Beneath the Broken Oak

PROLOGUE

Long before the soul of man touched the soil of El Hueso

Abiting wind growled up the rugged slope to gnaw its way through the tenacious scrub brush clinging to the West Texas plateau. Year after year it returned, punishing the cursed ground until nothing remained but a hardscrabble land. The scarred hill upon which the town of El Hueso would one day exist seemed to hunch its rocky spine against the blast.

Only the surliest of plants chose to grow in the harsh landscape, and only the hardiest of them survived. Tasajillo, catclaw, juniper, yucca, prickly pear, shin oak, skunkbush, and eventually the invasive thorn-covered mesquite tree.

Until one day the acorn of a live oak found itself abandoned atop the inhospitable plateau.

With determination, it wedged itself into a narrow pocket of deep soil surrounded by rocky ground and braced itself against the angry wind. With tenacity, it sent its roots deep beneath the surface until it found a hidden spring. There it quenched its thirst in the cool, life-giving water.

With unshakable hope, it flourished in a hopeless place.

Year after year the winds came, bending and whipping the oak until a fork formed in its trunk. Two branches now spread from one. A day would come when the tree would break. Weakened by the split, one branch would succumb to the storms that raged over the plateau.

But that day had not yet come when the Charidy family settled beneath the mighty oak on the wild Texas frontier in the fall of 1858.

CHAPTER 1

A tree must grow toward the light, or it will succumb to the darkness. ~Anonymous

Dawn was coming. The darkness couldn’t last.

Sweat beaded on Harrison’s forehead and trailed along his hairline until it ran beneath his collar. He didn’t stop to wipe it. The steady scrape of his shovel jabbing into the hard ground shredded the night air like a wild beast ripping the flesh from its prey. Every so often, he surveyed the distant edges of the night.

The house made his mission risky. The woman who lived there worked nights at the hospital, but she could be home soon.

He ran a hand over his right hip, reassured by the presence of the firearm hidden beneath his shirt. He didn’t want to kill her. But if he had to, he would. A hundred years hadn’t lessened the truth’s power to change everything. To ruin everything. The sins of the fathers—or something like that.

Darkness throbbed with the screak and click of frogs and crickets. Honeysuckle sweetened the air. Like the scent of rotting death.

His insides prickled as the memory edged its way up from where it lay buried in his soul. He cut it off with another thrust of his shovel, burying one thing while he worked to uncover another.

Aidan! a woman called, her voice tight with panic. Aidan Truett, where are you?

The boy’s mother. He froze, shovel suspended above the hole. A few more inches and he’d find it. He was certain.

A ray of light bounced along the ground near the voice coming from the direction opposite the house. The bobbing beam grew larger, as though she headed straight toward him. But why? The oak tree’s deep shadows hid him well. She couldn’t see him.

A scuffing against the rough bark rasped above him. In the fork of the tree, a glint of light winked at him.

That would change everything.

The woman’s voice cried out again, braided with equal measures of urgency, anger, and fear. The reflection in the tree shifted.

His fingers curled around the smooth wooden handle, grip tightening as though to strangle the unfairness of his life. If the truth wouldn’t stay buried, he’d find another way to destroy it.

He’d been so close tonight. He could feel it.

The idea to kick off his campaign for a seat in the state legislature by making an appearance at the nursing home had been a mistake. The old man was crazy. Everyone knew it.

Maybe he was crazy for letting the man’s rantings drive him to this desperate mission. But he wouldn’t risk it.

He’d silenced the rantings of the old man, but that didn’t mean the doddering fool hadn’t already told others.

Forced to abandon his quest, he slipped into the night as a small form dropped from the tree’s branches to the ground.

Another problem to eliminate.

