Hill Country Hero (4 page)

What had she gotten herself into? CiCi wondered as she stuffed clothes willy-nilly into her duffel bag. Jake Culpepper was incredibly good-looking, but acting on that attraction simply wasn’t going to happen. Not that he was even vaguely interested in her. She might be rudderless, but dammit, she wasn’t stupid.

She was contemplating the sorry state of her life when Mac burst in. Didn’t this family know how to knock?

“Are you ready to go?” Mac made herself at home on CiCi’s bed.

“Sort of,” CiCi replied as she finished zipping her suitcase.

“That Jake Culpepper is a yummy morsel.” Mac smacked her lips with exaggerated relish. She might look angelic but deep down she was a devil.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” CiCi’s assertion was answered with a undebutante-like snort. Leave it to her sister to raise the BS flag.

“Okay, I confess.” CiCi threw herself on the bed and grabbed a bag of M&M’s off the nightstand. “I did notice, and yes, he is yummy. But that’s where it ends.”

“We’ll see. Seriously, though, you have to remember he’s a hound dog. He changes girlfriends almost as often as he changes his socks.”

“I’m always careful.” CiCi had learned her lesson with Tank.

“I know. Just keep Tank in mind,” Mac said, as she strolled out of the room, taking the candy with her. That girl could be
so
irritating.

Mama stuck her head in the door. “Are you packed?” Why was everyone concerned about her travel plans?

“Pretty much. I have a few more things to do, and then I’m on my way.”

Marianne leaned on the doorjamb. It didn’t take a Mensa membership to know what was coming next.

“You will take care of yourself, won’t you?” That woman could slide into her Mama Bear mode in a nanosecond. Was that character trait handed out in the delivery room?

“I promise I won’t swim until an hour after I’ve eaten.” CiCi hid her grin.

“You know what I mean.”

She hugged her mom. “I do. And I guarantee I’ll be cautious.”

Marianne nodded and turned to leave. “Oh, by the way, Sugar Plum’s going with you.”

It took a second to process that comment. “What?”

“Daddy wants you to take Sugar Plum. He claims she’ll be protection.” Mama somehow managed to keep a straight face.

“Are you kidding? If that mutt’s a watchdog, I’m a supermodel.”

“He’ll deny it, but I suspect he’s going to enjoy a couple of weeks without the dog hair. He’s tired of me griping about her clogging up the pool.”

A
ND THAT WAS HOW
Sugar Plum ended up riding shotgun in CiCi’s chartreuse VW convertible. Making a three-hundred-mile road trip with a humongous black canine, shedding and
drooling the whole way, was no picnic. But CiCi was tough, and she was determined to make this work—dog snot and all.

“Hey, Sugar Plum, you want another burger?” she asked during their Sonic Drive-In lunch break. Burgers and dogs didn’t mix but CiCi was a softie when it came to those big brown eyes and silly Newfie grin. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She handed her traveling companion the last sandwich in the bag, being especially careful with her fingers.

“Are you ready?” CiCi pulled out of the parking lot and made her way back to I-10. Little did she know that trouble was brewing, or digesting, as the case may be. They hadn’t gone far before the dog’s tummy started to rumble. In hindsight, CiCi realized the second burger had been a terrible mistake.

Half a dozen stops later, her patience was wearing thin. “No more Sonic for you, missy.” She tapped the dog’s black nose. Sugar Plum responded with a doleful look. “See that sign? It says no rest areas for the next hundred and twenty miles. No getting out. No sniffing, no pooping, no nothing. Do you understand?”

CiCi’s diatribe was rewarded by a wet doggie kiss across her face. Sometimes she felt like Rodney Dangerfield—she didn’t get no respect, not even from woman’s best friend.

The flatland of the Texas Gulf coast soon gave way to rolling pastures dotted with native live oak and herds of white-faced Herefords. Shortly before they reached San Antonio, CiCi exited the interstate and headed toward the Texas Hill Country.

Texas back roads were comparable to many states’ major highways. That was primarily because they had to accommodate a large number of farm and ranch vehicles, pickup trucks and Suburbans—the unofficial vehicle of Texas. Texans liked their roads wide and pothole free.

CiCi hadn’t gone many miles before the landscape changed again—this time to limestone hills, steep canyons, fresh-water springs, vistas of scrub oak and mesquite and lazy meandering rivers. The Texas Hill Country. However, most Texans didn’t see the area in terms of geology, mineral production or prehistoric upheaval. To them, it was simply a little piece of heaven.

