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  Keller’s mouth twisted. “Your wife,” he said, “is way too perceptive.”

  “You’re telling me?” Shane said it in the way of a very contented husband.

  “Well, that’s certainly on hold now.” Keller let out a compressed breath. “I know I should be glad that Lucas has a blood relative who wants him. I’m just…wary.”

  “Of course you are. So am I. Enough that I’ll do a background check and verify what I can about this.” He gestured at the bio. “And even if that checks out, we’ll stay wary until we’re sure she has his best interests at heart, that this isn’t just some temporary whim she’ll lose interest in once she has to deal with the reality of a teenage boy still dealing with a lot of emotional baggage.”

  That easily Shane explained Keller’s own reservations. And made it clear which side he was on. Just as Keller would, Shane would stand for Lucas.

  “Thanks,” he said. It came out low, and a little wobbly.

  “Shut up,” Shane said amiably. “Now let’s go dump all this on Sean, too. He’s been a bit too short of work lately, and a Sean at loose ends gets into trouble.”

  That made Keller grin; Shane’s younger brother was a unique and gifted soul. And a brave one, since he had barely blinked at the idea of the redoubtable Mrs. Valencia as his mother-in-law.

  He followed Shane out and down the hall to the detective’s office, a little amazed that he was smiling.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sydney strolled more than walked along Main Street. The luscious scents emanating from the bakery named Kolaches almost drew her in. The name made her smile; although the treat had originated in Central Europe, she’d first had it at a breakfast in South London. The smile widened as she passed the Western store named Yippee Ki Yay, which got her to thinking about her reaction when she’d first realized she’d be coming to Texas.

  She’d seen enough movies growing up—her parents thought nothing of parking her in a theater for a few hours, to watch the same film two or three times in a row until they were ready to deal with her again—and enough of those had been Westerns that she’d pretty much had a Hollywood idea of Texas in her imagination. So far, some of it had been proven to be typical exaggeration and fictional—not everyone wore a cowboy hat or boots, and as many didn’t have what she guessed they’d call a Texas drawl as did. But a lot of it seemed to hold. The independent spirit, the “go big or go home” outlook, and, she had to admit, the friendliness. Her seatmate on the flight, a charming woman headed home to Tyler, had told her Texans were the friendliest people around, but at the same time the “Don’t Mess With Texas” sentiment was more than just a bumper sticker.

  She was pondering the truth of that as she paused once more at the statue in front of the library. She read the plaque again, describing how Asa Fuhrmann had made a run for more ammunition when the Last Stand fighters were pinned down in the saloon, had carried back enough to let them hold on, but suffered a fatal wound in the process. It was odd—she’d come across many monuments to heroes in her travels, had seen people who would fight for their country if asked, but here it seemed no one waited to be asked, they just did what had to be done. There was something special about that.

  What had to be done. Her gaze slid down to the second plaque, below the damaged section of the pedestal on which Asa Fuhrmann stood. And now that she had met Shane Highwater, she had no trouble believing it had happened exactly as the short description said; he was clearly a man who took his job seriously, and to heart. And after facing death in the form of a terrorist wearing a suicide vest, what was a mere pulling someone out of a burning vehicle?

  She was sure there must be some less-than-stellar sorts who lived in this huge, varied state. And she’d seen enough from naysayers, who had nothing but criticism for the state and its people. But so far she hadn’t encountered anyone she would apply those criticisms to. The woman on the plane had also told Sydney that Texans didn’t care when outsiders criticized them or insulted them. “It just means they won’t come to Texas and try and change us,” she said. “Leave Texas to us, because we love it just the way it is.”

  Sydney had thought that a wonderful way to feel about your home.

  And a feeling she’d never had, because she’d never really had a home, not in that way at least. She was American because her parents had been, but she hadn’t spent more than six months at a time on American soil until she’d broken away from them. And it had taken her a while to realize the near constant ache inside had been a wish that she’d grown up here. Maybe even here in Texas, in a small town like Last Stand. A town with a charming Main Street vibe, and indeed friendly people, a sense of community, with a shared history, and a whimsical touch with the establishment called the Last Stand Saloon directly across the street from the staid, stone courthouse.

  She remembered what Frank had told her about that saloon and its place in Last Stand history. That it was actually the foundation of Last Stand history. She was tempted to go take a look, but the fact that the brother of the chief of police—Keller Rafferty’s best friend—ran the place made her hesitate.

  I’ll need sustenance for that.

  She smiled at herself, knowing deep down she’d just been looking for an excuse to go back and dive into that bakery, to buy something sinful and rich and full of luscious calories.

  She ended up with a turnover type thing with the lightest, flakiest pastry she’d ever seen, and the most amazing filling that the gray-haired woman at the counter had assured her was made from the first harvest of fresh, locally grown peaches. When she took her first bite, before she’d even left the bakery, Sydney believed it; she’d never tasted anything peachier. It was nirvana in a layer of flaky dough.

