Making A Texas Cowboy (Home at Last Texas #1)

Chapter Eleven

H e was hoping word hadn’t gotten around that he was here, or that the residents here felt like Ms. Baylor did, that he should be ignored if not downright avoided. But since the only mode of transport he had at the moment was his feet, he was going to have to risk it, or stay holed up in Tris’s half of this duplex the entire day.

He should have just rented a car at the airport, but at the time he’d been obsessed about getting Jeremy here, and when Tris said she’d pick them up, he hadn’t thought beyond that. He wondered if there was someplace in town that rented vehicles. Maybe the place was too small. It was tiny, compared to the simultaneously sprawling and piled-high city he’d been living in. Even the suburbs had a crowded sort of feel to them, as if they were feeling the pressure of the huge metropolis just over the hill.

But here, even though he was only a couple of blocks from Main Street, it felt... different. More open. Less pressing in on him. It was a strange feeling. Tucker had always said that “wide open spaces” wasn’t just a saying in his home state, but even though he’d been here before on a couple of research trips, Jackson hadn’t truly realized what he’d meant. Until now.

He’d also assumed Tris stayed here, instead of returning to her native California, because David had been a born and bred Texan, and the memories were too strong, too important, for her to leave. But now he was beginning to wonder if there was more to it than that.

It was a chilly—by Texas standards—morning, only 56°, according to the thermometer hanging on the porch post, so he was glad he’d pulled on his black canvas jacket. He only planned on walking around a bit, just to look, so he’d be back before it got as warm as the clear blue sky suggested it would. The clear blue sky he was thankful for, since it made his sunglasses a bit less conspicuous.

He settled his baseball cap on his head as he stood in front of Tris’s half of the duplex, one in a row of three arrayed along what he gathered was Bluebonnet Lane, where it crossed Hickory. He started to map out his exploration. And through all his plans was the hope that he would be pretty much unnoticed. Although if small-town gossip was as efficient as he’d heard it was, that might be too much to ask. Maybe he should just hope to be ignored.

He could see the park Tris had talked about and headed that way, although he thought he’d check it out after he’d managed to find that bakery she’d raved about. He wanted to buy a box full of something to thank her for the great breakfast she’d fixed this morning. He’d make that his last stop, though, after he’d figured out the town layout.

That decided, he crossed Hickory and headed toward Main Street. Across from the park was a cluster of buildings of varying sizes, mostly stone, and one built from what appeared to be the same kind of stone as the saloon Jeremy had been so fascinated with. When he saw the small sign in front, indicating it was the Last Stand Police Department, he smiled at the juxtaposition.

He took a moment to orient himself, realizing the large, two-story building up on the corner was the library because he could see the back of the statue from here. The relative size of the buildings made him smile again; that the library was about three times the size of the police department seemed significant.

As he passed the sidewalk that led to the single-story building, a man was coming down it, away from the building. Tall, maybe even an inch or so taller than him, with dark hair under a black felt cowboy hat. And Jackson immediately had the feeling no one would ever dare contest the man’s right to wear it. He had the look and stride of a genuine cowboy. But there was something else about him, something about the way he scanned the area around him that—

He reached the end of the walkway just before Jackson got there. He turned just slightly, obviously to check out the newcomer, and as he moved, Jackson spotted the badge on his belt beneath his jacket. Detective, in plain clothes, Jackson guessed. But then the man stopped, looked him up and down, and proved him utterly wrong.

“Heard you were in town,” the man said. Jackson blinked. Already? He wasn’t sure what had shown in his face, but the man smiled as if he’d heard the unspoken thought. “From my sister-in-law, Joey.”

Jackson relaxed. “Librarian Joey?” Then he put it together and realized this was no detective. Instinctively, he pulled off the masking sunglasses, thinking this was someone he should meet eye to eye. “You’re... Chief Highwater?”

“Yes.” There was no arrogance or sense of superiority coming from the man, just a cool, capable competence. “I didn’t realize until my wife told me that Mrs. Carhart is your sister.”

So, he didn’t read or watch gossip. That was encouraging. “Yes. She is.”

“Her husband was a very respected man in Last Stand.”

“Rightfully so,” Jackson said, meaning it.

Highwater nodded. “Joey also said you were here because you’re worried about your son.”

It was too true for him to resent the fact that Joey had told him. He had that kind of relationship with Tris. She’d shared everything with him, even about people he didn’t even know. Which told him what he’d already suspected about Joey Highwater was true. Still, he hesitated to pour his guts out to even this man.

“He’s with Tris now, out at the Baylor ranch. Ms. Baylor offered to let him spend time with her horses.”

“Nic is good that way.” Chief Highwater looked at him as if he completely understood the deflection. “I’ve got a son myself,” the man went on quietly. “Six months old now. I’m starting to understand that kind of worry.”

Jackson let out a breath. If this was the man’s approach, he must get people to confess all kinds of things. “He... wasn’t doing well, after his mother died.”

The other man studied him for a moment, and all Jackson could think was that he was glad he hadn’t done anything illegal, because those piercing eyes didn’t look like they ever missed a thing.

“Wasn’t?” the man finally said, very quietly.

Only then did Jackson realize he’d used the past tense. And he couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah. He’s already doing better, since we got here.”

The police chief smiled back, and it was more genuine than just about any smile he saw back home. “Glad to hear it. Welcome to Last Stand, Mr. Thorpe. Call on us if you need us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have rounds to make.”

