Sweet Obsession (Honeysuckle, Texas Book 5), page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2025 Christine Baena
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Chapter One
“Heads up!”
Jillian sprang back just as a hammer sailed through the air, landing a few inches in front of her.
“Sorry about that.” Garret slid down a support post with the ease of a fireman gliding down a steel pole on his way to save lives. “I missed the loop in my belt. You okay?”
Nodding, she smiled at her brother. This wouldn’t be the first or last time since the new construction project began that she’d been bumped, dinged, or suffered a near miss. She had the black and blues to prove it. “No harm, no foul.”
Lips pressed tightly together, Garret nodded, and falling into place beside his sister, scanned the finally complete frame of what would soon be the Sweet Ranch’s new calving barn. The foundation had been poured weeks ago, and now the wooden bones stretched skyward, outlining the structure that for so many years had lived only in their father’s notes and dreams. “Dad would love it.”
All the siblings who’d worked today gathered in a line and nodded their agreement.
Propped against a stack of lumber, music drifted from Preston’s phone—a smooth blend of easy listening rock and country that made the assembly feel a little less like work and a little more like a party.
Alice, their mother, gazed across the burgeoning structure, a soft, approving smile on her face. Mindlessly, her hand reached down to stroke the thick fur of her eldest son’s dog, always faithfully at her side. “Charlie would be so proud.”
“He really would.” Garret eyed the scribbled notepaper tacked to a center post. Their father had mapped out a plan and everyone felt a surge of pride at reaching another milestone on the long to-do list. “We’ve managed to get most of the pastures improved the way he wanted—organic fertilization, got a handle on the worst of the weeds, and Preston’s rotational grazing system seems to be working wonders.”
“And that new baler Jim bought has been a godsend.” Carson hammered a stray nail flush. “We finally managed to acquire a few more head of cattle last month. Not as many as we’d hoped for initially, but it’s a start. Should help with the income stream a bit.”
Consulting his tablet where he’d been tracking their progress, Preston nodded. “If we can get this barn finished before calving season starts, we’ll be in good shape. Thank God for Carson’s construction connections—saved us a fortune on the foundation and framing.”
Alice walked over to a plywood storage closet they’d built into one corner of the frame—a necessary precaution after the mysterious disappearance of the stolen hay baler they’d found hidden in the line shack. She carefully placed a set of new power tools inside. “Speaking of mysteries, any more news on Ray or those other hands?”
Preston shook his head. “Nothing solid.”
A timer chimed from Alice’s phone. “Oh, that’s my roast. You all keep working—dinner in an hour.” She hurried toward the house.
The moment their mom was out of earshot, Jillian spun around to face her brother. “So what aren’t you telling us?”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Preston sighed. “Sean Farraday called earlier today. Told me he’d bumped into Ray—or someone who looked exactly like him—working for the Brady ranch near them.”
“Mr. Farraday found Ray? Does the sheriff have him?” A million things swirled through Jillian’s mind, the first being how she’d love to be back in the old west when they happily drew and quartered cattle rustlers. Or maybe it was just tarred and feathered. Either would do.
“’Fraid not. Sean didn’t say anything, played it casual. The guy claimed his name was John Smith. By the time Sean got a hold of Declan, Ray and all his gear was gone.”
“For a stellar thief, not a very original alias.” Rachel rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Wait.” Carson’s head snapped around. “Why was Ray working? That doesn’t make sense at all.”
“Good point.” Rachel joined them from where she’d been sorting lumber. “Considering how much money he must have squirreled away from everything he stole from us, why would he need to work at all? He should be on a beach in some country where he can’t be extradited.”
“If he’s as smart as we thought, agreed.” Preston shrugged again.
“Or he’s lying low, trying to blend in,” Garret suggested darkly.
“I’d like to stick with he’s an idiot.” Rachel flashed a fake smile. “Gives me hope we’ll actually catch the S.O.B.”
The conversation turned to their own finances—how much progress they’d made, yet how far they still had to go. Jillian felt the familiar weight of expectation settling on her shoulders. Four siblings down, four successful marriages that had brought crucial trust fund payments. Now it was her turn.
Just then, the music from Carson’s phone shifted. The twangy country faded, replaced by the soft, intricate finger picking of an acoustic guitar, a melody that was both melancholic and hopeful. A familiar male voice, rich and unexpectedly gentle, began to sing—one of Blake Kirby’s older, lesser-known tracks, from before the stadium tours and the chart-topping cross over anthems.
