Texas Thunder

 

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Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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This book is dedicated to my BFF Debbie Villanueva Dimas,

For always listening when I whine/ bitch/complain/cry,

You always know the right thing to say and for that I am forever grateful,

You're the best!

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Being a writer is the best job in the world, but it can be tough at times because it's just you and the computer. I would like to say an extra special thank-you to those people who help make this job a little less lonely. To my wonderful agent Natasha Kern, for always being the voice of reason and encouragement. To my editor Holly Ingraham, for helping me wade through all the crap—i.e., the dreaded rough draft—to get to the really good stuff. And to my husband Curt Groff, for being my real life cowboy and introducing me to the wonders of a small Texas town. Y'all are the best!!!

And to the wonderful people at Hill Country Distillers in Comfort, Texas. Many thanks for patiently answering all of my questions, no matter how trivial, and for introducing me to some of the best moonshine I've ever tasted. Who needs a margarita when you've got a Moonshine Mule?

 

PROLOGUE

Some men were good at drinking whiskey, and some men were good at making whiskey. And a select few were even good at both.

James Harlin Tucker had always been convinced that he fell into the third category.

But as he stood in the small shed in the dead of a hot Texas night and sampled his latest batch, he wasn't so all-fired sure.

He swirled the god-awful swig around in his mouth for a few long seconds just to be fair before giving in to his gag reflex and spitting the vile stuff into the dirt.

“Horse piss,” he muttered. That's what it tasted like. And the smell? Holy mother of Jesus. He wrinkled his nose and wondered what the hell had happened to the sweet scent of apples he'd been shooting for.

Lord knew he'd used a good half a bucket of Miss Maribel's prize-winning Pink Ladies. And some cinnamon, too. And cardamom. And a handful of other ingredients he'd been playing around with over the past few years.

He sniffed the jar of liquor and grimaced.

Not that it was a poor effort. Hell, no. It was pretty damned decent for the average Joe.

But he wasn't some run-of-the-mill bootlegger. He was a Tucker, for damn sake. He had shine running through his veins. Any Tucker worth his salt could mix up a decent-tasting batch of liquor in his sleep.

And a direct descendant of Archibald Tucker himself?
The
greatest moonshiner in Texas history?

Why, James ought to be cranking out some top-of-the-line, Grade A hooch with his eyes closed, his bunions cryin', a crick in his neck, and both hands tied behind his back.

No problem at all
if
he'd had more than half of his grandfather's famous recipe.

He wiped at his bleary eyes. His gaze shifted to the old, yellowed sheet of crinkly paper that sat on a nearby tabletop, the edges frayed, the first five ingredients nearly faded.

And the last five?

Gone as all get out.

Ripped away by Archibald's sworn enemy and bona fide sumbitch—Elijah G. Sawyer.

Once upon a time, Archibald and Elijah G. had been friends, as well as business partners. They'd cooked up the best home brew in the Lone Star state until Elijah had screwed Archibald royally. He'd tried to cut Archibald out of the profits and so the two men had come to blows. The fight had ended with the men dividing the recipe right down the middle, and then they'd gone their separate ways.

And while Archibald had surely known each step by heart, he'd refused to write them down or use any of the ingredients that Elijah had contributed.

“I don't need that double-crossing Sawyer. Never did and never will. I can make my own shine with my own fixins. Damn straight, I can.”

And he'd done just that.

He'd come up with a brand-new mix that didn't have anything to do with that sneaky rat-bastard Elijah G. Sawyer. A decent white lightning that had earned Archibald a fair living for the rest of his life.
Decent.
But nowhere near the mother lode he'd pocketed in the beginning when he and Elijah had been running their 160-proof corn liquor.

The original Texas Thunder, as folks had called it, had made Archibald enough money at the tender age of eighteen to buy a two-thousand-acre spread and build a fancy house smack dab in the middle. The two-story colonial had been James's grandmama's pride and joy, right up until she and Archibald had died on the front porch in a standoff with revenuers some thirty-odd years later.

That day stirred in James Harlin's memory—the shouting, the cussing, the shooting—but he pushed it aside and sucked it up the way any man with an ounce of backbone would do. He'd never been one for tears.

Not back when he'd been a wet-behind-the-ears six-year-old hiding under the front porch, bullets flying overhead and his grandmama crying something fierce above him.

