The Judge

“Yes?”

“I’m going to kiss you.”

“I wish you would.” Her voice was none too steady either.

He lifted her chin with the backs of his fingers and she closed her eyes as he bent toward her. The first touch of his lips was a tentative brushing against hers.

She loved his lips. They were warm, full, gentle.

Then he gathered her into his arms and deepened the kiss. He groaned and put his heart and soul into it, and she responded in kind.

Dear Lord, he was so fine. She clutched handfuls of his shirt to keep from puddling at his feet. She was just getting started when he broke away.

“I really enjoyed the evening,” he said. He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead instead of on the lips she blatantly offered. “Good night.”

And then he was gone. Out the door faster than greased lightning.

She lifted her eyebrows and stared at the door that had closed behind him. “And good night to you, too, Judge.”

Dear Reader,

This is the second of three books about a family of tall, dark and handsome fellows, the Texas Outlaws. In keeping with family tradition, the Outlaw brothers are named for famous desperadoes and are in law enforcement and public service. I hope that last month you read and enjoyed the first book of the miniseries, about J. J. (Jesse James) Outlaw, sheriff of Naconiche (NAK-uh-KNEE-chee) County, Texas. This story is about his older brother, Frank James Outlaw—who wouldn’t vote for a judge with that name?

Again set in the tall-timbered, rolling hills of the fictitious small county seat of Naconiche, this tale features more of the colorful characters typical of small East Texas towns around where I was born—warm, welcoming and often a shade eccentric. East Texas is where the Old South meets the West, so there’s a mix of cowboys and country folks, and most people are friendly—but a few still live in the backwoods, guard their privacy as if they were still moonshinin’ and tote shotguns to ward off strangers.

When Carrie Campbell blew into town, she never imagined that she would meet and come to love so many people—especially a judge with a pair of rambunctious twins. But magical things seem to happen when you stay at the Twilight Inn. Come along and see.

Warmest regards!

Jan Hudson

The Judge

Jan Hudson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Mary Hudson And with special thanks, for Marilyn Jefferies Meehan, attorney and former landman.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

Still steamed, Carrie Campbell yanked open the door and strode into the justice of the peace’s offices. It had chapped her good when that moon-faced Gomer had given her a speeding ticket not two minutes after she’d crossed the county line. Doing seventy-one in a fifty-mile-an-hour zone, he’d informed her in a nasal drawl. She hadn’t seen a different speed posted. How could she be held accountable when a humongous semi parked on the shoulder had clearly blocked the sign? She’d gone back and looked.

She ought to fight it. Everything in her screamed to go to the mat about this. But she needed to play it low-key around Naconiche County, Texas—at least until her business here was finished. She could just hear her uncle Tuck saying, “Get down off your high horse, girl, and pay the damned ticket. Play your hand close to your vest and don’t stir up the locals. Remember you’ve got a job to do.”

Carrie stopped, took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. She couldn’t let her temper screw up things.

Okay. She’d pay the damned ticket—if she could find somebody to take her money. Nobody was sitting at the front desk.

Spotting a door ajar at the back of the large ante-room, she headed straight for it. The sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could get on with her plans.

Horace P. Pfannepatter, Justice of the Peace, Precinct 2 was painted in black letters on the frosted glass panel. Through the crack, she could see a dark-haired man in a white shirt and tie sitting at a desk, rummaging through a drawer.

She rapped on the glass and pushed open the door. “Judge?”

“Yes,” he said, glancing up.

Stunned, for a moment she could only gawk. The judge was drop-dead, movie-star gorgeous. He had big brown eyes with eyelashes a foot long and one of those perfectly sculpted faces she’d only seen on young Greek men. She hated to admit it, but the guy took her breath away.

A pity about the name.

Who could seriously consider anyone named Horace P. Pfannepatter?

“What does the P. stand for?”

He stared at her in a sort of slack-jawed way that made Carrie wonder if his mother had married her first cousin. Mostly his eyes seemed to zero in on her bare legs. From his expression, you’d have thought he’d never seen a woman in shorts before. She yanked off her sunglasses and tapped her foot impatiently.

