Texans First, The New Republic

Other Publications by Johnnie McDonald

NOVELS

The Deweyville Church Secretary

humorous trilogy written with Frankie Carroll

Devil’s Basement

Loose LIPS

Boilerman

The Property, Romantic Suspense

Final Test, Romantic Suspense

The Color of Whiskey, Romantic Suspense

(abbreviated version of New Texans)

BIOGRAPHY

Something Special by Frank and Peg Brady

Disclaimer

Although the author has utilized stores, characters, and events from history as inspiration, New Texans is a work of fiction. References to real people, incidents, dates, or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity, not to represent historical fact.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

Dedication

I was working at the local hospital in Cleveland, Texas in the late ‘90’s when a trail ride paraded through town. I’ve never forgotten the thrill of the colorful event, or my time in Texas with its vast spaces and variety of geography from forests to bayous, from deserts to lakes, and from hill countries to the gulf waters. When Texas claims it’s like a whole other country, they have the right to brag about the beauty of their state.

And speaking of another country, thousands of Texans still wish to make it so by withdrawing from the United States. The strategies for bringing the sentiment to fruition have not always been lawful or peaceful, but most believers have worked tirelessly, and legally, to express their opinions and move the matter forward. As an author, my agreement or disagreement with the political rhetoric is irrelevant. What I learned in researching the topic of a new Republic is the strength of the peoples’ convictions, their willingness to buck the system, their refusal to follow like sheep, and their enduring belief that liberty must be maintained at all costs.

TEXANS FIRST is dedicated to the indomitable spirit of Texans. Whether reenacting age old trail rides, or exercising their freedom of speech, the pride and the fortitude demonstrated by the residents of Texas are what makes America great.

Prologue

A sticky red substance clung to Pinkie Laroux’s chubby hands. Using three paper napkins and two moistened towelettes, he cleaned beneath the nails of his manicured hands, taking excessive pains to polish the diamond studded rings he sported on each pinkie finger. He removed another napkin from the collar of his hand-tailored shirt and used it to dab at the sauce clinging to his cropped, red beard. A gaseous burp threatened to erupt, and he squelched it with a fist as his eyes darted around the crowded joint looking for patrons of importance. Although sated, his pug nose wrinkled as he sniffed the smoky aromas of the hickory used to enhance the charred meat permeating all surfaces within the confines of Bo’s Bar-B-Q Shack.

The familiar drawl of Texan English bantered back and forth made Bo’s a noisy little place, more a family picnic than a restaurant. Pinkie’s luncheon companion knew his conversation would not be overheard above the racket, but he waited patiently to regain his boss’s attention before continuing in a hushed voice. Pinkie, it’s like I told you, the Council wants you. Now that Forest is out of jail, they’re watching him like a hawk. He’s making a lot of noise about how he’s done his time and deserves the citizen’s vote, but I don’t think anyone’s going to pay much attention to him. After all, he’s sixty-nine and bankrupt. Since he hasn’t paid taxes in over twenty years, he doesn’t have social security benefits, has to rely on his wife for support.

Pinkie stared across the table at Lyle Robinson and grunted. The baritone originating within his barrel chest was accented by the fluid cadence of backwoods Cajun. "C’est sa couillion, Lyle. I don’t give a tinker’s damn what his finances are. Forest was in line for president when the IRS got ‘im. He’s considered a genuine martyr for the cause, and if he gets the chance to go before the Council and show off some of that ole piss and vinegar he’s famous for, they’ll rally behind him. Ignoring him is fooyay. I’ll wager he spent those three years in prison studyin’ and perfectin’ his arguments. Nope, I figure Forest is a formidable opponent, else wise the Council woulda moved on in his absence. It’s like they been waitin’ for the messiah. Pinkie played with his stiff mustache and fingered the silver and turquoise bolo before adding, It’s time to back off, act ‘possum for a bit. We’ll let Forest Brooks play his cards first, see what he’s up to before we go uppin’ the ante. Might be a good idea to sidle up to him, you know, like I’m willin’ to be his second in command. Um. Vice President Laroux doesn’t sound half bad for starters. In the meantime, we gotta concentrate on our financial situation. What’s the latest on the bank audit?"

