The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (Burnt Boot, Texas #2)(52)

“It went with her when she eloped.”

“Did she apologize for taking it?”

“Hell, no! She said that it was for her wedding, and therefore, it was her money. And, honey, I did not tell anyone that part of the story. Not even my mama or Finn knows that I was that big of a fool,” he answered.

“It was her loss, Sawyer. I bet there are days when she wishes she’d made a different choice.”

He shook his head. “Maybe. If she does, that’s her problem. Trust is what you build any kind of relationship on.”

“And you don’t do second chances?” Jill asked.

He added the browned meat to the marinara sauce. “Darlin’, there ain’t enough duct tape in the world to fix a stupid cowboy who’d get mixed up with that again. Besides, I’ve moved on.”

A blast of cold air preceded Gladys into the bunkhouse. When she reached the kitchen, her hands were on her hips and her lips were pursed so thin that they almost disappeared into the wrinkles.

“I’ve tried to call both of you since early this morning. Don’t you have enough sense to pick up your phones?” she fussed.

“Something wrong?” Sawyer asked.

“You hungry? We’re having spaghetti, and brownies for dessert,” Jill said.

“Yes, I’m hungry, and, no, nothing is wrong on the ranch, but I did go to church this morning, after all. It was too damn cold to go anywhere else, and I’ve been trying to call both your phones all day.”

“I’ll put another plate on the table,” Jill said, “and we’ll explain while we have supper together.”

“It’s a long story,” Sawyer said.

Gladys tossed her coat on the sofa and sat down at the table. “And you’ll make a plate for me to take to Polly?”

“There’s plenty,” Sawyer said.

Gladys pointed at Jill. “You go first. I was scared y’all had both left Fiddle Creek, and I don’t want either of you to leave. I like this arrangement.”

Sawyer slid half a loaf of Italian bread into the oven. He’d carefully cut it into thick slices and applied garlic butter. All it needed was a little heat and they’d be ready for dinner. “Sweet tea?”

“Yes,” Gladys said.

Jill busied herself putting ice into glasses and filling them. “I could tell the Gallaghers and Brennans were up to no good when they got to the bar last night. It wasn’t what they said, but the way they kept looking at each other’s tables.”

Gladys slapped the table with the palm of her hand. Cutlery rattled against plates and tea sloshed against the sides of the tall glasses. “I knew this would have something to do with that pig war. I knew it.”

“We can’t prove a bit of it.” Sawyer set the sauce and the spaghetti on the table. “Bread will be out in a minute.”

“Bit of what?” Gladys asked.

“Well, it went like this…” Jill went on to tell the story.

“So I’ve slept with your niece in a horse stall and in the back of a wagon, Gladys. You going to get out the shotgun?” Sawyer brought out the bread.

“Hell, no! If I had a medal, I’d give it to you for protecting her,” Gladys said. “And the way both families were acting this mornin’ in church, I’d say that you’ve got it right about what happened. But you’re also right about not being able to prove it. What did you think of Tilman?”

“You mean Tilly?” Jill asked.

“That’s what they call him now, since he’s a crazy old moonshiner who lives on the edge of Salt Holler, but that’s not what we called him when we were in school with him.” Gladys expertly wound spaghetti around a fork. “Damn fine food, Sawyer.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Why didn’t you call him Tilly?”

“Because he was the smartest kid in school, and in those days, Tilly was a girl’s name. It was short for Matilda, and not only was he smart, he was a cocky little fighter who’d black a kid’s eye if he got mad at him. He went on to make a lawyer out of himself, and then he ran for the House of Representatives and won twice. In the middle of the second term, he flat-out walked away from his job, bought that land near Salt Holler, and started making moonshine. Nobody really knows what happened. Some folks say it was over the Korean War. Some say it was over a woman. Wallace buys liquor and wine from him, and Tilly, he don’t bother nobody,” Gladys said.

“He seemed like a nice old guy to me,” Jill said.

“The only other person who’s ever been on his land is Wallace Redding, and that is to buy shine. No one would ever believe that Tilly befriended you. He don’t do that. He comes to the store twice a year for supplies and goes right back home. He talks to me when he’s there. I hear he picks up his mail at the post office. They hold it for him for six months at a time, and it’s mainly magazines and newspapers. Takes a whole garbage bag for him to haul it out of there.”

“Jill could sweet-talk a bear into giving up his honey.” Sawyer laughed.

“Oh, hush, I had hay in my hair and looked like the wrath of God had kissed me,” she said. “I’ve never been so glad to see a shower and get a nap in a real bed in my whole life as I was when we got back to the bunkhouse.”

“She looked cute.” Sawyer grinned. “I thought she did, and evidently Tilly did too. He not only let us into his house, he fed us breakfast and brought us to town.”