Carey Texan

A Tale of Betrayal & Revenge
1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-4835-7065-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 294 Seiten

Drama as Big & Bold as Texas! A contemporary romance filled with suspense, murder & satire. This tell-all isn't about one woman's revenge on a man who done her wrong. This book is her revenge. In the spring of 1980, Janet Blake arrives in the small town of Buena Vista on assignment for her NYC-based magazine, stealing bad-boy BJ Brayden's heart. She fights prejudice, racism, and his meddlesome Mama, Peggy Sue, she steals bad-boy BJ Brayden's heart. When BJ fails to treat Janet right, her betrayal for his revenge turns into the novel you are about to read. Author's Note Do opposites attract? Sometimes Texans and those of us from the Great Lakes State mix like oil and water. In the eighties, I moved to the Texas Hill Country from Detroit, Michigan. On more than one occasion, I was asked to join the KKK. I discovered the Civil War still divided me from some of my fellow Americans because as a Northerner, Southerners considered me a Yankee. An outsider and a woman, I felt the oppression of prejudice for the first time. This novel is very loosely based on some of my experiences in Texas.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Carey, Anne

Leseproben

PART I   BOBBY BRAYDEN, JR. aka B.J. “Darn, how’d that happen? How’d daybreak come so quick?” I gripe at the rising sun. Busy casting dawn’s colors across the horizon, it pays me no mind. A lone bird cries out, waking dozens more. They rejoice in the promise of a new day in a frenzy of chirping. The early-morning bellows of a few of the cattle resonate off the surrounding hills. My old horse, Cole, answers with a whinny. I jab my key at the lock with a shaky hand––the unwanted side effect of drinking tequila and snorting cocaine all night long. Out of nowhere, my chocolate lab, Bullet, bounds onto the porch almost bowling me over. He jumps up, putting one paw on each side of my chest and licking my face. “I love you, too boy, but down,” I tell him, scratching behind his ears until he sits. I manage the lock. Bullet nudges the solid oak door open with his snout, pushing inside ahead of me. I follow him into the guest house my folks let me live in for free, situated on the Double Bar X Ranch, the big spread they own outright. There it sits smack-dab in the middle of the entry hall table, the small package whose arrival I’ve been dreading. I take off my woven summer cowboy hat, wiping the sweat from my brow with the cuff of my sleeve. I set my hat down next to the package as gingerly as if it contained explosives that might blow at any second. Am I sweating because the thermometer reads eighty-some degrees at sunup or from pissing the night away or because of what the package contains? On account of all three, I reckon. Feeling sick to my stomach, I pick up the box, carrying it over to the sofa and sinking into the overstuffed cushions. I hear Bullet lap water from his metal bowl in the kitchen. Then he hops up next to me, wrangling his head in my lap for some petting. I give him his due before he curls up over on his side of the couch and falls asleep. I stare at the package in my hands, too weary and too shaken to make a move. For how long, I don’t know. The grandfather clock in the foyer keeps track, ticking away each second aloud. Bullet whimpers in his sleep, moving his front paws in the air, digging at the imaginary dirt in his dream. The doorbell chimes, startling me so bad I jump right off the sofa. I want to jump out of my skin, too, into a new skin, free from the trouble my sorry behavior stirred up. The doorbell wakes Bullet, sending him off the couch cushion in a roll on the floor. He rights himself, letting out a gruff, “Woof!” Mother busts in, her small entourage of tiny lapdogs, decked out with colorful bows and painted nails, trailing along behind her. Before I can muster up so much as a howdy, she lights into me, “Have you seen it? Did you open it? Can you believe it? I’m fixin’ to have a heart attack here, B.J.” I sink back down into the sofa. The tiny herd of lapdogs chase Bullet around in circles, round and round the couch they go, pausing every now and again to sniff each other’s bottoms. Mother paces back and forth in front of me, holding the very same book, I am one hundred percent certain, my package contains. She reads aloud, “February 24th, 1971, my sixteenth birthday. Daddy comes through, delivering the perfect present, a bottle of aged whiskey older than me, a jaunt down to Mexico, and a roll in the hay with a two-bit whore. My raunchy initiation into the Good Ole Boys Club.” Mother throws the book down almost nailing one of her precious pups. It lets out a yelp, snarling at the book and nipping one corner of it. Then it rejoins its pack in pursuit of poor Bullet around the couch. Mother stands there, staring at me. My mouth feels dry like I swallowed a bucket of sawdust. My