Lyle straightened himself in the vinyl booth, shoved away the bone-laden dirty dishes, and smiled. Gilbert says the auditing firm is sending someone from Boston tomorrow. He says to tell you not to worry, everything is neat and tidy.

"Merde, worry is my middle name. I didn’t get to be Road King of east Texas without worryin’. And I don’t run millions of dollars through Gilbert Hardin’s goddamned bank without a heap of anxiety. Pinkie pointed a pudgy index finger at his personal accountant and confidante. I want you to stay on top of this audit like a tick on a hound dog. You hear me? As the biggest depositor, the auditors will look at my accounts, and I want to know to the very second when that occurs, what they’re lookin’ at and, more important, what they’re sayin’." The normal ruddiness of Pinkie’s complexion turned a shade deeper with his admonition.

Yes, sir. Don’t wor…uh, I mean, I’ll stay on top of it. The skinny, balding accountant recognized the gravity of his boss’s warning and gulped.

A man Pinkie recognized sauntered by the booth. Howdy, Bud, what brings you to Cleveland? With some difficulty, Pinkie raised his ample body out of the booth to shake hands with the newly arrived customer.

The man pumped the proffered hand. Howdy, Pinkie. Oh, I can’t go more than a coupla weeks without some of Bo’s award winning ribs and some of his secret recipe sauce. I swear I could smell the hickory all the way to Wildwood. How’s the Road King doing these days?

Can’t complain, Bud. Life’s been good to me. Pinkie plopped down in the booth while continuing to glare up at Bud Daniels.

Bud grinned as his steel blue eyes returned the scrutiny from underneath the shadows of his straw hat. I would say that is an understatement, Pinkie.

Pinkie chuckled. "Say, Bud, you comin’ to the fais dodo at my place on Saturday? Sure could use your good name representing the community. And there’s gonna be a crawfish boil and a Zydeco band."

I have people coming to the ranch Saturday to practice for the trail ride. Don’t think I can make it. Thanks for the invite, though. Bud turned his attention to Pinkie’s employee. Say there, Lyle, you still interested in going on a ride?

I’d like to do it, Bud. I have to get permission from Mr. Laroux here and then from my other boss. That would be Mrs. Robinson. Lyle snickered, proud of his lame and rare attempt at levity.

Just let me know when. Well, gentleman, I think there are some beans and potato salad over there with my name on ‘em. Good day. He touched the brim of his hat and ambled to the order line to make his selections.

Pinkie watched Bud’s departure and, almost as if thinking out loud, commented, There goes a fine example of Texas manhood. Wish we could enlist him in the cause; he’s got a lot of connections and influence in east Texas. Too bad he doesn’t have a little more starch in his breeches like his ole daddy. Come on, Lyle, pay the check and let’s get back to the office. I got roads to build.

Pinkie Laroux bore the title of self-made man with egotistical conceit. He had pulled himself out of a trailer camp in Lafayette, Louisiana and earned the title of the Road King of east Texas the hard way. His concrete business, Laroux’s Concrete, was responsible for practically half the new road systems or repairs in the eastern part of Texas and a good part of Louisiana. Every contractor and builder of homes, shopping malls, or public facilities and institutions had come in contact with him. Cutthroat business practices and low bidding strategies had made him a rich man, admired by many and despised by others. Although he flaunted his wealth in true Texas nouveaux riche fashion with big homes, big cars, and big parties, the extravagances were always a result of calculated bargaining and discreet tradeoffs. A bevy of accountants and lawyers were at his disposal to creatively protect, invest, and hide his hard earned money.

At age forty-seven, Pinkie had amassed a small fortune through his shrewd business acumen, and he was growing bored. Like most rich men, his thoughts were turning to politics and power. He already owned men in public service, a senator here or a congressman there, now he craved the limelight and had no patience for spending the time it would take to work his way up the ranks of legitimate politics. Being mayor of Livingston, a commissioner for Liberty County, or an honorable senator from the great state of Texas were unappealing titles as well as required far too much kowtowing. No, he wanted the Ross Perot kind of power—the kind of power it took to start an independent party or perhaps a revolution.