CHAPTER 2

A lone tree is a vulnerable tree. Without a forest to protect and sustain it, the tree must face the perilous forces of nature alone. ~Anonymous

Pain zinged up Jodee Trevaine’s leg as her foot touched the ground. One of the many occupational hazards of a forest service employee—stepping in holes. Of the long list of other sources of pain, she’d take a hidden hole over rattlesnake bites, poison ivy, killer bees, and her least favorite—the business end of a double-barrel shotgun.

The latter only happened once, but she’d since carried a taser. She’d have preferred her SIG, but while Texas was an open carry state, her job was not an open carry job.

Still in uniform, though off-duty, the impossible-to-conceal-under-the-required-forestry-service-uniform firearm remained locked in its box inside the console.

She rolled her ankle to stretch the tight muscle. The walk across the parking lot would help loosen it. With her keys clutched in her right hand, she scanned the lot of Tooley’s Truck Stop. It was the in-between time when sensible people had gone home, and the night ghouls hadn’t yet slunk from their hiding places. A survey of the area didn’t trigger any alarms. No suspicious characters loitering about, and still . . .

Tooley’s Truck Stop was not a place she would stop if she’d had another option. The building’s long neglected appearance evoked more watchfulness than welcome. If there were security cameras, they probably didn’t work. But the nausea churning inside gave her no choice.

She lifted her hair from the back of her neck, hoping the brush of air against her damp skin would bring comfort. The air was still—too still.

The forecast predicted a wave of volatile spring storms to kick up before long. Already flashes of lightning cut jagged lines along an evening horizon darkening like a fresh bruise.

Between the rapid thumping of her heart and the persistent churning nausea, she needed to find a source of relief.

What she needed most was time to think—to stop the world for long enough to make sense of what she’d done and what she planned to do next. The great monster of guilt trekked up her body, stomping on nerves and trampling her confidence.

She’d made a mistake. A careless, life-changing mistake. And now she couldn’t care more.

Her stomach pitched. Truck stops had their own peculiar fragrance—diesel fumes, truck exhaust, and a cement surface marinated in decades’ worth of discarded gum and spilled sodas. Depending on the time of day and season, trash cans covered in baked on ketchup and filled with scraps of fermented food—a fly’s delight.

She swallowed the last of the protein shake attempting to climb its way up her throat and headed toward glass doors covered in fingerprint smudges and paper flyers that curled around the edges in the damp air. Just a quick dash in for saltine crackers, Sprite, and a tub of hopefully unexpired peanut butter.

Halfway across the lot, she froze. Speaking of things that had expired.

Blue Sunday.

The lanky cowboy stood beside a mud-crusted truck, his back to her as he faced the pumps.

An unexpected sense of longing and relief loosened the tightness inside her, as though the sight of him took her to a forgotten place, a shelter she could run to. The emotion surprised her. She scowled. Indigestion. Never eat at the Yellow Dog Burrito or Bust food truck again.

Inside she knew her troubled emotions weren’t the result of bad tacos. She placed her palm against her stomach. Not now. She’d think about this later.

Her heart shuddered into the maddening tempo she’d fought against all afternoon. She adjusted her trajectory and sped her steps. Retreat had never been her way. Avoidance. Well, that was a different story.

Blue had been a sweet-talking cowboy who’d given more than one girl a toothache.

Though she’d escaped his charm with no cavities, that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a pain in certain other areas. Like her foolish heart.

She hurried on, her steps as unsteady as her frantic thoughts. Why now and why here?

She deserved to carry her load by herself. Her current condition might have been an accident, but the solitary life she’d built wasn’t. Jodee Trevaine would take care of herself.

The queasiness that had her stopped at this shady truck stop contradicted her declaration. If she’d done a better job caring for herself, she wouldn’t be in this situation. The sight of him caused an unwelcome desire for a friend to grab at her heart. But not Blue.

Never Blue.

Lightning flashed in the distance. Moist, breezeless air hovered over the heated asphalt. That would change when the storm broke.