stomach does a loop, letting out a nasty growl. The taste of bile rises at the back of my throat. With the blue sky, the birds take flight, scattering to parts unknown. I’d give anything to fly away with them. For a moment, quiet fills the void. Until hundreds of cicadas take up where they left off, their relentless cacophony saturating the still air. The very notion of my spurned sweetheart’s book chaps my hide. Now in print, for all the world to see, forcing Mother and me to face things we best leave buried. Down in Texas, we keep our problems private, paste a smile on our faces, and live under polite facades. I feel exposed, naked. I reckon Mother does, too. I hang my head in shame. A drop of sweat rolls down my nose, plopping onto the package. “Well, don’t just sit there. Speak up. Tell me true,” Mother barks. Tight-lipped, I give her a look blank as a slate. “I’ll skin your daddy alive,” she snaps. As if on cue, her army of little lapdogs join in, with a chorus of high-pitched yipping. “Curse you, Bobby Brayden Junior. Didn’t I warn you? You can’t trust a damn Yankee,” she hollers. Then she heads out the door, her furry entourage in tow. Slamming it shut so hard, she shakes the guest house to its foundation.   JANET BLAKE “It’s such an honor to meet you, Janet Blake,” my interviewer says, standing and shaking my hand. She sits back down, and I take a seat in the empty chair across from her. I believe everyone has at least one book in them. Still, I’m pleased to join the realm of published authors. It all comes down to commitment, devoting enough long hours to hammer it out in writing. Those with a passion for it keep at it, producing book after book. Most let time slip away until death devours untold tales. I refocus my attention on the attractive young woman sitting across from me, disillusioned over how interviews go from exciting to tedious so fast, with interviewer after interviewer posing the same set of questions. I force a smile on my face, looking her in the eye, “I’m sorry, what was that?” I ask. “How did you come up with the idea for your book? Did you draw on personal experience?” I fire off my pat reply, “As a writer, one combines personal experiences with the experiences of those around her, and experiences in the news and throughout history, weaving in enough imagination to create a compelling and entertaining story. A bit of reality wrapped up with a little magic. Even so, some people might say parts of my novel ring true.” “But you won’t name any names?” she asks. I shrug my shoulders, and a look of disappointment clouds her face. Let me stop right here. Either I confide in someone or implode from the inside out. How about I tell you what I won’t tell her or any of the others? If you promise to keep it to yourself, that is. Let me start from the beginning. Once you learn how the whole sordid story unfolded, then we’ll see whose side you’re on. MARCH 1980 Eight cups of coffee a day plus a high-strung personality, not the best combination, cut back on the caffeine, I lecture myself every morning. The waitress pours my third refill, and the sun’s not even up yet. On the plus side, all the caffeine kills my appetite, keeping me slim. Nervous and thin beats mopey and fat any day, if you ask me. After taking a red-eye from New York to San Antonio for my latest assignment, I need the caffeine to stay vertical. I talked my way into a job on the writing staff of Main Street and Ranch magazine straight out of college. A tough sell and a Catch 22 because positions like mine call for a portfolio of published articles, which requires a career in publishing to acquire. Telling me, I should have gone into sales instead. I’d have made a fortune by now. You guessed it. Novice journalist for a magazine pays squat, but I love what I do and enjoy traveling even more than writing, plus assignments like this spell good fun. A semi-nude photo shoot and article entitled, Where Have All the Cowboys Gone? Corny, right, I know but do you expect me to complain about it to my editor? Our subscriber base of middle-aged housewives love this stuff. My first task, finding six sexy cowboys sporting six packs, before Ronald, my favorite staff photographer and best friend, joins me for the photo shoot. Ronald looks like a model, with smooth brown skin, piercing black eyes, and strong features. I swear he’d earn more money in front of the camera instead of behind it, but does he ever listen to me? When a guy looks like Ronald, being “just friends” sucks, but he refuses to date women he works with. I give up after a hundred failed attempts to seduce him. He’s fought off every one of my drunken advances. Ronald’s smart, he likes to keep things simple. Simplicity, the number-one reason his photography is so moving. Not the professional photos he shoots for the magazine. They’re great, don’t get me wrong. I mean the true photographic art Ronald sells in a downtown gallery on commission. My favorite, a close-up of a dew-kissed rose...