Jackson blinked again as he watched the man head toward Main Street. Rounds? The Last Stand Chief of Police what, walked a beat? Okay, that was different. Very different. And as he watched, he caught himself thinking he could do a lot worse than to model Austin Holt more on this man than the imaginary cowboy that lived in his head.

And as he stood there, watching the man go, he had the feeling yet again that coming here just might have been the smartest thing he’d ever done. But that also reminded him he didn’t have to worry about how he portrayed the fictional rancher any longer.

He’d been ignoring Miles’s calls since that day at the beach in front of his house. And those from Felix Swiff, the show’s chief executive producer, even longer. The only person he’d talked to was Tucker, and that was because the man had backed him all the way, even though it could affect his own career, since most of his work was doubling Jackson.

You go soak up some Texas spirit. Both you and Jeremy. You’ll be the better for it.

Apparently, he was right. Because he was already feeling it. Feeling as if there was hope, as if Jeremy might also find that feeling here, or at the least be distracted enough to loosen his grip on the pain he kept clinging to. He was self-aware enough to realize that were it not for worrying about his son, he’d likely be in the same place. But he’d had to tamp down his own pain to a dull ache to deal with Jeremy’s ripping need.

Which had also meant Austin Holt had to die. Or whatever they were going to do to write him out of the show. He hoped, fiercely, that it would go on without him, not only because he knew millions of viewers loved it, but because everybody on the crew worked so damned hard to make it the success it had become. He didn’t want to be the one to put an end to that, to put them out of work in a cutthroat industry. Then again, Stonewall had been such a success, it might be easier for them now.

He shook off the feelings of guilt and started walking. He looked at the statue again when he reached the corner, and that chance meeting unrolled in his mind’s eye all over again. He shook that off, too, and turned the opposite way.

There was a wine-tasting room on the corner, and he remembered Tris telling him the Hill Country was rapidly becoming wine country. He could see why—the terrain and weather seemed like it would suit. Next came a row of three connected buildings, and the first one made him smile just with the name. Yippee Ki Yay was the perfect tag for a western store. And at a glance in the front window, he saw several things he could picture Ms. Baylor wearing. He paused at the front door, looking at the sign that portrayed a cowboy on a wildly bucking horse, which made him think of Tucker and his aborted bull riding career. He’d asked him once if he missed it.

“The thrill, the competition? Yeah, sort of.” He’d grinned that Tucker grin. “The aches and pains, not so much.”

He kept walking, knowing without having to see any signage that he had reached the bakery. Those appetite-awakening smells were unmistakable. He seriously thought about going in now, but he wanted to continue his tour of Main Street, and if he went in there now, he’d probably only have an empty bag to take back to Tris’s place. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans to remind himself he didn’t want to lug around a full bag, anyway.

He smiled at the next shop, another bakery, but this one apparently for pets, offering an array of dog biscuits, cat treats, and birdseed delicacies that boggled him.

Across the next street was a large church, with enough people clustered in the courtyard even on this Saturday to make him want to steer clear. So he crossed Main Street there and found himself in front of a store called Last Stand Expeditions, which he gathered sold supplies and had information on local hiking and river trips. He made a note of that as well, thinking Jeremy might like that too. The last time they’d visited, the three of them alive and well, Tris had taken them down to New Braunfels to see Gruene Hall, the state’s oldest still-functioning dance hall, which had hosted many a major music star, and launched a few more. They’d taken a walk down by the Guadalupe River, and Jeremy had been especially intrigued by the people floating along on large inner tubes.

He added that to the list. If, of course, he could ever get him away from that pony. He continued walking, past a restaurant with a large outdoor patio, then crossed Hickory again and glanced in the window of another bakery of sorts, this one with apparently any kind of pie you could imagine. Tris loved lemon meringue, and there happened to be one in the case he could see from out here, so he added that to the list. The list that was surprising him with its length. He’d never really thought about spending a lot of time in a small town in Texas, but now that he was, he was finding a lot more he might like to do, and more importantly, that Jeremy might like to do, than he’d ever expected.

Next door to the pie shop was a place that stopped him dead. A newspaper? An actual small-town newspaper? Did they even exist anymore? The Defender . Interesting name. He wondered if it had something to do with that last stand the place was named for. He came up even with some clippings posted in the front window, one of which included the masthead of the paper, and he knew he was right, because the image above the name was a drawing of the saloon that was just a bit farther on across the street.

A movement inside caught his eye, and he looked through the window to see a lovely auburn-haired woman talking to an older, gray-haired man. They were both smiling, and then the man nodded and turned to go into the office behind him, with the words Editor In Chief, The Defender painted on the glass in the door. The woman turned and headed toward the outer door, just to his right. She smiled brightly at him as she came out. He thought he saw a glint of recognition in her expression, but she said only, “Nice day for a walk around town. Enjoy.”

He stared after her as she went. How had she known that was what he was doing?

He started to continue that walk when something posted in the window caught his eye, a story that looked as if it had been up there for a while, a story about a terrorist threat that had been averted by the sheer courage of a man who stopped a suicide bomber, fully believing he would die himself in the effort.

Then Police Lieutenant Shane Highwater.

He remembered the second plaque on the statue, commemorating more heroics from the man. No wonder he’s the chief now. And no wonder you picked up that rock-solid feel radiating from him.

That was the kind of genuine courage Hollywood could only imitate.