His eyes finally made it back to her face, and he gave himself a little shake. “Pardon?”

“What does the P. stand for?” she said a little louder, thinking maybe he had a hearing problem.

He gave her another out-to-lunch look, then frowned. “The P.?”

Despite his good looks, this guy didn’t seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. What did it take to get elected to JP around here—being able to sit up and take nourishment?

“The P. in Horace P. Pfannepatter. What does it stand for?”

“Oh. Puffer. It’s a family name.”

Figured. A real shame. A real shame, too, about the gold wedding ring he wore.

“Your eyes are…very unusual,” he said, squinting at her. “I—I suppose you hear that a lot.”

She smiled. “A lot.”

After a slow trip down her body, his gaze went back to her legs. She almost reconsidered paying the ticket. Twenty to one that with a little sweet talk, she could get Horace to dismiss it, especially with the photo of the sign and the parked semi she had taken—and given his preoccupation with her exposed skin.

Better not. Resigned to her earlier decision, she sighed. “I need to pay a ticket.”

“A ticket? Oh. Maureen can help you with that.”

“Maureen?”

“Yes. At the desk out front.”

“Nobody was there when I came in.”

“Let’s see if we can find her,” he said, standing.

If Carrie thought he looked good sitting, on his feet he was dynamite. He must have been six-two or-three and no slouch in the body department. When he touched her back to usher her from his office, she felt as if she’d been zapped with a cattle prod.

Odd.

Static electricity, she was sure. He was married for goshsakes.

He smiled and her knees wobbled. He had a mouth full of perfect white teeth and a killer of a lopsided smile. “Ah, there’s Maureen. She can help you.”

A middle-aged blonde, with a half inch of black roots, stood, a distressed look on her face. “Oh, Judge, I’m sorry. I was in the storeroom looking for another box.”

“No problem. This lady needs to pay a ticket.”

“Yes, sir. Here’s the one I found.” Maureen handed him an empty carton.

“Thanks. This is perfect.”

The judge went back to his office, and Carrie shelled out eighty-seven bucks to Maureen. The ticket paid, she hightailed it toward the Twilight Inn. She was tired and thirsty and eager to get settled in at the place that would be home for a while.

FRANK OUTLAW, judge of the County Court-at-Law of Naconiche County, stood at the window, absently fingering his wedding ring as he watched the white BMW pull away. He couldn’t believe that the woman had shaken him the way she had. He hadn’t experienced that kind of mind-blowing reaction to a woman since he was a teenager—probably not since he’d first kissed Susan when they were about fourteen. He hadn’t even thought about a woman in sexual terms since his wife died, and that had been two years before.

But something about the dark-haired, purple-eyed vixen who had just strolled into Horace’s office had sure revved up his motor. He’d been so dumbfounded that he hadn’t been able to string a coherent sentence together. She probably thought he was a blithering idiot.

He’d always been a leg man, and she’d had the longest, prettiest legs he’d ever seen. Hell, she was gorgeous all over. Tall and slender with those startling eyes and kiss-me lips, she was a knockout. Not even the slightly crooked front tooth or the small scar on the side of her chin detracted from her looks. In fact, the small imperfections only seemed to make her more intriguing and heighten her sensuality. And she was sexy. It oozed from her skin and clung to her like a cloud of low morning fog on the river bottom. He was getting aroused just thinking about her. It was a strange feeling.

Frank chuckled to himself. Good thing his brother J.J. wasn’t around, or he’d never hear the end of it. J.J. was always after him to take out this woman or that, eager to jump-start his sex life, but Frank simply hadn’t been interested. Susan had been the love of his life, and when she’d been killed, something had died in Frank as well.

Good thing, too, that the woman was probably passing through on her way to someplace besides Naconiche. A woman like her could deal a man some misery.

