The Texan: A Tale of Betrayal & Revenge

By Anne Carey

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483570655

Book preview

CHILI

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 unfurling, covers one wall of our loft. Did I mention Ronald and I are roommates? Another reason he insists on keeping things platonic.

I jot down another angle for my new article when the bell on the door of the old-fashioned diner jingles. A rowdy bunch of guys pour in, filling up the small space. They look a little ragged like they partied all night, and tomorrow’s taken them by surprise.

They flirt with the server in her super short, skin tight, pale pink waitress uniform topped with a white ruffled apron. Only someone this young and hot pulls off all those ruffles, what a girl won’t do for better tips. And her hair, can she tease it any higher?

Did the best-looking one of the bunch just smack her on the butt, how demeaning? Thank you, Grandma Shultz, for establishing my college fund the day I was born. Guaranteeing I’ll never schlep meals for a living.

The ass-smacking jerk stands up, letting one of the other guys out of the booth. He looks lean and rock-hard. On second thought, six packs might prove scarce in such a small town. I’d better make nice with every potential candidate I run into, in light of my new assignment.

I go into unbiased reporter mode, studying the table full of guys with fresh eyes. All of them look pretty cute. How many six packs lurk under those Western shirts, I wonder? Putting my personal feelings aside, I smile at them. Anything for a story, right? Well, either that or lose my job.

B.J. BRAYDEN

After another rowdy all-nighter, we claim our stake at our regular booth in Sunshine’s Diner. Mornin’, B.J., how y’all doin’? my favorite restaurant entrepreneur with the tiny figure and big hair asks as she pours ice water into the clear plastic tumblers sitting on our table.

Just fine with your sweet face brightening my mornin’, I tell Sunshine, patting her on the behind. She beams her wonderful smile my way, and I catch a glint of hope in her eyes. Even though I made love to her once but never asked her out again. Not that there’s a thing in the world wrong with Sunshine. It’s just the way I roll.

Jake nudges me, saying, Let me up. I need to use the restroom. I accommodate him before sitting back down.

How ‘bout some coffee, strong and black? Sunshine asks, doling out a menu to each of us as if we don’t already know it by heart.

Yes, ma’am, all the way around, I tell her. The rest of my posse nod their heads in agreement. Sunshine fetches the coffee pot, filling our mugs to the brim.

Donny feeds quarters into the jukebox on our table. Moe Bandy’s new hit song, I Cheated Me Right Out of You, fills the diner. The lyrics amount to nothing more than a bunch of lovesick hogwash. Meaning all the ladies love it, including Donny the romantic. And every wannabe country singer in every broken down watering hole from here to the border of Mexico includes it in their nightly set.

Sunshine returns with her order pad, its thin slip of indigo carbon paper tucked between her copy and the customers. Y’all ready to order? she asks as Jake slides back into the booth. The Posse put in their requests. When she gets to me, Sunshine tucks her pad and pen in her pocket. Huevos Rancheros, as usual, she says, stating the obvious and gracing me with another smile.

You know me too well, darlin’, I reply with a wink, handing over the laminate coated menu.

Sunshine’s real name is Sally Mae. Her parents passed the diner down to her when they left to see the world in their R.V. Always a happy soul, she grew up inside these four walls, greeting everyone with her sunny smile. One of the old-timers, who’s put in even more time at the diner than Sally Mae, nicknamed her Sunshine. It stuck.

She goes and turns in our order when the gal sitting in the booth catty-corner from ours catches my eye. I know for a fact she’s not from these parts because I’ve made time with every pretty gal between the ages of eighteen and thirty-four this side of the Pecos.

I jab my elbow into Jake’s ribcage, nodding my head at her. He lets out a low whistle. She stops writing in her notebook, staring at us, her pencil midair. My heart skips a beat, a reaction that’s new to me where the ladies are concerned. Good morning, darlin’, I say, grinning at her and asking, How ‘bout a little sugar?

Fire in her startling blue eyes, she shoots me a look, telling me she’d rather tar and feather me then give me the time of day. She tucks a lock of thick, sandy blond hair behind one ear, composing herself. She looks back over at our table like she’s had a change of heart. Maybe something over here piqued her curiosity…me?

