Page 10 of Matthew
“I know.” Maggie sighed. “But you also work more than twelve hours a day sometimes. Give yourself one night a week to breathe.”
Sammy let out a small whine in agreement, while Tater rolled over and wagged his feet at the sky like a Corgi-shaped exclamation point.
Callie exhaled, but her smile tugged free. “Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m not wearing fringe.”
Maggie lit up. “Deal. But Iam. Just so the universe knows who to send the hot cowboys to.”
Chapter Three
By the time evening rolled around, the August heat had only eased a little, and Matthew stepped into Tex Pub like he was walking into a wall of sound, smoke, and sensory overload. Twangy guitar riffs bounced off the hardwood floors, barbecue and hickory smoke curled through the air causing a rumble in his stomach, and ceiling fans did their best to help the air conditioning chase off the lingering heat that drifted in each time the door swung open.
The Texas Republic—Tex Pub to locals—wasn’t just a bar, it was a Harland institution. Half honky-tonk, half community haven, it was the place to be on a Tuesday night, especially if you had even a small sense of rhythm.
Owned and run by sisters Kerri and Jordan McCall, the place had the right blend of grit and charm. Kerri’s brisket grilled cheese could cure almost anything. She ruled the kitchen while her husband, Conner, wrangled cattle and the occasional drunk.
Her sister, Jordan, a former sheriff-turned-live music coordinator and animal control officer, booked the bands, kept the peace, and ran the place with the same sharp eye she’d once used to read suspects. Her husband, Cole, managed McCall Enterprises but left the day-to-day to Jordan. Smart man.
Toward the back, Mac—Levi McCall—sat at the head of a table in the far corner, ESI’s usual spot. He was Matthew’s boss at Eagle Security & Investigations as well as Jordan and Kerri’s cousin through marriage. That made Tex Pub unofficial ESI-adjacent territory, and tonight was no exception. Caspian,Cooper, and Carter were already dug in with burgers and beers, the low rumble of their conversation a familiar soundtrack. The kind that came from shared missions, too many bruises, and the kind of trust you couldn’t buy.
Matthew headed for the open chair at the end of the table and nodded in greeting. “Hope I’m not late to the party.”
“Only by a beer,” Cooper said, sliding a sweating bottle down the table at him. “But we saved you from the karaoke sign-up sheet last night, so you’re welcome.”
“Damn shame,” Caspian added with a smirk. “I was hoping for your rendition ofNeon Moon.”
Carter snorted. “Coming from the guy who cleared out half the bar with hisAchy Breaky Heartencore?” He tipped his beer toward Matthew. “You’re safe tonight, Walker. But don’t let them rope you into theCopperhead Roadshowdown.”
In one fluid motion, he sat and caught his beer. “I only sing under duress or enemy fire. And maybe not even then.”
He took a pull from his bottle, eyeing the three with practiced amusement. Cooper, Caspian, and Carter, he’d mentally labeled them theTriple C Threathis first week at ESI. Cooper was the fast-talking former SEAL who could charm a snake out of its skin. Caspian had the easy grin and devil-may-care swagger of a guy who’d probably broken as many hearts as bones, and Carter was the sarcastic tech genius who could rewire a surveillance grid while quoting conspiracy theories and bad jokes in the same breath. Together, they were chaos on tap—loyal, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
Last month, the Triple Cs had managed to convince Bennett to fill out a fake karaoke audition form Mac “forgot” to turn in. For an entire week, the Tex Pub staff kept asking when he’d be singingBoot Scootin’ Boogie.
Bennett still hadn’t forgiven them.
Mac looked up from his burger, wiping his hands with a napkin. “Appreciate you helping Annie today. She texted me like it was a tactical drop.”
Matthew shrugged and set his beer down. “It got interesting at the nursery. Attitude grows there and a greenhouse full of trouble.”
That got a few knowing looks.
“Ah,” Carter said, lifting a brow. “You met Callie. She runs that nursery like it’s classified.”
Cooper leaned in with mock seriousness. “We’re talking tier-one tomato protection.”
“Roger that.” Caspian nodded. “And don't even think about touching the petunias without clearance.”
Cooper grinned. “Yeah, she’s not afraid to tell you exactly where to go—and what to plant when you get there.”
Matthew took a long sip of his beer, eyes scanning the room out of habit. “She’s…something.”
“She’s smart.” Mac leaned back, amused. “Keeps that place running better than a damn logistics center. Annie trusts her and so does half the county.”
“Sure,” Matthew said, gaze drifting toward the entrance. “Doesn’t mean she’s not trouble.”
Cooper elbowed him. “That’s the fun kind, brother. Try it.”
Before Matthew could fire back with a retort, the front door opened and in walked a tall man with sun-streaked hair and a confident gait, followed by a pretty woman with a mixture of brown and blonde curls, wearing jeans and a fitted T-shirt that readRescue. Repeat. Relax.