Garret paused. “That’s a new one on Carson’s playlist. I preferred his earlier songs to his country-rock hits.”
Looking up, Rachel stopped to listen. “Hard to believe that we knew Blake when he was nothing more than one of Kade’s buddies. Who knew all that fiddling with the guitar would take him to the top of the charts?”
Now Garret stepped away from the storage closet, shaking his head. “Funny, isn’t it? Buys that bazillion-dollar place down near the Austin music scene, supposedly to be closer to family, and yet he hasn’t set foot back in Honeysuckle in years.”
“Why should he come home?” Preston reached for his hat. “He flies his family anywhere they want to see him on tour. From what I hear, his grandmother used to follow him around the country like a groupie.”
That made Jillian chuckle. Sara Kirby was as feisty
Carson heaved a sigh. “Can’t blame him. It’s certainly easier than dealing with grapevine queen Iris Hathaway.”
Her brothers were right. This town held very little for Blake Kirby. Only half-listening to the ongoing conversation, the music pulled Jillian back to a memory from years ago. She was a little girl again, sitting off to the side on the back porch. Kade and his friends, Blake among them, playing a game of touch football on the sprawling back lawn. An idea had struck Blake, mid-play. He’d grabbed his battered guitar from the back of his pickup, settled onto the porch steps, and oblivious to the shouts and laughter around him, began to coax a new tune from the strings. Jillian had sat, mesmerized, as scattered notes bloomed into that unforgettable, haunting melody now playing from Carson’s phone. When he’d finally looked up, his fingers stilling on the frets, and seen her sitting there, listening so intently, he’d smiled. She’d never forgotten that smile, the raw beauty of the tune, or the boy who’d become a rock star.
The song ended, and the usual country twang returned, snapping Jillian back to the present, the ranch, their dilemma, and the sound of a ticking clock in her head reminding her that her time to find a partner in crime was running out.
A galaxy of phone screens held aloft, the audience swayed dutifully as Blake Kirby played the last, fading note of the encore, “Honeysuckle Memories.” With bittersweet lyrics about dusty roads and firefly nights, no one in this sprawling arena would likely understand the true origins. The applause washed over him, a familiar wave, warm and thunderous. The final show of this tour, tonight the crowd had been electric—singing every word back to him.
He offered a practiced bow, called out a “Thank you, goodnight!” into the mic that would be broadcast onto the massive screens, and strode off stage right. The roar of the crowd, the chants of “Kirby! Kirby!” were already beginning to recede as he navigated the labyrinth of backstage corridors, the sudden shift to organized chaos a well-rehearsed dance.
This was it. The West Coast was the end of the line for the USA “Wildfire” tour. Twelve months, numerous cities, and too many hotel rooms to count. He could already hear the pop of champagne corks from the band’s dressing room down the hall; half of them were probably already making plans to celebrate with the usual entourage of hopefuls, industry hangers-on, and women whose names they wouldn’t remember by morning.
He bypassed it all with a curt nod to Phil, his perpetually harried tour manager, who was already barking into two phones at once, and a brief wave to Milo. Compact and surprisingly unassuming for a man who could probably disable three assailants before they hit the floor, his bodyguard fell into step a few paces behind, a silent, ever-present shadow.
The transition from stage god, commanding the attention of tens of thousands, to solitary man in a sterile black SUV was always jarring, the familiar post-show restlessness settling in. In the presidential suite of the five-star hotel, the silence shrouded him like a heavy blanket, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic twenty floors below. Ignoring the artfully arranged platter of gourmet snacks and the chilled champagne waiting on the coffee table, he walked to the panoramic window. The city lights spread out below him like a carpet of fallen stars, beautiful but impersonal. He’d seen a thousand cities like it. After a while they all blurred into one.
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. Sleep was a distant rumor. The adrenaline that had carried him through two and a half hours of performance was still a live current under his skin, thrumming with restless energy. He picked up his oldest, most battered acoustic—the one that had seen him through countless late nights in dingy college bars and even earlier, quieter nights on his grandmother’s porch back in Honeysuckle. Its scarred wood felt more familiar, more real, than any of the high-end, custom-made instruments that now populated his collection.
