Delores Fossen - Lone Star Nights

“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.

Her mouth tightened a little. Translation: sore subject. “Probably not. He hasn’t spoken to Gran in twenty years.”

Lucky was well aware of that because Dixie Mae brought it up every time she got too much Jim Beam in her. Which was often. According to her, twenty years ago she’d refused to give Mason-Dixon a loan so he could add an adult sex toy shop to his strip club, the Slippery Pole, and it had caused a rift. Or as Dixie Mae called it—the great dildo feud.

Still, Lucky had hoped that her only child could bury the hatchet for a couple of minutes and come say goodbye to his mom.

“My mother won’t be here, either,” Cassie went on.

Yet another complicated piece of this family puzzle. Cassie’s folks had divorced before she was born. Or maybe they had never actually married. Either way, her mom preferred to stay far, far away from Spring Hill, Mason-Dixon, Dixie Mae and Cassie.

Cassie walked closer, stopping by his side. She peered at the casket. Hesitating. “That’s not a very good picture of her,” she said.

Lucky made a sound of agreement. “Her doing. All of this is. She did try to call you before she passed. I tried to call you afterward.”