Back when the state was a republic, the founding fathers decided it was time to settle central Texas and they looked to Europe to entice new residents. They figured if they offered free land, people would come from far and wide. And by gosh, they were right. Seven thousand immigrants from Germany, France, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Switzerland, Den mark, Sweden and Norway came flooding in, bringing a smorgasbord of customs and cultures. But in central Texas, the German traditions had firmly taken root.

The Hill Country had long been a favorite vacation spot for the Hurst family. Mama loved the wineries and boutiques. CiCi was a fan of the bakeries and the ice cream parlor. And Daddy, dear sweet Daddy with his Harvard education, frequented the local bars. He claimed it was research. His theory was there was no better place to get to know his clientele. Al most every summer until she got married, CiCi made the pilgrimage to New Rothenburg, the heart of the Hill Country.

She’d no sooner popped a new Trace Adkins CD in the stereo when she spied her turnoff. Sugar Plum was settled down for a nap, taking up a good portion of the front seat.

Thirty miles down the road, CiCi pulled into a town she knew like the back of her hand. Shiny imports competed with pickups sporting rifle racks for parking spots on the crowded main street.

The sidewalks were packed with tourists, intent on immersing themselves in Bavarian culture—Texas style. CiCi
checked out the hordes packing the stores and decided to skip the visit to her favorite ice cream parlor. Blue Belle butter pecan was one of her weaknesses, but today she’d have to pass. Considering Sugar Plum’s delicate stomach, it would probably be smarter to go straight to the camp. An ominous rumble came from the canine’s tummy—yep, time to haul butt.

Even considering the potential for a gastric disaster, CiCi loved being back in the Hill Country. The Hurst girls had each spent their adolescent summers at Camp Summer Wind on the Guadalupe River. It was during one of CiCi’s last years at camp that Daddy had found almost five hundred acres of riverfront property for sale. Eventually that purchase gave birth to Camp Touchdown and the Hurst family foundation, solidifying their connection to her favorite part of Texas.

J
AKE WAS ALSO HAVING TROUBLE
getting to Camp Touchdown. He’d hit a brick wall when it came to finding Dwayne. When that boy wanted to disappear, he did so with a vengeance. But even a rat had to eventually come out of hiding, and when he did, Jake planned to be waiting.

But that had to be on hold until Jake got back to Houston. For now, he’d be stuck in the middle of nowhere with Miss Debutante and a bunch of juvenile delinquents.

Jake’s only consolation was that Ms. Hurst was easy on the eyes—she was a fine-looking woman. But he’d learned a hard lesson about socio-economic snobbery in college when he fell for a society girl and was cut off at the knees for his effort.

CiCi Hurst was off-limits. Even if she’d talk to him after that doozy of a tackle, Texas Bob would
not
be happy if Jake made a move on his daughter. So during his tenure at Camp Touchdown, he’d keep his hands to himself and his libido in check.

With that thought in mind, he pressed on the accelerator. The speed limit on a Texas road might be posted at seventy, but eighty was more the norm.

Once he got through the San Antonio traffic, it was clear sailing to the heart of central Texas. Many years ago, he and Cole had come here for Oktoberfest, but selective amnesia was the order of the day on that trip. That was a case of too much beer, too much wurst and too much of a good thing!

Normally Jake didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings, but now he wondered why he hadn’t made a return journey to enjoy the countryside. Ancient live oaks and scrub cedar lined the meandering gravel road that led him over Ramada Creek. It was a watering hole for white-tailed deer, wild turkeys, bobcats and numerous diamondback rattlesnakes.

Jake stopped under the heavy crossbeams bearing the Camp Touchdown sign. He lowered his window to listen to the water trickle over rocks as old as time. For some reason he felt at peace. Perhaps he
should
take time to smell the roses, or coffee or whatever the Oprah-ites were suggesting these days. People kept telling him there was life outside football. Could that possibly be true?

And where had all this introspection come from? Jake shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs—enough of the girly-man stuff. He gunned his brand-new black Dodge Ram with magnum V-8 Hemi. Now
that
was a Texas truck.

Jake had done his homework on Camp Touchdown before leaving Houston. The facility specialized in providing an outdoor experience for inner-city kids, boys and girls ages thirteen to seventeen. There were forty campers at each session. The camp counselors were handpicked from colleges all over the state. Texas Bob recruited budding psychologists, teachers and he even threw in a handful of criminologists for good measure, paying them handsomely for a summer’s work.

