No more hiding out in the kitchen, plotting her culinary future while she whipped up the typical bar food—everything from chicken wings to nachos. No more studying her butt off in the back room while her mom and sisters kept the party going out front. No more applying for sous-chef positions with a handful of Houston’s top restaurants.
She was the only daughter left now. Her mother’s last hope.
She swallowed again and tried to ignore the churning in the pit of her stomach. A drop of sweat tickled its way down Nikki’s right temple. The razor burn on her legs prickled.
“...take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband...”
She blew out a deep breath and inhaled again. Her nostrils burned with the sickeningly sweet scent of flowers coupled with the half gallon of sickly sweet eau de gag me Margie Waltrip, Lost Gun’s one and only wedding coordinator, had sprayed her with prior to the walk down the church aisle. Her stomach pitched and rolled.
“...and do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife...”
Easy. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
“...by the power vested in me, I pronounce each of you man and wife. Husbands, you may kiss your brides!”
She was not going to throw up, despite the blinding light and the overwhelming smell and her mother’s hopeful stare.
Rather, she was going to paste a smile on her face and waltz back up the aisle with the rest of the wedding party.
Or waddle, which was about all she could manage in the huge dress.
And then she was going to find her way out of the maze of tulle and flowers, hunt down the church’s nearest exit and run for her life.
* * *
SHE DIDN’T WADDLE her way to freedom.
She wanted to. Boy, did she ever. But she couldn’t make a break for it without upsetting her sisters, and so she climbed—at a much slower pace than usual thanks to the layers of fabric—into her beat-up Chevy pickup and followed the line of trucks and SUVs headed out to the Gunner Ranch where the reception was being held.
At the reception, she kept as wide a distance from her mother as possible, and ignored the phone in her pocketbook that vibrated every few minutes with a new text. The most startling of which?
How would you like to be my new bartender?
Ugh.
The last thing she wanted was to serve beers for the rest of her life. She’d spent the past few years dressing like her sisters and putting up a front to stay off her mother’s radar, while secretly pursuing her culinary degree. She’d even managed to stash away a sizable nest egg to tide her over through an internship. She wanted out of here, a chance to live her own life, to fulfill her own dreams.
But first she had to make it through finals in two weeks without losing her focus.
Fat chance if she ended up slinging Coronas side by side with Raylene Barbie.
She ignored yet another text, finished taking the mandatory pictures and darted off toward the buffet line before her mother could pin her down.
She squeezed through the throng of wedding guests stuffed into the massive white tent where the reception was being held. A country band played a soft, twangy version of Willie Nelson’s Always on My Mind.
Seriously? Forget Miranda Lambert’s ballsy Gunpowder and Lead—the Barbie theme song. Her sisters really had gone off the deep end.
All the more reason to cut and run.
Now.
She bypassed the buffet and headed through a nearby tent that had been set up to house the food. After a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, she darted into the tent, and nearly collided with a waiter carrying a tray of crab cakes.
She paused to snag a sample before murmuring “Sorry,” and turned to make her way through the massive square-shaped kitchen. Burners and stoves lined the outer perimeter. The inner area was a maze of preparation tables. People clustered here and there, busily arranging everything from trays of speared shrimp to platters of cold vegetables and gourmet cheeses. There wasn’t a hot wing or a fried pickle in sight—none of the usual fare that her mother offered up at the honky-tonk. Even more proof that Raylene was, at this moment, going into shock from the one-eighty her world had taken.
Her mother wasn’t much for gourmet cuisine, which was why Nikki had been lying about taking a pole-dancing class in Austin three times a week. In reality, she made the hour-long drive to attend an advanced gourmet-entrée class to work on her very own twist to the traditional beef Wellington that was sure to win its way onto the menu in one of Houston’s finest.
Fat chance now.
Her life was ruined. Her dream over. Her future tanked.
She fought down a wave of tears and bypassed a woman in a white chef’s hat who fed slices of cake onto individual crystal plates. The sweet, sugary aroma teased her nostrils, promising a temporary distraction.
Forget that. She needed alcohol.
She snagged an open bottle of wine from a nearby tray and took a long swig. Her sisters had gone all out. Forget a box of Pinot Grigio from the local Piggly Wiggly. She was drinking an aged White Zinfandel that slid down her throat with a smooth sweetness that eased the panic for a few seconds and slowed her pounding heart.
Another long drink and she left the service tent behind and headed for the barn that sat several yards away.
A little distance and a lot of wine and maybe, just maybe, she could figure out some way to deal with the disaster that was fast becoming her life.
She could spike her mother’s favorite moonshine three times a week with a couple of Ambien. That, along with the one-hundred-and-eighty proof, would surely be enough to knock her mother out so she could finish the class, ace the exam and get her degree.
And, more than likely, cause some serious brain damage to the one woman who’d endured twenty hours and thirty-three minutes of labor on her behalf.
Of course, the moonshine wasn’t any more an option than the Ambien. She didn’t have a prescription, nor did she have any of Big Earl Jessup’s famous White Lightning. The old man could barely remember his name, much less his prized recipe.
Another all-important fact which had Raylene acting even more desperate. She had over twenty different drinks on her bar menu that featured Big Earl’s classic moonshine. A secret weapon that upped her take at least twenty percent on any given Saturday night and gave her an edge over the bigger, flashier bars popping up along the main interstate. Raylene’s place had long since been a draw not only to the locals, but to the endless string of tourists that passed through Lost Gun. And all because of her Texas Lightning Margarita.
Sure, she told everyone, particularly Sheriff Hooker, that she used an aged tequila, but the folks in Lost Gun knew the taste of old Earl’s premium-grade liquor well enough to know better. And they talked. And that talk lured the tourists. And the tourists kept Raylene in black leather bustiers and salted peanuts. And Raylene’s business was the only thing that kept her too busy to focus on Nikki’s personal life.
Was being the key word.
The smell of hay and leather surrounded her as she fled deep into the massive barn that sat at the far edge of the property, bottle in hand, panic fluttering in her chest.
She took another long, much-needed drink and tried to think of something good. Something calm. Something monotonous. Like chopping