Well, well, well. Are my eyes playing tricks on me or is that the backside of the notoriously aloof Jodee Trevaine I see trying like the dickens to pretend she didn’t see me? His drawl poured out like warm honey. His words parted the thick air and two-stepped across the asphalt between them.

Not interested, Blue. She continued on. A conversation with him would make her remember things. It would make her feel things. She was doing more than enough of that already.

So, you did see me and chose to ignore me. I stand corrected. Not aloof, just plain rude.

She stopped, inhaled, then attempted to purge the emotions she didn’t want to deal with in a heavy exhale. She’d become good at hiding her feelings, burying them deep enough others couldn’t find them. The fact she sometimes buried them so far down she couldn’t find them either was a problem. They just kept accumulating somewhere far beneath the surface, dulling her to the next emotional upheaval.

She turned to face him because he was right. Her problem was hers. She didn’t have to blame him because her life was on the brink of falling apart.

Mischievousness sparked in the blue eyes that met hers. Never a care in the world touched Blue Sunday. Of course, an alcohol induced indifference usually compensated for a great many of those cares.

A few years older and the son of a hired hand on her grandfather’s ranch, they’d grown up living completely different lives on the exact same piece of land. But they were forever connected by a night she’d rather not remember.

And a future she couldn’t have. Not now.

Facing him, the hardness inside her started to crumble. What do you want?

All I said was hey.

You didn’t say hey. She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side. "And even if you had, with you hey is never all that’s being said."

He shook his head as his gaze ran over her frame with an appreciative glance. You think you know me.

You’re a pretty open book. She grinned. And not a terribly complicated read.

Hurtful. He placed a hand over his heart. Especially since you haven’t seen me in . . .how long has it been?

Eight years, seven months, and fourteen days. Her indifferent façade caved. Jodee folded her arms over her middle and looked away.

When you were responsible for the death of your best friend, guilt ticked like an eternal clock that never ceased.

His expression sobered, and she knew he remembered that night as well. Yeah, I still miss him too.

She wasn’t the only one who had lost a best friend. Chris had been more than a rock in their lives. He’d been the thread that stitched them to the hope of a better future than the one promised by the chaos of their dysfunctional home lives.

It is what it is. Another time, maybe even another world. One she couldn’t go back to. She offered him an indifferent shrug that caused his brow to furrow. What did he see? Whatever it was, it wasn’t real.

What brings you around these parts? he asked. Though he tried to imitate her indifference, she read the question in his eyes. When will you stop running and come home?

A Ford F-150 with a Texas A&M Forest Service decal on the door.

Same ol’ Jodee. Blue widened his stance and crossed his arms, the curves of his shoulders pressing against the faded gray t-shirt he wore.

Her eyelids fluttered in contradiction. She shifted her gaze to something farther away, guarding the secret behind the tattered curtain of her soul. She wasn’t the same old Jodee, but it was easier if he kept believing she was. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

He moved closer. It’s good to see you again, girl.

The familiar scent of horseflesh, saddle leather, and spearmint gum danced over her senses. Blue. The warmth in his voice washed over her like sweet cream. Up close he didn’t look so lanky. A broader chest and shoulders rounded out with new muscles gave his t-shirt a pleasant fit. She hugged herself tight as though chilled in the sultry air and aimed her gaze at his truck instead. It was good to see him again but in all the wrong ways.

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t go down the for old time’s sake path. The moment had to end, and she had to be the one to end it. Well, enjoy the view while it lasts which won’t be much longer.

Dang it, Jodee. When did talking to you become like trying to roll up old, barbed wire? A man practically needs a new shirt, and a tetanus shot just for being civil.

His words cut deep. He wasn’t wrong.

So that’s it? After all this time, I tell you it’s good to see you, and you can’t find anything nice to say?

She had plenty to say but little of it nice, and none that she’d share with Blue. She’d done this to herself. Her secret metastasized inside her, attacking her from every side. She blinked, her hand covering her mouth then dropping to rest against her stomach. Was that how she felt—as though she were being consumed from within by a deadly disease? The wrongness of her thought numbed her.