“Nice,” he muttered as he pulled in the front gate. Daddy
Warbucks hadn’t spared any expense when he built this place. There were soccer fields, basketball courts, stables and even an Olympic-size swimming pool. An impressive building constructed of native rock with a massive chimney stood guard in the middle of the camp. It didn’t look anything like the church camp Jake had attended as a kid.

So he was going to be in charge of sports at this five-star teen resort. Hmm, soccer and basketball he could handle; horses, no way. And if Ms. Hurst thought he was going to teach field hockey or lacrosse, she had another think coming.

Jake’s stomach rumbled impressively. It had been hours since his lunch of BBQ brisket, coleslaw, beans and white bread at Oma’s Kitchen in Flatonia. He was a growing boy; he needed three squares a day.

Kids were pouring out of the building, giggling, poking each other and generally being obnoxious. And they were heading his way. He’d bet that at least half of them could hot-wire a car like a pro. Probably a safe assumption considering he’d learned that skill the summer after the fourth grade.

Jake jumped from the vehicle. “Don’t touch the wheels,” he told a skinny kid who was edging closer and closer to the Dodge. If they so much as laid a pinkie on the chrome, they’d have to answer to him. Not that he’d really do anything, but he was big and he could look darned scary.

“Hey,” Jake called to the tallest boy in the group. The adolescent had leader written all over him. “What’s your name?”

The teen put on a great show of disinterest. “Rondelle.”

“Okay, Rondelle, I’m leaving you in charge of my stuff.” Jake clapped him on the back. “I’m the new football coach, and you look like you’d make a great quarterback.”

Rondelle puffed up with pride. “Hey, man, ain’t you Jake Culpepper from the Road Runners?” “Yep.”

“Cool. Don’t worry, dude, no one will touch a thing. Not without my okay.” The teenager poked a thumb at his own chest.

Jake suppressed both a grin and a groan. “Great.” He turned to walk away and immediately tripped over a huge dog that had plopped down next to his scuffed boots.

“What the—?” The canine shook its monstrous head and drool flew everywhere.

“Looks like Sugar Plum’s in love.”

Jake looked for the source of the voice, there she was in the flesh. And what nice flesh it was. Long tanned legs, pixie haircut, twinkling eyes and a pedigree that would choke a horse.

Jake strolled up to where CiCi was standing on the front porch. “Did you say this mountain of fur is named Sugar Plum?” Sugar Plum had plastered herself to Jake’s leg and was watching him with doggy adoration.

“That’s her name.” CiCi cracked a grin. “At least she’s not humpin’ your leg.”

“Thank God for small mercies.” Jake scratched behind the dog’s ear. “I hate to sound stupid, but what
kind
of dog is she?”

“Sugar’s a Newfoundland, but she’s had her summer do. When it gets hot, Daddy has the groomer treat her to a buzz cut. It’s cooler.”

Jake sure hoped Texas Bob wasn’t planning to “cut” him, too. Too bad the jury was still out on his chances.

Dawn broke much earlier than Jake wanted or expected. “Crap!” He buried his head under the pillow to block the sound of the “William Tell” overture blasting from a loudspeaker outside. When that didn’t work, he gave up and pulled his Rolex to eye level. Jeeze, it was too early for even roosters to be awake.

No way was he going to jump out of the bunk. Not that he was comfortable, not by a long shot. His feet hung off the end by at least six inches. It was so narrow, his 260-pound body didn’t have room to roll over. And to top it all off, it was hard enough to double as an Aztec sacrificial altar.

Miss Debutante probably had a nice, soft queen-size bed, while he’d been banished to camper hell. Jake groaned as he stood and stretched. This was all part of his punishment, so he’d grin and bear it. In a month, he’d be back to his real life—football, football and more football.

Jake touched his toes, testing his creaking joints. Pain was part of any professional athlete’s life—actually, it seemed like an old friend. Humiliation wasn’t quite as familiar, and unless he missed his guess, Texas Bob was ready to dish up the crow.

Jake stretched toward the ceiling to work out some of the kinks. He was only thirty, but sometimes he felt as old as
Methuselah. That was the price he paid for being steamrollered by three-hundred-pound tackles day after day.

He hoped to God he’d know when it was time to hang up the cleats. There was nothing more pitiful than a washed-up jock trying to compete with the youngsters and getting killed in the process.

Jake lumbered into the shower. At least he had a private cabin and didn’t have to share it with a half-dozen pubescent kids who thought cutting a “silent but deadly” was hilarious.

When he turned on the water he was alternately scalded and frozen by the trickle of water coming from the nozzle. Jake leaned his head against the wall and groaned. This was going to be a
very
long month.

