The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (Burnt Boot, Texas #2)(46)

“Maybe that’s what she thought, but she would have been in for a big surprise.”

They came out of the thicket and there was a wall of mud in front of them. Two little boys might climb that thing like monkeys when there was grass on it, but two grown adults were another story.

“Now what?” she asked.

He crossed his arms over his chest and studied the situation. “If I had a chain saw, I could cut down a tree, and we’d climb up it to the edge. Who’d have thought there would be an embankment like this in these parts? I can see the guard rails up there.”

“Me too. I vote that we keep the road in sight and follow it until we come to a better place to climb up,” she said.

He nodded and held up his left hand, making an L with his thumb and forefinger. “That way.” He grinned as he pointed.

“Yep, at least the sun is coming up and it’s not raining or sleeting,” she said.

*

Sawyer took her hand in his and trudged on ahead. She looked downright cute with hay stuck in her red hair. And by damn, she was a good sport to boot. She’d found things to be grateful for rather than bitching about her feet aching or no food.

“Are we getting close to the Starbucks?” she asked.

“It’s not far. Just keep walkin’ and thinkin’ about it,” he said.

A big bluetick hound bounded out of the brush and fell in behind them. He kept his distance, but when Sawyer looked back, he wagged his tail, so hopefully he wasn’t stalking them for his breakfast.

“I smell coffee,” she said.

“It’s a mirage.”

“A mirage is something you see, like a coffee shop or a Dairy Queen up ahead, but an aroma is something different, and I swear I smell coffee and a woodstove,” she said.

“If you do, let’s hope it’s not on Wallace Redding’s part of the Holler. From what that kid said, I don’t think those folks play well with others.”

“He said his daddy’s pig farm was the last one in Salt Holler, and when we climbed over the fence, we were out of it,” she said.

The hound dog shot out past them and was a blur as he ran ahead. Sawyer cocked his head to one side. “I heard someone whistling. That dog is going home. There’s a house up there, and it’s not far. Maybe they’ll have a phone we can use.”

“Or they’d be willing to share their coffee,” she said.

Neither of them saw the cabin until they were right up on it. The back half was built into a hillside with only the front showing. That part had a wide porch roof made of split logs and held up by four tree trunks that still had the bark attached. The hound lay on the porch beside an old rocker. When he saw them, his tail beat out a welcome on the wooden floor.

The man who stepped out the door with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands wasn’t much over five feet tall and wore bibbed overalls, a red flannel shirt, and worn work boots. The wind blew his wispy white hair in all directions, and his blue eyes had settled into a bed of deep wrinkles.

“State your business. You ain’t supposed to be on my property. Didn’t you read the sign that said trespassers would be shot?” he said gruffly.

“I’ve read a lot of those signs,” Jill said. “Are we still in Salt Holler?”

“Not in Wallace Redding’s part of the holler. You’re at the very end in my part right now,” he said.

“Are you kin to the Gallaghers or the Brennans?” Jill asked.

“Hell, no! If I was, I’d shoot myself in the head with this gun.”

“We were kidnapped, but we escaped, and now we’re trying to get back to Burnt Boot,” Sawyer said.

“That damned feud. I heard it had fired up again over a bunch of pigs that got stolen. You give me your word y’all ain’t no revenuers from the gov’ment?” He eyed them both carefully.

“I promise. We’d sure like to borrow your phone and call for help, sir,” Sawyer said.

“Ain’t got no phone, but from the looks of you both, you could use some breakfast. Me and Otis here, we done ate, but there’s plenty of flapjacks left over, and coffee is hot.”

“We’d appreciate that very much,” Jill said.

“Well, don’t stand out here in the cold. Come on in here and tell me your story. I like a good tale, and there ain’t been nobody to talk to for at least a month. Wallace is supposed to come over next week for a batch of brew, so you can entertain me until then. I’m Tilly, short for Tilman.”

“I’m Sawyer O’Donnell, and this Jill Cleary,” Sawyer said, glad that Tilly had lowered the shotgun and was holding the door open for them.

“So you are Gladys’s new foreman at Fiddle Creek, and you are her niece who’ll wind up with it someday. Now it makes sense why them thievin’, feudin’ families would want to kidnap you. Crazy sons a bitches ain’t got a lick of sense, but they’ve both been after Fiddle Creek for years. Go on over there and wash up a little bit while I put the breakfast on the table for you.” Tilly motioned toward the back side of the cabin, where a pump sat at the end of a makeshift table with a washbasin below it. “Ain’t got no hot water heated up, so you’ll have to make do with cold, but I expect after a night in the woods, it won’t feel too bad. Where’d y’all bed down?”