There was a rap on the door, and Maureen stuck in her head. “I’m sorry about the interruption, Judge. That’s the third ticket Otis Purvis has issued in the same spot today. And there’s a truck broken down on the side of the highway blocking the sign. I noticed it on my way to work this morning. I told Miss Campbell she had a right to appeal, but she insisted on paying the ticket.”

“Miss Campbell?”

“Carolyn Campbell. From Houston. But she’s staying at the Twilight Inn while she’s in town. I gave her directions.”

Frank felt his gut twist. The Twilight Inn was the motel run by his soon to be sister-in-law, Mary Beth Parker. It was on his way home. He nodded. “I have to be back at the courthouse by two, and I need to get a move on. I’ll be through packing up here in a few minutes, Maureen, and I’ll take Horace’s things to Ida.”

“I’m sure she appreciates that.”

“It’s the least I can do for an old friend, and I know Fletcher is anxious to move in and get started.”

“Things just won’t be the same without Horace around,” Maureen said. “He’d been JP since I was a kid.”

“I know. We’ll all miss him.”

Maureen went back to her desk, and Frank went back to packing. He tried his best to keep his mind off Carolyn Campbell and her legs. He didn’t have much luck.

CARRIE FOUND the Twilight Inn without any problem. It was an old-fashioned motel, but it seemed quite neat and charming with its new coat of paint and window boxes filled with red geraniums. There was a sign on a nearby building identifying The Twilight Tearoom. She hoped the food was good. She’d missed lunch, and she was famished. Pulling to a stop in front of the unit that looked like an office, she got out and went inside.

Four old guys sat at a card table playing dominoes. All of them gave her the once-over, and one rose when she entered. “Hep ya?” he said, walking to the counter and giving her a big denture smile.

“I’m Carrie Campbell. I have a reservation.”

“Yes sir-ree bob. I’ve got you right here in the book. You’re in number five. I’m Will, and these fellers are Curtis, B.D. and Howard. We’re the biggest part of the staff of the Twilight Inn.” He produced a key. “If you’ll sign the register, B.D. will get your bags.” He handed her a pen.

“I can handle my luggage, but thanks anyhow.”

“No problem. All part of the service. And B.D. is stronger than he looks.”

“I’m fit as a fiddle,” one of the other old gents said, standing.

B.D. looked as if a strong gust of wind would blow him to Oklahoma. Torn between not wanting to hurt the old man’s pride and her fear that lifting her bags might give him a heart attack, she finally smiled and said, “Thanks.”

“Glad to oblige,” B.D. said, beaming. She’d made the right choice.

“I’d like to get something to eat,” Carrie said. “Is the restaurant open?”

One of the other men at the table glanced at the clock and shook his head. “The tearoom’s only open from eleven to one, so it’s been closed for more’n half an hour, but I reckon Mary Beth’s still in the kitchen. I ’spect she could rustle up a bite for you. Let me run and ask her.” He took off at a spry clip.

The fourth old man stood. “I’m Howard, and I’ll give B.D. a hand with the bags. You planning on staying long?”

“I may be here for several weeks,” Carrie said. “I’m a genealogist, and I’m researching several lines in this area.” The lie rolled easily off her tongue. It was best if the word didn’t get out too soon that she was a landman for an oil company and interested in leasing acreage in the area, or she’d find competition sniffing around. To keep things quiet until she was ready to make offers, she frequently posed as a professional genealogist, and in fact had done some real research as a hobby.

“That so?” B.D. said. “You ought to talk to Millie down at the library. She knows about all there is to know about the town history and the early settlers.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

B.D. squinted at her. “I swear. I just noticed your eyes are purple.”

She laughed. “Actually, they’re more violet.”

“Now that you mention it, I believe you’re right. Puts me to mind of that actress, you know, the one that’s been married so many times. Anyhow, they’re right pretty.”

“Thanks, B.D. Shall we get the bags?”

“You just pull your car into the slot beside number five,” Howard said, “and we’ll have you unloaded in a jiffy. I’ll go ahead and turn on the air conditioner. It won’t take but a minute to cool off the place. I swear you’d think that it ought to be cooler being the first of October. I guess it’s that global warming.”

