Delores Fossen - Lone Star Nights

And just like that, Dixie Mae Weatherall was gone.

Lucky tried to hold it together. Tried not to give in to the grief that felt heavy and cold in his chest. He brushed a kiss on her cheek, gathered her in his arms, and Dixie Mae’s “boy” cried like a baby.

CHAPTER TWO

CASSIE WEATHERALL FOUGHT back the tears. Fought for air, too.

Breathe.

She couldn’t actually say the word aloud. She couldn’t speak yet, but she repeated it in her head and hoped that it worked.

It didn’t.

Her heart continued to race, slamming so hard against her chest that she thought her ribs might break. Her throat closed up, strangling her.

This was just a panic attack, she reminded herself. All she needed to do was calm down and breathe.

That reminder still didn’t work so Cassie tried to force herself to think this through logically. She had enough adrenaline pumping through her to fight a bear. Maybe six of them. But there were no bears to fight here at Sweet Meadows Meditation and Relaxation Facility. Other than the grizzlies in her head anyway, though sometimes, like now, they felt worse than the real thing.

And speaking of her head, Cassie was no longer sure it was on her shoulders. Too much spinning. Wave after wave of panic. She couldn’t let anyone see her like this. Couldn’t let them know that she was broken and might never be fixed.

She went old-school and put her head between her knees. Of course, that meant sitting down, and while the path was good for walking and running, the small rocks dug into her butt and legs. Good.

Pain was good. Pain gave the adrenaline something else to battle other than the bears.

Breathe.

It was all about the breathing. All about taking in the right amount of air. Releasing the right amount, too. Cassie managed that part, but then the darkness came. The shaking. And her feet and hands started to go numb. That dumb-ass bear was going to win if she didn’t get hold of this right now.

She heard the sound of someone approaching, and Cassie struggled to get to her feet. Please, you can’t see me like this. But thankfully the footsteps stopped just on the other side of the path. There were thick shrubs between her and the person who’d made those footsteps.

“Miss Weatherall?” someone called out. Not a shout, but a soft, tentative voice.

Orin Dayton. The office manager at Sweet Meadows.

Cassie considered not answering him, but that would no doubt just prompt him to walk the twenty or so feet around the row of shrubs that divided her suite from the running trail. And then he would see her with her head between her knees, sweating, crying.

“Yes?” she forced herself to say.

“Uh, is something wrong, Miss Weatherall?” he asked.

“No. I overdid my run, and I’m a little queasy.” The lie was huge. So huge that Cassie looked up at the afternoon sky to make sure a lightning bolt wasn’t coming at her.

“All right,” he finally said. He used the tone of a person who wanted to believe the malarkey she’d just doled out. “A Dr. Knight from Los Angeles called a couple of minutes ago.”

Andrew. He was the only person other than Cassie who knew why she was really here at Sweet Meadows.

“I rang your room,” Orin went on, “but when you didn’t answer, Dr. Knight said to get you a message. That Dr. Stan Menger from a hospital in Spring Hill, Texas, is trying to reach you.”

Spring Hill. Her hometown. But Cassie didn’t know this Stan Menger. “What does Dr. Menger want?” Please not something that required her immediate attention. Not while she was battling a panic attack.

Orin paused again. “I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

Great. First, bears. Now, bad news. Since she’d already used what little supply of air she’d had left in her lungs, Cassie didn’t say anything else. She just waited for him to continue.

“There’s been a death, Miss Weatherall,” Orin said. “It’s your grandmother. Dr. Knight said you shouldn’t go home, though, that it wouldn’t be good for you right now. Dr. Knight said just to stay put and that he’ll take care of everything.”

But Orin was talking to himself because Cassie punched the last of the bears aside, got to her feet and ran to her room to pack.

* * *

DIXIE MAE DESERVED a lot better send-off than this. But considering she didn’t have a friend other than him in the tristate area, Lucky figured he shouldn’t be surprised there were only four people at her memorial service. Five, if he counted his brother Riley who’d dropped by earlier. Six, if he counted the sweaty-faced funeral director who kept popping in and out.

Lucky decided to count them both.

Dixie Mae’s driver, Manuel Rodriquez, was at the back of the room that the funeral home had set up. He was glaring at the flower-draped coffin, and the glare only got worse whenever his eyes landed on the four-foot-by-four-foot glossy picture that Dixie Mae had arranged to be placed beside her. No smile in this one, just a steely expression, as if she were picking a fight from beyond the grave.

Judging from Manuel’s glare, he’d likely been on the receiving end of too many of Dixie Mae’s fight-pickings.

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.