You know Jodee, you really need to work on your social skills. Someday you’ll wish you had a friend. A more reliable friend than me.

If only she could accept being friends as if that were all she and Blue were meant to be. But after what she’d done, she didn’t deserve even friendship from Blue.

They’d both lost too much the night Chris died. In a strange way, they’d lost something they never had. Maybe that made the sorrow all the more painful.

See ya later, Blue. She forced a smile she hoped hid the loneliness strangling her. She turned and walked away, certain he watched her go.

What’s a guy gotta do to get a chance with you, anyway?

The same thing he’d always said when she refused to fall prey to his charms. She followed it with the same thing she always said. If you have to ask, you don’t have one.

The truth was, Blue was the only one who had ever come close to having a chance, and that chance had expired long before either of them saw it coming. A raw, burning agony stung her nose and blurred her vision.

Atta girl, Jodee. His unexpected reply carried on a soft, rain-scented breeze, a butterfly kiss to her soul. Murmured words as she wasn’t meant otherwise hear them.

Her steps faltered. She bit her lip to silence the sob that threatened to escape.

The heart-sick ache tore at her resolve, tempting her to turn around and run to him. But it was too late. There was no undoing the mess she’d made.

The refrain from an old George Strait song played in her head. Right or wrong, she was still in love with Blue Sunday.

Yeah . . . the past was dead and buried. It needed to stay that way. She didn’t need Blue and the demons he battled to be part of her uncertain future.

CHAPTER 3

A stricken tree, a living thing, so beautiful, so dignified, so admirable in its potential longevity, is, next to man, perhaps the most touching of wounded objects. ~Edna Ferbe

Blue watched Jodee walk away as though his soul were made of yarn snagged on the jagged edges of the broken woman trailing his unraveling heart behind her.

He was over her. Had been for years, right? His adolescent infatuation had met up with the adult reality that he’d never understand Jodee Trevaine. And after what he’d taken from her, he’d never deserve her.

But it didn’t erase the truth. A part of his heart had always been hers and always would be. Maybe one day he’d be strong enough to cut that cord and stop letting her tie him in knots.

His palms pressed against the warm hood of his truck, the heat of the engine radiating through the metal as he closed his eyes and prayed for guidance and strength.

The pump clicked off. He finished his transaction by ripping the paper receipt before the printer finished spitting it out.

Seated in his truck, he flipped the visor down, forgetting the stack of receipts he’d already stashed there. The slips of paper rained down on him and scattered across the floorboard. He punched the steering wheel, growling out a string of half-syllabled nonsense. Expressing his anger remained a challenge ever since cleaning up his vocabulary.

He hardly recognized the man he used to be, but that didn’t undo the damage that man had done. Actions had consequences. And he’d been a very active boy.

He exhaled a breath laden with regret.

Why now? Jodee’s presence might not be the last thing he needed, but it came close. He’d been given a chance to prove he’d changed, that he was more than a good-for-nothing chip off the ol’ block. He didn’t intend to let down the man who’d saved his life.

A reflexive shiver scuttled down his back as he recalled the long night he’d spent locked in that tiny brick building while Oliver Matthews doused him in ice water every thirty minutes like clockwork. By the time the sun dawned, he’d been sober, starved, half-frozen, and humbled enough to listen to the lecture he received from both Matthews and Blue’s Memaw, Dovey Sunday. But it worked. The lesson stuck.

He rested his head against the seat and stared at the glass doors Jodee had walked through.

It didn’t matter how much he wanted to go after Jodee, he had to let her go. He owed it to Matthews. Even if it meant leaving a part of his heart on the grimy concrete surface of a truck stop parking lot.

He put the truck in gear and headed to the exit. If he didn’t go now, he might do the thing he shouldn’t. Sometimes it was best to leave a tangle of barbed wire be.

His phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket to check the caller ID. Oliver Matthews. Had the man sensed Blue’s doubts and called to make sure he stayed committed to the plan?

With one hand on the wheel, he answered. This is Blue.

Any news?

Nothing. You’re right. Can’t find anyone who’ll talk. At the first mention of his name, they start looking over their shoulders and clam up like someone replaced their Chapstick with Gorilla Glue.

What about his son?

Nolan is interesting. Blue switched to speaker mode and placed his phone on the console.

Explain.

He smiled. Sheriff Oliver Matthews was a man who liked to get to the point.

Sometimes he’s friendly and almost talkative.

And the other times?

He goes silent like he’s scared of his shadow.

If that man was your father, you’d be leery of your shadow too. Matthews coughed. I’m tellin’ you, that man’s as crooked as a barrel of fishhooks. He has to be stopped before he gets his hands into the state government.

He bypassed the on-ramp to stay on the access road.

He’s got women who work for him. You tried sweet-talking one of ‘em? Matthews asked.

A flash of lightning blazed across the sky as Jodee’s face blazed through his mind. "In case you’ve forgotten, you and what must’ve been a tanker truck load of ice water are the reason I stopped sweet-talking women." As much as he wanted to help, he’d changed the night he sobered up.

He glanced in his rearview mirror, his recent encounter with Jodee still clinging to his thoughts.

What about Syrah? She says she’s his daughter even though he don’t acknowledge it.

I’ve talked to her a few times, but . . . He left off without saying something about the woman unsettled him in a way he couldn’t put to words.

Don’t think for a moment she wouldn’t play Judas with you if it served her purpose, Matthews said.

Blue wouldn’t argue. Syrah moved and talked and breathed with a restless hunger, as though she could never be satisfied.

Matthews continued, I just can’t believe one family could run roughshod over an entire county for over a hundred and fifty years and not leave a clue. Not one piece of evidence against them.

I’ve been to the ranch. Checked out the barns, but I haven’t been invited into the big house yet. And I’ve spent more time at Roots than I want to. Only took setting one foot in the door of the disreputable bar to hit the more than he wanted to mark, but he didn’t say it. Nothing.

He ain’t gonna make it easy.

I’m pretty sure the bartender knows things, but he doesn’t talk much. And I’ve never seen our guy in there. You sure he still keeps an office there?

"He owns it. The place has been in his family since before El Hueso was founded. And he ain’t ever been of a mind to sell it. Had an offer from some development company to buy it at a premium several years ago, but he wouldn’t part with it. In fact, the deed says that as long as there’s a descendent living, it stays in the family."

Sounds odd.

It is. I did a little research and there isn’t a similar clause on any of his other properties. Wouldn’t let them put a historical marker on the place either.

Well, if the people won’t talk, maybe the building will. Blue coaxed the last piece of gum from the package. He needed something to chew on besides his problems. He wadded the wrapper and flicked it into the empty cupholder.

How’s that? Matthews asked.

No idea, but I’m tired of hitting dead ends and closed mouths. Don’t forget, my grandparents were a part of this community. My grandmother still is. I spent a decent amount of time hanging around. I didn’t think much of it back then, Okay, maybe he’d been too busy being a part of the problem to see anything but the good time in front of him. But looking back, yeah, there’s something not right about this place.

Look, I ain’t feeling a hundred percent here. The weariness in Matthew’s voice confirmed his words. "I darn sure won’t have your back if anything goes down. I’m going to text you two phone numbers. One’s a Texas Ranger you only call if and when you have something solid, something he can corroborate. The other number, you get into any kind of bind, you text that number. When he sees it’s you, he’ll come running.

And Blue, just remember, you ain’t law enforcement. You look and listen, but you keep it on the right side of the rule book. It’d grieve me greatly to have to lock you up. Matthews cleared his throat. Or bury you.

