Chapter One

Whoever came up with the saying, "You can never go home again " was loonier than a snakebit coyote. You can go home. You just shouldn't.

Ever.

This became crystal clear to Shirlene Grace Dalton as she stared out of the windshield of her Navigator at the beat-up trailer she'd been born and raised in. Not that her mama had done much raising. Abby Lomax preferred raising a bottle to raising her two children. And even though her mama had been dry for over eleven years, it was hard to hang on to forgiveness when memories swept through Shirlene's mind like the west Texas wind buffeting her childhood home.

But Shirlene had never been one to live in the past— a philosophy that had gotten her through the trials and tribulations of the last year. She believed in living in the present. And at the present moment, she needed a place to sleep for the night.

"Just what kind of a low- down ornery scoundrel would evict a poor widow from her home without one word of warnin'?" she grumbled.

At the snuffled snort, she glanced over at the pig who sat next to her in the front bucket seat. The beady eyes over the soft pink snout held not one ounce of sympathy. In fact, they looked almost reproachful.

"Okay, so maybe there had been a few words of warnin'," Shirlene conceded. She reached down and grabbed her Hermès Birkin handbag off the floor and scrounged around until she found the Snickers candy bar. Since she had gained a few pounds over the last nine months, she probably shouldn't. But willpower had never been one of her strong suits.

"But for the love of Pete, how can that new bank owner expect me to know about managing money when Lyle," she glanced up, "God rest his soul, took care of all the financial details? I never had to worry about late fees and overdraft charges . . . and eviction notices." Her green eyes narrowed as she peeled off the candy wrapper and took a big bite. " Eviction . Even the word sounds like it comes straight from Satan himself."

A high- pitched squeal resounded through the interior of the Navigator, and Shirlene pinched off a piece of candy bar and held it out to the pig, who exuberantly attacked the chocolate as if he hadn't just downed two of Josephine's bean burritos and a bag of extra-crispy Tater Tots. Being the other white meat, Sherman was a devout vegetarian.

"You realize, don't you, that Colt and Hope would skin me alive if they found out what I've been feeding you, especially after the fiasco with the margaritas." She shook her head. "As if I were responsible for you helping yourself, or for the drunken rampage you went on afterwards. Considering it took two days for you to sober up, I'm surprised they allowed me to watch you while they're in California."

At the thought of her brother, Shirlene took another bite of chocolate. If she thought Colt would be unhappy about her feeding Hope's pig Tater Tots and candy, it would be nothing compared to how upset he would be when he found out she had blown through the money her late husband had left her like a tornado through the panhandle. Especially after she had insisted she could handle her finances all by herself. She just hadn't realized how bad her compulsive spending had become, and her depression over Lyle's death had only made it worse. But shopping trips to Austin and Dallas hadn't made her feel any better. All they had done was fill her home with a bunch of pretty but useless things— things she couldn't even get into her sprawling estate to see.

Which explained what she was doing back on Grover Road.

Her old trailer was the only place in Bramble, Texas where she could spend the night without the nosy townsfolk fi nding out and tattling to her brother. And one night was all she needed. First thing in the morning, she was going to pay a little visit to the new bank president and set him straight. By nightfall, she would be right back where she belonged— in a big mansion with a pitcher of margaritas.

But until then . . .

She opened the door and stepped out. A blast of ninetydegree wind slapped her in the face, and she teetered on her four- inch Manolo Blahniks before she grabbed onto the side mirror and caught her balance. Pushing the thick strands of blond hair out of her face, she staggered around the front of the SUV to let Sherman out. The pig didn't like being out in the wind any more than she did. He took his time climbing down, then huddled against her legs as she walked around the piles of rusted junk.

A few feet from the front door, the Navigator lights clicked off, leaving her and Sherman in thick darkness. Shirlene had never much cared for the dark— or the eerie sound of tree branches creaking in the wind.

She glanced around at the sinister shadows. "This night isn't fit for man nor beast." Sherman grunted his agreement as they climbed up the sloping front steps that looked as if they were seconds away from becoming nothing more than kindling.

Wanting out of the ferocious wind as quickly as possible, Shirlene reached for the battered doorknob. It took numerous twists and a couple of stunned seconds before she realized it was locked. And no one locked their doors in Bramble except the librarian, Ms. Murphy, and only because she lived next door to Elmer Tate, who had trouble remembering where his house was after seven or more shots of Jack Daniel's. Of course, no one had been out to the trailer in years so maybe Lyle had locked it against looters. The thought made Shirlene smile. Her late husband had been so sure she would want to hang on to her childhood home. So sure that one day the bad memories would be replaced with good ones.

Pushing down the sadness that threatened, Shirlene searched for the key that Lyle had given her on their first anniversary— along with a diamond and ruby bracelet. At the time, the jewelry had been much more appreciated. But now, with the darkness and wind pressing against her, she took the time to be grateful for the gift.

"Thank you, honey," she whispered up at the moonless sky. "You always did know what I needed, even before I needed it."