His fingers found the strings, not with the practiced precision of his stage show, but with a hesitant, searching touch. A new riff, something softer than his recent chart topping hits, began to form under his restless touch. It was a wisp of a melody, something that had come to him unbidden, the way tunes used to arrive before writing music became a job, a product to be packaged and sold. This felt different, purer. He played it again, the notes hanging in the quiet air, more honest than anything he’d put on the last album.
Blake lost track of time as he worked through the progression, adding flourishes, finding the heart of the song that wanted to emerge. This was what he’d fallen in love with—not the screaming crowds or sold-out stadiums, but these quiet moments when music created itself through his hands.
The shrill ring of his phone cut through the melody, jarring him back to the present. Two in the morning. Who on earth…? He glanced at the caller ID, a frown creasing his brow. His grandmother. Sara Kirby. A wave of affection, quickly followed by a prickle of unease, washed over him. Grams never called this late. Or for some, this early.
He swiped to answer, the new melody dissolving. “Grams?”
“Blake, darling!” Her voice, usually a warm, Texas drawl, sounded unusually bright, almost unnervingly chipper for what was nearly four in the morning Texas time.
“Is something wrong?”
“Of course not. I bet you thought I forgot, didn’t you?”
“Forgot?”
“Your birthday.”
Setting the guitar against the wall, Blake leaned back into the stiff hotel chair. “Birthday?” Maybe she was sleep calling; because he and she both knew his birthday was months away.
“A grandmother never forgets her favorite grandson’s special day.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Grams, I’m your only grandson.”
“Pfft. That’s semantics. You’re still my favorite.”
Despite his mounting confusion over this odd hour phone call, Blake found himself smiling. “You got me there, but why are you up at four in the morning?”
“Morning? It’s the middle of the afternoon.” Her tone shifted to one of admonishing adult. “I just had a cup of tea and wanted to call you before you thought I’d forgotten your special day.”
They talked for a little longer, Grams chatting about neighbors and weather and asking about friends from high school he hadn’t seen in close to a decade. When she finally said goodbye, claiming she needed to start dinner, he was left staring at his phone. What the heck was going on?
Chapter Two
The lunchtime lull had settled over Heaven Scent, leaving Jillian with a rare quiet moment. Her mind still churning over the morning’s conversation with her brothers, the familiar weight of the ranch’s precarious finances, a burden she shared with all her siblings, pressed down even amidst the fragrant chaos of her candle shop. She needed to move, get some fresh air. A walk, a chance to clear her head before tackling the displays for her latest batch of Honeysuckle candles.
“Carol,” Jillian grabbed a protein bar from the desk drawer and waved at her part-time employee, “I’m going to have lunch al fresco today.”
Her words made Carol chuckle softly. The woman was the best employee Jillian had ever had. “Take your time.”
With another wave and a smile, Jillian was out the door and strolling down Main Street. Honeysuckle was in its usual weekday rhythm –familiar faces nodding greetings, tourists happily laden with packages from their souvenir purchases or joining the locals in a casual game of corn hole at the park. Despite the feel of the warm Texas sun on her face and the joyful smiles of everyone she encountered, the weight of the ranch situation sat heavily on her shoulders. Four siblings married, four trust fund payments secured, and now it was her turn to contribute to the plan to save the ranch. Something she would gladly do, except she’d had zero success so far finding a husband willing to enter into a business only marriage, especially one with the Sweet family’s particular requirements.
Taking a seat at the edge of the park, she hoped watching the children playing gleefully on the swings would help ease the growing anxiety that gnawed at her stomach. Peeling the wrapper away from her lunch, she let the warmth of the day and the sound of laughter, both from the children in the park and the group of older men across the way engaged in a lively game of corn hole, strip away some of the stress.
For a long moment, it seemed to be working. Her gaze wandered up Elm Street. This older section of Honeysuckle was one of her favorites. The side streets held charming houses ranging from cozy craftsman bungalows to larger Victorian homes. Elm Street was her favorite. A burst of colorful flowers decorated every home. She especially liked the fuchsia blooms from Mrs. Kirby’s Chinese fringe flowers. Mrs. Carrington had wonderful arrays of cornflowers and black-eyed susans, but even Mrs. Dorman’s clusters of hydrangeas couldn’t compete with Mrs. Kirby’s green thumb.