  She’d turned around, intending to back the door open so she didn’t drop a single precious crumb, when the door suddenly opened behind her. It threw her off a little, and she nearly collided with the man who stood there holding the door. Belatedly she realized he was holding it open for her. More of those Texas manners. Or maybe not; this guy was wearing a baseball cap. Then again, as she’d already noted, not everyone here wore a cowboy hat all the time. But the cap had a big T on it, and a Lone Star flag patch on the side, so she revised her revised guess.

  “Thanks,” she said with a wide smile. A smile that froze as, a bit too late, she looked at his face. That chiseled, strong-jawed, brilliant green-eyed face.

  Keller Rafferty.

  “You’re welcome,” he said politely.

  “I…the peach is great,” she said, more than a little lamely, lifting the turnover with the big bite gone.

  “I gather,” he said, one corner of his mouth twitching. Then, oddly, he lifted a hand and reached toward her, as if he were going to touch her face. Then he seemed to catch himself and pulled back. “You’re wearing a little of it.”

  “Oh.” She swiped at her mouth with the napkin they’d given her with the pastry. “Thanks,” she said, wondering if he’d really been going to wipe away the bit of peach filling with his fingers.

  Wondering what that would have felt like.

  “Here for something sweet?” she asked, then groaned inwardly when something flickered in his vivid eyes.

  But he didn’t take the unintended bait. “You could say that,” he answered levelly. “I’m here to drop off a check.”

  “Hey, Keller, we can’t afford to air-condition the whole town!”

  The words came from the woman who had been behind the counter but had now walked over to them. She was smiling at him widely, taking any sting out of the words.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Parsons,” he said. He pulled a folded check out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Mom says hello, and thanks for doing this.”

  “We’ll make it special for that clever brother of yours.”

  “I know you will. And I’ll close the door now.”

  “Our power bill thanks you,” she said, reaching up to pat his cheek as if he were a precocious child instead of a tall, muscled chunk of man.


  “Make what special?” Sydney asked when the door had closed and they’d stepped clear of the entrance.

  “My youngest brother’s birthday cake for this weekend.”

  “Youngest? How many do you have?”

  “Three.” He eyed her narrowly. “And if that was a trick question, I should explain that I look at Lucas more as a son than a brother.”

  She hadn’t expected that headfirst dive into the chasm between them. But she fielded it as best she could. “It wasn’t. I just have no idea what that must be like. Being an only of onlies myself.”

  He studied her for a moment. “Are you sure?”

  “What?”

  “That all your relatives are dead. Or that there isn’t…someone else, some other family.”

  She let out a compressed breath. “Believe me, it occurred to me to wonder, once I found out how much they’d lied about. But as far as I could backtrack, I couldn’t find anyone. Not that I’m an expert at it.”

  “My mother could help with that. She’s big on family roots, knows all the websites and how to track.”

  She stared at him. He was being…not just polite, but nice. And she didn’t know why. “Frank told me she had ancestors who fought at the actual last stand.”

  He nodded. “Been to the saloon yet?”

  “No.” She hesitated, then gestured with the turnover. “I decided I needed nourishment before I ran into the police chief’s brother.”

  He laughed. And damn it, he had a great laugh. And as if that wasn’t enough, he had a dimple that flashed in his right cheek. “Slater’s an entirely different kettle of fish than Shane,” he said. “And he doesn’t bite. He’ll leave you in the dust conversationally, but he’s a good guy.”

  “Like his brother?”

  “Yes. Although it didn’t used to be so good between them. They were always butting heads. Joey fixed that, though.”

  “Joey?”

  “The assistant librarian. And Slater’s wife now.”

  She blinked. “The saloonkeeper married a librarian?”

  “Sounds like a bad rom-com, doesn’t it?”

  She couldn’t help chuckling at that. Inwardly, she wasn’t sure what was unsettling her more, that he was talking to her so easily—no, nicely—or that she was enjoying it so much. She didn’t know what else to say, so she took another bite of the turnover.

  “Come on, I’ll show you the saloon. If you want to know about Last Stand, that’s where you start.”

  She’d been going to go anyway, and she couldn’t think of any inoffensive reason to turn him down—especially while he was inclined to be nice; he was her access to Lucas, after all—so she simply nodded. She thought about offering him a bite of the turnover, but the idea of sharing food she’d had her mouth on felt rather too intimate with this man, so she didn’t.

  She’d finished by the time they crossed the street between the courthouse and the saloon, and dropped the wrapping and the napkin—would he really have touched her to wipe her face?—in a convenient trash receptacle on the corner.

  Moments later she was staring at the outside wall of the limestone building. Not at the plaque a couple of feet away, but at the oddly hollowed out indentations in the limestone near the front doors.

  “Are those…?”

  “Bullet holes. Yes.” He pointed at one in particular, and when she looked, she saw something discolored and misshapen buried deep in the stone. “And the occasional actual bullet. Or more accurately, a musket ball. We’re guessing based on size and range this one came from an 1812 Tower flintlock.”

  She had no idea what that meant, but it still gave her a shiver. “It’s…eerie, almost. To see that, left from all those years ago. To realize there was an actual battle here.”

  “It was the only place built of stone, that could stand up to the fire from Santa Anna’s troops. Everybody who could get here holed up inside.”