She unlocked the door, but it still refused to open— almost as if something held it from the inside. Leaning her five-foot-ten-inch frame against the cheap plywood, Shirlene shoved. The door cracked open just wide enough to see a figure in white float past before it slammed shut. The keys slipped from Shirlene's fingers and clunked on the steps, followed by her purse, as a chill tiptoed down her spine. Frozen in place, she stared at the door with its fist- sized imprint put there by Colt during his belligerent teenage years and tried to figure out what she'd seen. Or what she thought she'd seen.

If she'd had her nightly margaritas, she could've blamed it on Jose Cuervo. But since being evicted from her home, the only thing swirling around in her stomach was Josephine's chicken fried steak— something that could give you indigestion but not hallucinations. Which meant one of two things: Someone had moved into the trailer without her knowing it . . . or her childhood home was haunted. And since very few things happened in Bramble without Shirlene hearing about it, she was leaning toward the latter.

Her heart started to thump like the Bramble High drum corps. There might not be a person on the face of God's green earth that she feared, but the macabre was a different matter. Be it ghosts, demons, or the boogie man, the thought of something she couldn't flirt into submission scared the bejesus out of her. But before she could retrieve her purse and keys and get the hell out of there, Sherman lost patience with the weather and his chicken-livered pig-sitter. With a frustrated grunt, he lowered his head and plowed into the door.

Plywood splintered as the door flew open. With a triumphant toss of his head, Sherman trotted in. Shirlene, on the other hand, moved a tad bit slower. The room was dark but familiar. For a second, she could almost smell her mother's Avon perfume and cigarettes.

She reached for the switch on the wall and released a sigh of relief when the eye-squinting overhead light came on. The living room was smaller than she remembered, especially with the fold-out couch opened up, the couch with the same paper-thin mattress Colt had slept on every night. In fact, with the rumpled sheets and blankets, it looked as if her brother had just climbed out of it.

"Hello?" she said, hopeful that a living, breathing human being would step out of one of the two bedrooms and cordially explain their presence in her trailer. Sherman had no such illusions. Hopping up on the low mattress, he proceeded to root around in the blankets until he'd made himself a comfortable nest. With one exasperated look from those beady eyes, he flopped down.

"Oh, no," Shirlene whispered. "I'm not staying here after—"

The wind whistled in through an open window, fluttering the dingy sheet that served as a curtain and slamming the door closed. At the loud bang, Shirlene almost peed her designer jeans. But it only took a second for the proof of her foolishness to have her chuckling with relief.

"Silly goose," she breathed. "It was just the wind." She walked over and pushed her phantom ghostly sheet aside as she slammed the window closed. When she glanced over at Sherman, it almost looked as if he rolled his little piggy eyes. "Okay, so I'm getting as nutty as the Widow Jones," she said, as she walked back and opened the door so she could collect her purse and keys. "Pretty soon I'll own twenty-five cats and wear my bathrobe and slippers to Sunday services. But I'll still be the only one who feeds you chocolate and tequila, so I wouldn't be acting too snooty if I was you."

The pig snuffled, then dropped his head down to the blankets and closed his eyes. Shirlene didn't usually go to sleep until well after Letterman . But with no television in sight, she resigned herself to an early night.

As she closed the door, she glanced down at the worn carpeting to fi nd the Barbie doll Colt had given her on her sixth birthday. Picking it up, she stared at the wild blond hair and naked body— the type of body she had dreamed of possessing. But the dream of perky breasts and skinny hips died at thirteen when Shirlene started to develop more curves than an Indy raceway.

Carrying the doll with her, she flipped out the lights, slipped off her high heels, and climbed onto the fold-out couch. No doubt there was still a mattress in each of the bedrooms, but after her fright, she had no desire to sleep alone. Even if it meant she had to share a bed with a hog.

"Scoot over, Piglet." She gave him a shove, and he gave her a mere two inches more before snuffling back to sleep. Rolling to her back, she stared up at the ceiling while she stroked Barbie's short, uneven hair. For the life of her, she couldn't remember cutting the doll's hair. Just one more piece of her childhood she'd chosen to forget.

The night was hot and dry and the mattress so thin that the metal frame pressed into her back. How Colt had managed to sleep on it was beyond her. Her brother had sacrificed so much growing up so she would have what other kids had— like her own room. Which was why she wasn't about to let him sacrifice any more. Not when he had a new wife and baby girl to worry about. No, this time, Shirlene would fix her own mess. Come hell or high water— or nasty bank owners.

Despite the bad mattress, it didn't take her long to fall asleep. It wasn't surprising that she dreamed of Grover Road.

She was nine years old again and playing in the broken- down Chevy in the front yard. The day was hot and, even with the windows open, sweat glued her bright copper hair to her temples and to the back of her neck. Regardless of the heat, she refused to climb out of the rusty car. There were too many places she wanted to travel to, too many things she wanted to see. It would've been much more fun if Hope and Colt had been traveling with her. But Hope had moved into town, and Colt spent most of his days at Tinker Jones's garage. So Shirlene was all alone, except for her mama, who was passed out cold on her bed inside the trailer.