In no time the men had everything unloaded and the room cooling. She was surprised at the accommodations. In her line of work, she’d stayed in some real dumps, but this room was bright and cheerful. The walls were a soft peach and the spread on the double bed was a muted plaid of peach, yellow and green that matched the draperies. Pleasant framed watercolors decorated the walls and an overstuffed green chair and ottoman looked quite comfy.

Howard put her laptop on the desk, which would be perfect for working. “Bathroom’s through there,” he said, indicating a back corner of the large room. “And over there,” he said, nodding to an alcove in the other corner, “is what we call the kitchenette. It has a microwave, a coffeepot and a little refrigerator. You can fix a bite of breakfast here in the mornings, or if you’ve a mind for something more substantial, the City Grill is the place to go. Everything you need to know about places to eat is in that little brochure on the desk.”

“There’s a map of town in there, too,” B.D. told her. “Not that you’re likely to get lost. Just stop and ask anybody for directions to where you want to go. Naconiche is a right friendly place.”

There was a rap on the open door, and an attractive blond woman with a tray came in. “Hi, Carrie. I’m Mary Beth Parker, owner of the Twilight Inn and Tearoom. I’ve brought you soup and a sandwich and some raspberry tea. I hope you like avocado.”

“I adore avocado,” Carrie said, smiling. “Thanks for rescuing a starving woman.”

“No problem.” Mary Beth set the tray on the small table near the microwave. “Welcome to Naconiche, Carrie. Curtis tells me that you’re going to be with us for several weeks.”

“She’s one of them genealogists,” B.D. said.

“How fascinating,” Mary Beth said. “I’d love to hear more about it sometime, but I’m sure you’d like to have your lunch and get settled in now. My daughter and I live in the apartment behind the office, so call if you need anything.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Come on, guys,” Mary Beth said, hustling the old men from the room, “let’s leave Carrie in peace.”

Carrie smiled as she closed the door behind them. She liked Mary Beth immediately. They were about the same age, and she suspected that given different circumstances, they might become friends. For sure, Mary Beth would be a valuable source of information.

From the time she’d rolled into the city limits, Carrie had felt good vibes in this little jerk-water town. Strange, since she was a city girl through and through. Maybe it was because she could smell oil hidden in the hills and hollows. Or maybe it was something else. In any case, she had a hunch—and her hunches were always dead-on—that this assignment was going to be different from all the others.

As she lifted the napkin from the food tray, her thoughts went briefly to Judge Horace P. Pfannepatter. Too bad he was married.

Chapter Two

Carrie couldn’t function without her morning jolt of caffeine, and there was no way of getting the can open short of chewing it off with her teeth. And she was tempted to try that. She spat out a few colorful phrases and threw the recalcitrant can opener across the room. The blasted thing didn’t work. All she’d managed to do was puncture the coffee can and let out a whoosh of aroma that ran her crazy.

Her frustration level was off the charts. In spite of stocking up on a few breakfast items the afternoon before, it looked like the City Grill for her. She hoped they opened early. After dressing quickly in jeans and a pullover, she grabbed her briefcase and tore off toward the square of the small town.

The café was doing a brisk business. Only two seats at the counter were available. She commandeered one of them and stowed her briefcase between her feet.

“What’ll it be, honey?” asked the pint-size waitress who held a steaming carafe.

“Coffee,” Carrie said. “Quick.”

The waitress laughed, and the web of lines around her eyes put her age closer to sixty than forty. “One of them mornings, huh? I’ve had a few of them myself.” She slipped a mug onto the counter and poured in one practiced motion. “Cream?”

“No. Black is fine.”

“I’ll be back when you’ve had time to rev your motor.” The waitress turned to an elderly man who’d taken the stool next to hers and poured a mug for him. “Morning, Mr. Murdock. Haven’t seen you around for a few days.”

“Good morning, Vera. I’ve been in Dallas. I returned last night.”

“Have you heard about Horace Pfannepatter?”

Carrie’s ears perked up, and she glanced toward the two.

