A Taste of Texas. Liz Talley

inside him started at her name. Rayne Rose. He’d always loved her name, loved the way everyone said her first and last name together. The vision of an orangey-pink rose like the ones his mother grew appeared in his mind. Those dew-kissed flowers were almost the color of her hair. So pure and fresh, just like Rayne. He dashed the image aside to focus on the flaking paint above his head. “Two or three days at most. Then I’ll finish sanding and apply fresh paint. Two weeks on the total project.”

      “Okay.” Frances nodded. “It’ll take that long for Meg to arrange hiring someone from Dallas anyway. I’d be obliged to you, Brent. I know you’re busy this time of year.”

      “Not too busy for a neighbor, Mrs. Frances.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the half-sanded porch. Frances had given him gingersnaps when he was a kid and let him catch ladybugs in her garden. How could he not help her when she needed someone to do exactly what he did—restore and renovate? At that moment, he wondered what the cause of all this upheaval was. What was Rayne doing back in Oak Stand? And why had she pulled her son away from school and baseball to refurbish her aunt’s bed-and-breakfast? He had questions, but no right to ask them. So he asked what he could. “So who’s this Meg?”

      Frances was about to answer when a huge rattling truck roared into the tree-lined drive. The red truck belched as the engine died. Big Bubba Malone.

      The mountainous Bubba climbed from his monstrosity of a truck and doffed his cap as a tiny woman appeared at his elbow.

      Everything about the woman looked severe. Straight, blunt-cut dark hair, black shirt, long gray skirt, culminating with polished combat boots. A small diamond winked in a nose that balanced Elvis Costello glasses. Her chin jutted out as Bubba graciously took her elbow.

      “Hands off, Jethro,” she said, pulling her arm away and stalking up the drive.

      “That’s Meg. She’s Rayne’s assistant,” Frances commented from behind him.

      Brent stepped back when Meg reached the steps. He didn’t want to stand in her way. She looked as mad as a cat dunked in a creek.

      Frances stepped forward. “Meg, what in the world happened?”

      Meg cocked her head and crossed her arms. “Oh, you mean besides having a flat outside this godforsaken town and then having to walk almost two miles before someone stopped? I don’t know…maybe it was that man slapping me on my ass and calling me little filly!”

      Brent tried not to laugh. He really did, but the sound got past his lips before he could stop it.

      She whirled, her dark eyes flashing behind her glasses. “What?”

      He straightened. “Nothing.”

      Bubba stuck his cap on his balding head and sallied toward the porch. “Mornin’, Mrs. Frances. Brent.”

      “Don’t you even step one foot near me,” Meg said, flinging out a small, white hand and pointing at Bubba. “I don’t want any of your primordial ooze to get on me.”

      Bubba Malone, the slightly dim, good ol’ boy of Howard County, looked down at his shirt. “I ain’t got nothing on me.”

      Meg shivered. “Dear God, he’s got the brain of a flea.”

      Brent could tolerate a lot. Hell, he ribbed Bubba himself upon occasion, but he wasn’t about to let a snooty slip of a feminist insult a good man. “But he has manners. After all, he picked you up.”

      The termagant turned her dark eyes on him. She took him in from his work boots all the way up to his faded ball cap. He saw appreciation glint in her eyes just like almost every other woman. Then she arched an eyebrow. “So swatting a stranger on the backside is good manners around here? Really? Can’t wait to find out what the ill-mannered folk do.”

      Bubba kicked a brick lining the walk. “Heck, it was a compliment. You got a sweet a—” he glanced at Frances “—uh, behind.”

      Meg snapped her mouth closed as color flooded her cheeks. She stared at Bubba for a full minute before muttering, “I need to go make a call.”

      She rushed through the front door, nearly bowling over Rayne in the process.

      “Ow,” Rayne said, lifting a slender foot and rubbing her pinky toe. “You gotta ditch those combat boots, Megs. They’re killing me.”

      Her assistant must not have answered, because Rayne shrugged and stepped onto the porch, barefoot and beautiful. Brent couldn’t stop himself from taking her in. Her unruly red hair lay tamed in a braid that fell over one shoulder. The dress she wore looked as though it had been purchased in Mexico. It had looping bright thread in whimsical patterns on the hem. A bright pink apron depicting a mixer reading Whip it Good on the front pocket nipped her trim waist and hugged her breasts. The only thing marring the perfection of Rayne was the frown she wore.

      “What are you doing here?” she said, looking directly at Brent. Her eyes looked puffy, slightly red, as if she’d cried recently. Or had an allergy attack. But her gaze was flinty and accusing.

      He shrugged. “I’m going to replace some boards and paint the porch.”

      “No, you aren’t.” Rayne jerked her eyes to her aunt and gave her a look. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he thought it had something to do with the fact she hated him. She’d changed so much. Her words were direct and authoritarian. He could see her commanding a kitchen staff. Do this. Sauté that. Move.

      “He’s the only person I can find, Rayne. And he’s my friend and neighbor. Besides, I take exception to your trying to micromanage every aspect of this venture. I’m perfectly capable of handling this.”

      Bubba clomped up the stairs. “Hey, Rayne Rose.”

      Rayne stopped frowning at Brent and her aunt and swiveled her head toward the large man lumbering toward her. “Oh, hey.”

      Bubba wiped his hand on his shirt and offered it to Rayne. Rayne ignored his hand and rose up on her toes to give Bubba a hug. “Sorry about your momma, Bubba. She was a fine lady.”

      Bubba nodded. He’d lost his mom a few years ago to cancer. “That she was. Everybody sure misses her.”

      “Especially her Seven-Up cake. She taught me how to bake my first cake, you know,” Rayne said, her smile incredibly gentle. It was as if her irritation had melted away, leaving the old Rayne in its place. Brent loved her smile, the softness of it. He wanted to taste that smile against his lips.

      Bubba stroked his scruffy red beard. “Yeah, she was good around the kitchen. Even taught me how to cook. Good to have you home, Rayne.”

      Rayne’s frown returned. “Well, Oak Stand’s not exactly my home.”

      Frances moved to Rayne’s side and curled her arm about her niece’s waist. “Of course, Oak Stand’s your home. The place you grew up is always your hometown. And she’ll be here for the next month or two. At least.”

      “Maybe,” Rayne muttered, not quite meeting her aunt’s eyes.

      For a moment they all stood silent, waiting for something to break the uncomfortable moment. Luckily, Bubba knew when to make an exit.

      “Shoot, guess I better get. Jack’s got plenty for me to do out at the ranch. Y’all have a good mornin’.”

      “You work on a ranch?” Rayne asked.

      “He works for Nellie Hughes’s husband. You remember her. She’s a Tucker. Her husband, Jack, started a ranch with his daddy raising horses for the rodeo. He raises other horses, too,” Frances said, like a tour director for the Oak Stand Chamber of Commerce.

      “Oh,” Rayne replied, watching Bubba head toward his truck. The overgrown man opened the door before turning around and snapping his fingers. It sounded like the crack of a bat and Frances literally jumped.

      “That girl left her computer bag in my truck.”