Of course, that was the one nice thing about Grover Road— you were never alone for long. A man suddenly appeared in front of the hood ornament of the old Chevy, a man with a friendly smile and eyes as green as Shirlene's. She wasn't surprised to see her daddy. Even though he'd died in a car accident when she was a baby, she dreamed of him often. He walked around to the open window and reached in to smooth back her hair. At first, his fingers were cool and soothing. But, as with most dreams, when you least expect it, things could take a turn for the worst. Suddenly, he wasn't stroking her hair as much as strangling her neck. As his fingers tightened and she fought for breath, his face turned from her daddy's into her husband's— not the living Lyle, but the dead Lyle. Eyes that were deep holes of nothingness stared out of a lifeless face.

Shirlene woke with a start. Pre-dawn filled the room with grayish light. It sounded like the wind had died down, although it was hard to tell over the wild thumping of her heart and her heavy breathing. The nightmare slowly receded from her mind. But what she couldn't seem to shake was the feeling of icy fingers on her neck. It only took a subtle tightening for Shirlene to realize that the icy fi ngers were no longer part of a dream.

"Mine," a deep voice growled in her ear.

Releasing an ear-splitting scream, Shirlene jumped from the bed and headed for the door. When her hand closed around the doorknob, she quickly glanced back to see how closely the strangler followed. The room was empty except for a startled pig that looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. Maybe she had. But whether it was a figment of her imagination or not, she'd had enough of Grover Road. Without waiting for Sherman, she threw open the door, only to come face to face with an image straight out of a horror movie.

But it wasn't the hockey mask that held her attention as much as the chainsaw. And having watched the The Texas Chainsaw Massacre at least a dozen times, Shirlene knew exactly what happened to the pretty blonde. Luckily, Sherman had no intention of being carved into ham hocks, and with a high-pitched squeal, he sailed off the mattress and charged the door. The short psycho killer stepped back long enough for pig and blonde to hightail it out.

They took the front steps in one leap, Sherman landing on all fours and Shirlene going down to one knee. But she got up quickly enough when the chainsaw cranked to life. Since her keys were still in the trailer, she bypassed her SUV and headed for the hole in the shrubs that separated her lot from her neighbor's. If she had been thinking clearly, she would've run to a trailer that was occupied, but her brain had flown right out of her head the minute the ghostly cold hands had closed around her throat. Add a chainsaw- wielding midget, and her only thought was escape.

Since the trailer next door was vacant at the moment, Shirlene didn't waste any time knocking. She just swung open the screen door and barged right in. She closed the door behind Sherman and fumbled with the lock. While the lock at her trailer worked perfectly, this one didn't work at all. Even locked, the flimsy door would be no match for a chainsaw, something she didn't think about until the front steps creaked and a masked face peered in the kitchen window.

Terrifi ed, Shirlene glanced down at Sherman, who shot her a look that pretty much said every pig for himself before he streaked behind a dilapidated recliner. With no room left behind the chair, Shirlene headed for the back bedroom. Unfortunately, the bedroom door didn't have a lock either, and with her heart pounding in her chest, all she could do was listen and wait.

The chainsaw sputtered to a halt. She didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe the psycho was lulling her into a false sense of security— hoping she'd open the door to peek out so he could decapitate her in one slice. The image of splattered blood and her rolling head was fresh in her mind when someone grabbed her from behind.

Before she could do more than squeak in terror, she was being pulled down. But it wasn't the cold blade of a chainsaw that pressed her into the sagging mattress, but rather a solid chest of warm hard muscles. Shirlene barely had time to suck in a startled breath before a pair of firm lips settled over hers in a deep, tongue-dipping kiss that curled her toes into the sheets and sizzled all thoughts of ghosts and psycho killers right out of her head. Of course, her senses came back quickly enough when the man nibbled his way over to her ear and whispered in a whiskey-soaked voice.

"Now I'm shore not the type of man to look a gift horse in the mouth." A hot palm settled over her breast, and Shirlene sucked in her breath. "Especially a gift that turned out to be more than I expected. But I'm afraid I'm a little too tuckered out from my trip to give you the kind of ride you deserve, Marcy. So if you don't mind showin' yourself out. . . ."

"Marcy?" Shirlene huffed. Suddenly indignation took the place of fear. How could anyone in their right mind confuse her for Marcy Henderson? Marcy had to weigh a good twenty pounds more than Shirlene, with breasts that she was still making payments on.

The lips stilled against her neck, and he pulled back and brushed the hair out of her face. As he stared down at her, his brown eyes appeared to spark with something that actually resembled thought. But it must've been a trick of the early morning light that filtered in through the sheet over the window. Because when she looked again, all she saw was a whole lot of nothing.

Bubba.