CHAPTER 4

A wounded tree carries hidden weaknesses. A severe windstorm can wreak havoc on such a tree. ~Unknown

The signature aroma of a derelict convenience store—greasy and stale beneath a layer of cheap sanitation—assaulted Jodee as she shoved through the glass door. The only difference between here and outside was the cooler air. A sign for the restrooms hung askew on the back wall. She hurried in their direction, driven by the desire to escape Blue’s presence as much as her desire to splash cold water against her clammy skin.

As if that would make it all go away.

A brown-headed, freckle-faced boy, maybe five or six years old, played with toy cars in the empty hallway. She cringed at the sight of him on the filthy floor as she bolted into the restroom.

With cupped hands, she sloshed her face with tepid water. An empty paper towel dispenser forced her to dry her face with the hem of her uniform shirt. She allowed Blue enough time to have moved on before exiting.

She opened the door, hopping to the side to avoid stepping on a tiny red corvette speeding over the scuffed, grime-covered tile. The boy looked up at her. Her heart stopped for a lifetime of a second with a future she wasn’t ready for staring at her.

How had this happened? Okay, she knew how. A better question was why had she let this happen?

But the most important question was what she planned to do about it. Did she really have a choice? She’d closed the door on her desire for a family years ago. Did her current circumstances change what she believed?

She inhaled, then released her breath in a slow stream, letting it carry the stabbing ache with it. She wanted to move, but something about the boy held her captive as he continued to roll his cars across the dirty floor.

The red one’s my favorite, she said, nodding toward the car as it whizzed past her foot again.

Mine too. His inquisitive eyes studied her for a moment. Are you a police lady?

The innocence of his question made her smile. It wasn’t uncommon to be mistaken for a Game Warden when she was in uniform, and to a boy his age, uniforms probably looked the same.

It also wasn’t uncommon for people to run for cover when she showed up. Nope. Just a tree lady.

Oh. His brow furrowed, as though her answer needed a thorough examination. Then he turned his attention back to his cars.

Another wave of dizziness unbalanced her.

Lord, help me. An ironic request since she wouldn’t have accepted help from anyone, even if it had been offered. Not even the Lord she told herself.

Only one other customer stirred inside the store. A burly man examined the rack of locally processed beef jerky. He side-eyed her, then turned his back as though he were sensitive about his dehydrated meat selections.

She found the peanut butter and saltine crackers, swung by the cooler for a cold Sprite, and deposited them on the counter.

You coming to the Old Settler’s Reunion this weekend? You can buy your pass here. The cashier recited the pitch by rote as she swept a curtain of limp brown hair aside to reveal a pale face. The young woman wore the frazzled and exhausted look of someone trying to make life work but failing. She bore the same thin nose and wide eyes as the boy she’d seen in the back.

A single mom? In her early twenties, Jodee guessed. Too young to have a child as old as the boy she saw in the back, though not impossible. The notion knotted in her chest as though the arrhythmia that pestered her had finally contorted her heart. Her spoken no answered the cashier’s question. But inside it responded to the anxious question only she asked.

One only she could answer.

The girl coughed, the kind of wheezing sound that drew the concern of others. She coughed again and fanned the air in front of her, becoming aware of Jodee’s scrutiny. Cigarette smoke. It doesn’t take much to trigger my asthma. She dug beneath the counter and produced an inhaler.

The swoosh of the door when another person entered the store drew her attention as she pulled a handful of crumpled dollar bills from her pocket.

Few things pricked her suspicions more than a face hidden in the dark recesses of a hoodie. These days one never knew if the person chose the mode of dress as a fashion statement or if they were headed to a drug deal.

The cashier, whose shirt said her name was Kimberly, glanced toward the hallway where the boy played, but the man stopped at the cooler where the energy drinks were kept.

She handed Jodee her change.

Keep it, Jodee said. Considering the small amount, she dug a hundred-dollar bill from the emergency stash in her front pocket and placed it on the counter.

A flicker of a smile, gone before it had time to exist, flashed over the