She picks up the ribbed glass container full of sugar with its metal cap and pouring spout, crossing the aisle to our table. Here’s your sugar, wise guy. What a lame attempt at a pick up. You have a full jar sitting right there, she says, smirking and slamming it down real hard.

What the heck?

The Posse busts out laughing. The bewildered look on her face makes them laugh all the more. I sit there grinning, trying my best not to join in. Jake, our group clown, slides off the bench, rolling on the floor on his back and kicking his legs in the air, hysterical, which clears the way for me to stand up.

No, darlin’, I’m asking you to give me some sugar, I tell her, tapping my cheek and winking at her.

Sugar. You mean…a kiss, she stammers, blushing.

The whole gang cuts up all over again as she gives me a quick peck on the cheek. The Posse hoots and hollers for more, so I take her into my arms, giving her a big ole kiss.

Her name is Janet Blake and much to Mother’s chagrin, She’s from Chicago or Cleveland, or some doggone place way the heck up there, as she’s fond of complaining to any of her lady friends who aren’t sick to death of listening. I don’t remember where she’s from either. I’ll have to ask her the very next time I see her, which won’t be soon enough for me.

Since meeting Janet, I can’t seem to go a day without having her, leaving me confused and bewildered. No female’s ever affected me like this. After all, I’m not some love sick teenager. Get hold of yourself, boy, I say out loud to hammer home my point.

What’s that, Bobby, Jr.? Bobby, Sr. asks, moving his newspaper aside and looking at me over his leftover chorizo and egg breakfast burrito.

All the sweet gals I try fixing you up with over at the church, B.J. At twenty-five; you decide to get serious and break your mama’s heart at the very same time, Mother says. Cavorting with that Yankee, she adds, rolling her eyes. For the first time, I notice a few gray hairs at her temples; no doubt brought on by my impromptu romance.

Cavorting? I ask, giving her my helpless look.

C’mon now, Peggy Sue, cut the boy some slack, Daddy says, setting down his paper and rushing in to defend me. He winks at her, melting her heart the very same way he did over twenty-five years ago. The first time he met the innocent, fifteen-year-old version of the hardened woman she’s become. Daddy’s the only one capable of cracking the tough outer shell Mother hides in but on a good day, I suppose I manage it, too.

Yes, Mother’s real name is Peggy Sue. And no, she’s not named after the hit Buddy Holly song, which came out in 1957 because she was born in 1938. Although she likes to tell people, she inspired Buddy Holly to write his song, her very favorite tall tale.

If you do the math, it means Daddy knocked-up Mother at sixteen. At seventeen, her daddy rushed them to the altar, giving her just enough time to elope and grant me the privilege of being born a legitimate son versus a fatherless bastard; God forbid.

Someone forgot to tell Bobby, Sr. he got married, though. Because he never stopped dating or more practically cheating. Why let a little thing like matrimony interfere with your love life?

Who can blame him? At eighteen, he stepped up and took full responsibility for a brand-new wife and child. Even though we’re more like running buddies than father and son. I have to give him credit; Daddy’s always been a good provider. Earning a ton of money is the one thing Bobby Senior does best.

It never ceases to amaze me how Mother still falls for Daddy’s charms and bull crap after all these years. It just goes to prove how big a part denial plays in the survival of a long-term marriage.

Bobby, Sr. follows Peggy Sue around the kitchen, whispering one of their inside jokes in her ear. She giggles, forgetting all about my new sweetheart, for the moment. He steers her out of the kitchen and I hear them laughing all the way up the stairs until their bedroom door slams shut, my signal to get the heck out of the main house. Sometimes living right under Mother’s thumb and working for your Daddy isn’t worth the free rent and easy money.

Cincinnati. Geez, how many times do I have to tell you? I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio. Then we moved to New York City before I started high school, Janet says, looking at me with those sea blue eyes. She shakes her head in disbelief at my incapacity to remember all her tiny little details.

Like most women, she fails to realize men don’t care to pay attention long enough to remember everything they say. Wait that doesn’t sound quite right. Let me put it this way. Men are too preoccupied with