  “Including your ancestors?”

  “Yes,” he answered, easily enough. “My great times five grandparents. He died here. She was reloading her husband’s rifles until he fell, then she grabbed one up and started shooting herself. And helped them hold out long enough to convince the troops outside this little outpost wasn’t worth the lives they were losing to a band of Texas sharpshooters.”

  She stared at him, more interested by the tale than she cared to admit. She dug back to what little she knew about this period in American history. “Was this before or after the Alamo?”

  “After,” Keller said, looking oddly approving at her question. “So they knew what would happen to them if they lost.” His voice went very soft then. “She was eighteen. Already the mother of two.”

  She stared at the plaque on the front of the building that told the story, and again at the pockmarks of bullet holes that marred the stone. There was something chill-inducing at seeing, over a century and a half later, this real evidence of the fight.

  “Good for you,” she murmured to the young woman she would never know, except in the descendants she had left. She felt another shiver creep down her spine, not of cold but of something else entirely. “This is one of those places,” she said.

  “I know what it is to us, but what do you mean?”

  “There are very few places I’ve been in the world where…” She hesitated, wondering if he’d find it silly, then plunged on. “Places where I can actually sense the…spirit, if you will, of the people who died there. As if their will to live, to fight was so strong it still lingers. This is now one of them.”

  She glanced at him, to see if he was, as people often did, laughing at her fancifulness.

  Keller Rafferty was looking at her as if she’d said something remarkable. And then, as if on a sudden impulse, he said, “Come on in. I’ll introduce you to Slater—there was a Highwater here for the fight, too—and buy you a drink.”

  “A bit early for me,” she said.

  He grinned. It was killer. “He makes a wicked peach lemonade.”

  “More fresh local peaches?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Is he going to…interrogate me?”

  His expression turned serious, and he accurately guessed what she was thinking. “Shane would never discuss a personal situation without permission, if that’s what you’re worried about. Come on, I want to show you something. About that ancestor of mine.”

  She gave in then, telling herself this was a fascinating place and she was merely curious. It had nothing to do with Keller Rafferty’s sudden niceness.

  Or his killer grin.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Hey, Slater. Meet Sydney.”

  She gave him a quick glance, and Keller knew she’d noticed he wasn’t hesitating on her name anymore. He’d resigned himself to the apparent fact that she was, at least, who she said she was. Whether she was who she said she was in relation to Lucas, he’d be waiting for the test results.

  Slater Highwater looked at Sydney with assessing interest, and Keller was suddenly reminded he’d hadn’t brought a woman in here in…well, longer than he could remember just now. Not that this was anything like…that. Still, he was oddly thankful that none of the few people here this early in the day looked familiar.

  “Welcome to Last Stand,” Slater said to her.

  “Thanks,” Sydney said, and Keller couldn’t help but notice that, unlike a lot of women, she didn’t stand there gaping at Slater’s blue-green eyes. But then, his wedding ring was in plain view, so maybe that reined her in. Not that it would stop some. But she seemed more interested in the original drawing of the saloon that hung on the wall behind him.

  He ordered up a couple of the lemonade specialties—somehow Slater had found the perfect balance of peach sweet and lemon tart—and as they were poured asked, “So what’s the quote of the day?”

  Slater lifted a brow at him as he answered, “‘The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.’”

  Sydney grinned. “Shakespeare in a saloon. He’d like that.”
r />   “That he would,” Slater agreed with a smile, and tossed a maraschino cherry in each tall, cool glass before he slid them across the bar.

  So she’d been right about the source. He’d read some Shakespeare, but not enough for him to pull that out of the air. She apparently had and could.

  A small group of obvious tourists had come in after them, so Keller merely thanked him and got them both out of the way.

  “Quote of the day?” she asked. “He has one every day?”

  “Pretty much.” He gave her a considering look. “The guy’s a genius. Certifiable. With a master’s degree in philosophy.”

  “Wow. But he’s here running a saloon?”

  He led her over to a quiet booth in the back before saying, “He went for happy instead of famous.” He smiled as they sat down. “And he says there’s no better place than a saloon to polish up your philosophy.”

  “I imagine he has a point.” She looked around the interior of the saloon. “Especially this saloon. If it wasn’t for that sense of the people who died here, and the scars outside, it would be hard to believe there was fighting here, let alone a full-on siege.”

  “It was definitely a siege,” Keller said. “When they chose Last Stand for the town’s name, it was appropriate.”

  “Are there many people connected to the last stand still here, like your family, and the Highwaters?”

  “A lot, in fact.”

  She let out a sigh he barely heard. Perhaps because he was so focused on watching her pluck the cherry off the top of the lemonade and plop it in her mouth. She seemed to be sucking the drops off, then pulled the stem free and laid it on a napkin. A simple act he’d seen dozens of times. So why did it put him into overdrive now? He looked down at his own glass before she started on the pit. He scrambled to remember what they’d been talking about, and for something to say about it.

  “Probably seems strange to you, staying in once place for generations,” he finally got out.

  “Different,” she corrected. “And in many ways, wonderful.”