C
I
C
I WAITED AT A TABLE
in the dining room for her new athletic director. After three days on the job she finally felt like she was getting her feet on the ground. She just prayed that would translate into being able to manage forty out-of-control teenagers and a staff of twenty randy college students. The entire camp was on hormonal overload.

And speaking of hormones—having Jake Culpepper around 24/7 was disconcerting, to say the least. Just hearing his name made her jittery.

CiCi spooned more sugar into her coffee. He wasn’t any different from the teenaged jocks who had made her high school years miserable. They all wanted to date her sisters, but did they ask her out? No way! She was too skinny, too tall and too gawky to register on their testosterone-fueled radar. And unfortunately those long buried teenage insecurities had surfaced when she discovered Tank’s adultery.

CiCi was pondering the situation when Mr. Universe sauntered into the dining hall. Every female in the building swooned.

Jake Culpepper’s “Wow” factor didn’t come from what he was wearing—the shorts, T-shirt and running shoes were nothing special—it was what he looked like that could get him banned in Peoria.

Truly, this was going to be the longest month in the history of mankind.

Jake barely spared his new boss a glance before sauntering over to charm the cook out of a cup of coffee. Even though CiCi had sworn off men, she’d have to be dead not to notice his long, muscled legs and broad chest. He was even wearing a whistle around his neck. The guy was taking his coaching duty seriously.

“If you keep glaring at me like that, you’re going to have to have Botox injections to erase the lines,” Jake said as he dropped down on the bench next to her. “I thought we’d called a truce. Friends, remember?” He held out his hand.

“Yeah, friends.” She hadn’t realized she was glaring. Suppressing a mental cringe, CiCi stuck out her hand, totally un prepared for the electric zing that traveled all the way to the top of her head.

The way Jake jerked his hand back, she knew he’d felt it, too, but he had quick reflexes and recovered faster than she did.

He took a long sip of coffee. “We’ll be out of each other’s way before you know it.”

“Yeah, we won’t be here long.” Uh-huh. “You look tired. Didn’t you sleep well?” It was a silly question, but her mind had gone blank.

“The bed’s a little short.”

“Oh.” CiCi hadn’t thought about it, but it probably was ridiculous to expect him to fit in a camper bunk. Note to self—order a queen-size bed. “That’s one problem I can take care of. I don’t want you to be miserable.”

“Okay. Why don’t you fill me in on what you want me to
do. I can coach football, basketball and baseball, and I can fake it with volleyball. Swimming’s not my strength, but I can manage, and horseshoes are a no-brainer.” Jake spread his hands in a “that’s all there is” motion.

CiCi shook her head in an effort to banish the thought of Jake Culpepper without a shirt. She had never successfully played the boy/girl game and had no idea how to start now even if she wanted to. But naïveté aside, CiCi knew sex appeal when she saw it, and this guy had it in spades. That had to be what was muddying her brain.

“We have a rafting party scheduled for this afternoon. The staff members act as chaperones—you and me included. And I should tell you that while you’re on staff, the co-eds are off-limits.” Even if that was insulting, she felt compelled to lay out the ground rules. She hoped against hope that his womanizer reputation was overhyped.

Jake put his hands up. “Hey, I’m thirty. Way too old for college girls.” He narrowed his eyes. “You really don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you?” Her silence was eloquent, but two could play at this game. If she wanted to be snotty, he could be snotty right back. Too bad his libido wasn’t cooperating.

The electricity surging between them was almost palpable, but considering who she was, he needed to ignore it. Fortunately, they were interrupted by the arrival of a tall, redheaded guy, who reminded Jake of a young Ron Howard.

“Jake Culpepper. I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve watched you since I was a little kid. I’m Greg Anderson, the senior counselor.”

Jake visibly winced at his “kid” comment, but shook the guy’s hand.

“This is so cool,” Greg exclaimed.

The sentiment was obviously shared by the two college girls who had joined the group. They couldn’t seem to take
their eyes off Jake. That had to be nipped in the bud. Twenty-year-old groupies were nothing but trouble.

“Yeah.” The brunette of the duo was the first to regain the power of speech. “Like, this is so sick.”

Jake suspected that was a compliment, but he wasn’t quite sure.

Greg sat down on the bench, not leaving any room for the girls. It took everything Jake had not to give them his seat. If there was one thing his mother had taught him it was manners. But this wasn’t the time to encourage any sort of attraction, so he remained seated. Even so, he felt like a big goober.