The old man, who was wearing a suit and a red bow tie, nodded gravely. “Yes, I had a message on my machine. Sad business. And him in his prime. I’m sure Ida must be devastated. I plan to call on her this morning.”

“She’s pretty broke up. Them two was real close, and I don’t know what she’ll do without him.” Vera turned to Carrie. “Hon, have you decided what you’ll have to go along with that coffee?”

Carrie hadn’t given food any thought. Was that her Horace Pfannepatter they were talking about? “Uh, I’ll have a toasted bagel.”

Vera gave her a toothy grin. “You’re not likely to find any bagels around here—unless they carry some frozen ones over at Bullock’s Grocery. Closest thing I can offer you is a short stack.”

“That’s fine,” Carrie said, her mind still not on food. “Excuse me for eavesdropping, but I heard you talking about Horace Pfannepatter. Is he the one who’s justice of the peace?”

“Vera!” a male voice called from a booth in the rear. “Could we have another round of coffee back here?”

“You and Frank keep your britches on, J.J. I’ll be there in a minute,” she blared, then she nodded to Carrie and said quietly, “The very one. Keeled over with a heart attack real sudden.”

“And died?”

“Deader ’n a doornail.” Vera topped Carrie’s coffee and took off at a fast clip, shouting as she strode, “Gimme a short stack, Lonnie, and a number three over easy.”

Carrie was too stunned to do anything but stare after the waitress. She couldn’t believe that the good-looking JP had died. He’d looked so…healthy when she saw him yesterday. She felt a sudden and aching loss—and she barely knew the man. The thought of pancakes made her stomach turn over. She drank her coffee quickly, slapped a bill on the counter and fled with her briefcase.

She decided to buy a new can opener, go back to her room and start the morning over. Horace stayed on her mind the entire time she searched Bullock’s aisles. His loss haunted her. Crazy, she told herself. She’d only seen the man once in her life…but somehow he’d made a powerful impression.

FORTIFIED WITH more coffee and a carton of peach yogurt, Carrie went downtown again and parked in front of the old stone courthouse that had probably been built a hundred or more years ago. Three stories tall, the handsome pillared structure was similar to a dozen or two original courthouses still in use in Texas—Texas Renaissance the style was called, a combination of architectural styles popular during the period. Carrie hadn’t been in all the 254 county courthouses in the state, but she’d visited a large number of them and she was always glad to see one of the old ones preserved.

The Naconiche courthouse showed community pride of the sort that was responsible for the original construction of the town’s heart. Several large trees shaded the grounds and well-tended flower beds flanked the walks. She looked forward to exploring the inside.

A variety of businesses occupied the buildings that faced the square. She noted a couple of antique stores that looked interesting, an ice-cream shop called the Double Dip that she wanted to try out later. Now she needed to familiarize herself with the courthouse, determine where the documents she needed were housed and how the town’s records were kept.

As a petroleum landman she first had to find out who owned the property and the mineral rights to the large area that her company wanted to lease. Locating the property owners wasn’t too difficult—the county tax roles could tell her that. But frequently the current owners didn’t own all the mineral rights. Former owners—sometimes two or three sales back—often retained a percentage of the mineral rights on their acreage, usually a half interest. That meant that she had to track down deeds and locate heirs as well as check on any existing leases.

She couldn’t afford to make any errors, and the tedious work took a lot of time. But actually, she kind of enjoyed doing the research. It was like working a crossword puzzle.

Inside the courthouse Carrie smelled the familiar mélange of aging papers, cleaning solutions and the lingering odor of old tobacco smoke. Even though there were No Smoking signs now, years of cigars and cigarettes had infused the walls with the faint distinctive scent common to so many of the courthouses she’d been in. After a tour of the fine old building with its polished marble and rich oak trim, she located the tax office on the second floor, just down the hall from the chambers of the judge of the County Court-at-Law.

Judge Frank J. Outlaw, the brass nameplate beside the door said. She smiled. Outlaw—a peculiar name for a judge.