kept them.

No more.

With trembling fingers, she scribbled Storage on the outside and moved on to the next box loaded with old files.

She rifled through manila folders for a full thirty minutes before she found herself thinking about Jesse and how good he’d looked and the way he’d smelled and—

Ugh. She needed something to get her mind back on track.

Maybe a brownie or a cupcake or a frosted cookie—

She killed the dangerous thought, grabbed her purse and headed out the door. Forget waiting on Trina. She would head out and check on Big Earl herself, and she wouldn’t—repeat, would not—stop at the bakery on the way. She’d cleaned up her eating habits right along with everything else when she’d decided to play it safe and stop being so wild and reckless.

And safe meant looking both ways when she crossed the street and wearing her seat belt when she climbed behind the wheel and eating right. She had her health to think of and so she followed a strict low-carb, low-sugar, low-fat diet high in protein and fiber. That meant no brownies, no matter how desperate the craving.

No sirree, she wasn’t falling off the wagon.

Not even if Jesse himself stripped naked right in front of her and she desperately needed something—anything—to sate her hunger and keep her hands off of him.