And sure as hell not now, at the ripe old age of eighty-six, the house falling down around him, the land overgrown and desperate for some TLC. Tears were useless. They didn't put food in your belly. Or settle a massive tax debt with the Rebel Savings & Loan. Or silence the whispers of a conscience he'd spent a lifetime trying to ignore.

Only a good jar of shine did all that.

It also sent him straight to Hell the morning after, but that fact never figured in the night before when James was drowning his troubles. He didn't worry over the bone-splitting headache or the nausea or the goddamn exhaustion that was sure to follow the next day. Instead, he focused on the magical cure-all of a
really
good buzz.

He wasn't the only one, either.

Many a customer had driven from clear across the state for a measly sup of the legendary Texas Thunder. They'd paid through the nose for it, too.

And so James had abandoned his granddad's so-so mix and the piss-poor amount of change he now made selling the occasional jar to the locals, to re-create the original shine.

That's why he was here in the pitch black of a sweltering July night, workin' his ass off when he should be kicked back in his recliner, his window unit blowing full blast, watching that fella Jimmy Fallon on the color TV.

He needed money.

Real money.

And he knew just the fella willing to pay hand over fist should James manage to nail down the original recipe.

He folded the worn paper, set it on the windowsill near the radio, and walked across the dirt floor of the small shack that sat deep in a tangle of trees a good ways behind the main house. It wasn't nearly the covert setup he'd had back in the day when he'd been running hundreds of gallons and had his livelihood stashed miles away, deep in the oak and cedar maze that lined the nearby creek, a dozen booby traps set up along the way to ward off intruders. A man had had to be careful back then. No, he was only running ten-gallon batches now, the bare minimum to keep a little change in his pocket and a sliver of hope in his chest while he perfected his recipe.

A single bulb hummed overhead, generating just enough glow to push back the shadows and illuminate the ancient pot still that stood center stage. An old transistor radio sat in the corner, tuned to the only AM country station still in existence. George Jones crackled over the air waves, crooning about good times and stubborn women. James started to whistle.

Not that he was a huge fan, mind you. The Possum didn't hold a candle to his all-time favorite—the legendary Hank Williams Sr. But James had to respect a man who knew how to put away a bottle of whiskey, and the Possum had guzzled more than his fair share, that was for damn sure.

James hobbled over to the small shelf where he'd left the notebook he'd used to pencil in the ingredients for this last run. Sliding on his bifocals, he eyed the list. He scribbled a few corrections to the final product—no cardamom, a pinch more cinnamon—before turning back to the ten-gallon mash bucket to start working his next batch. He was on the right track. He could feel it. It was just a matter of fine-tuning now. Tweaking.

He was just about to add his sweet feed and his honey—a full pint instead of a half—when he heard the noise above the slow whine of George's electric guitar.

The creak of wood. The click of metal. The rush of propane. The sizzle of a flame.

“Who the hell—” He turned just as the lid blew off the still and sent him spiraling backward. Glass cracked. Fire rumbled. The floor shook. The fumes rushed at him, burning his nose and punching him hard in the chest.

James gasped for air and tried to keep his legs beneath him as he floundered against the far wall, but it was useless. The blackness was too strong, too suffocating. It pressed him down like a giant hand and snuffed out his air. His knees buckled and he slid to the floor.

He blinked his watery eyes and tried to focus on the shapes moving in front of him—a hand here, a leg there, an arm to his right, a face just above his …

Smoke crowded around him and his vision went blurry. His lungs burned. The shadows closed in.

And then everything went pitch black as James Harlin Tucker drew his very last breath.

 

CHAPTER 1

Callie Tucker had never thought very highly of the Senior Women's Quilting Circle. In her opinion, there'd always been way too much gossip and not nearly enough quilting.

Par for the course in a small town like Rebel, Texas, where everyone knew their neighbor's business and tongues wagged faster than a flag during a Gulf Coast hurricane. Still, like them or not, she had to give the busybodies their due. They might not be able to keep their mouths shut, but they certainly knew their way around a funeral.

“Put the macaroni salad on the left side.” Ernestine Mabrey pointed to a six-foot table draped in a white linen tablecloth. Eight more flanked the back recreation room of the First Presbyterian Church where eighty-six-year-old James Harlin Tucker had just been memorialized in front of his closest friends and family, and a few not-so-close folks who'd shown up for the free food and gossip.