Hey, Bo, them ribs was mighty fine today. They gonna be that good on Saturday? While picking his teeth with a toothpick, Pinkie leaned over the counter and questioned the good-looking Black man tending to a mound of glossy ribs smoking on the open pit.

Even better, Mr. Laroux. I’ll be there bright and early. Gonna give you a new recipe for my cole slaw, too. Bo Slater wiped his brawny hands on a sauce stained apron and waved a giant turning fork at one of his best customers.

Lookin’ forward to it, Bo. With Lyle in tow, Pinkie gave the owner and chief cook a nod as he pushed past a crowd of waiting customers and headed out the front door.

Lyle put his hand on Pinkie’s arm and whispered, Pinkie, what are you doing? Aren’t you inviting trouble having Bo and his crew at the rally? The members like to discuss sensitive subjects without outsiders hanging around. Lyle scanned the parking lot to ensure no eavesdroppers were lurking.

"He’s got instructions to bring the food, set it up, and leave. My personal staff will serve and clean up. Believe me, won’t be no outsiders at my rally. Poo-yi, I smell like hickory smoke. Rhonda’s gonna bust my balls for goin’ off my diet again."

Chapter One

This is Lisa Dent of station KIKK reporting live from the NRG Stadium where preparations are under way for the annual Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. In just a few weeks, elaborate livestock rigs will begin rolling in filled with expensive show horses, prize hogs and cows, pet sheep, and maybe a llama or two. Farm kids from all over Texas will be pampering and grooming carefully bred and raised entries in hopes of winning the prized blue ribbon. Yes, folks, it’s rodeo time and it’s also country and western music time. The entertainment lineup is amazing including top stars Miranda Lambert, bad boy Erin Church, Brad Paisley, Blake Shelton, even John Legend, and many more. Stay tuned to 95.7 where we play continuous country and where you can win free tickets to this fun-filled event which starts March....

Martie reached for the dial to switch the station to a classical selection rather than the country she was unaccustomed to listening to in her native Boston. No, I better leave it on this channel. If I’m going to make conversation with the locals, guess I should know what’s going on down here. She removed her hand from the dial and decided to enjoy the twangy music and livestock commercials. Oh, hey, that’s Carrie Underwood. I’ve heard of her.

The hand held GPS system was programmed, but as a backup, the directions to Cleveland were mapped out and taped to the dashboard of the thrifty, compact size rental car she picked up outside the Houston International Airport. Yes, this is right…U.S. Highway 59 north…just passed Humble and coming upon Kingwood, The Livable Forest. Should have about twenty-five or thirty miles to Cleveland. I hope the Holiday Inn is suitable and there’s a decent restaurant in town.

The moderately heavy, midday traffic didn’t bother her. Martie was used to doing battle with crazy Boston drivers in her speedy, black Porsche 911, but the huge trailer trucks dominating the traffic were intimidating, and she made a concerted effort to maintain distance. When she wasn’t dodging the semis, she noticed the flat terrain. Despite Kingwood’s Livable Forest sign, her highway vantage point was inadequate opportunity to glimpse what lay behind the thick woodlands. The sky was definitely noticeable: big, open, and clear blue. No unsightly office buildings or high rise apartments crowded the view.

Martie located the Holiday Inn of Cleveland easily and slid her credit card in front of the young and chatty desk clerk who gave his rendition of concierge by welcoming her to Cleveland, edge of the Piney Woods, predicting the weather, and bragging on the local football standings. When she solicited his advice for a nearby bistro or quaint café, he cocked his head and then, in a slow drawl complete with elongated syllables, complimented her accent before informing her, Your best bet for a good supper is a place located just a coupla blocks from the motel. Tell Estelle Donnie sent ya.

After unpacking a suitcase and a wardrobe carrier consisting of professional clothes, leisure clothes, and exercise clothes, Martie chided herself for bringing too much for a two-week stint. She donned a pair of designer jeans and a crisp white shirt and walked the short distance to the restaurant. Two blocks off Main Street, Mama E’s Italian Restaurant was located in a frame house circa 1930’s.

Martie studied the menu listings of what appeared to be the quintessential American interpretation of Italian food and opted for the standby of spaghetti and meatballs. The server scribbled on her tablet and started to hobble away when Martie summoned her. Excuse me, oh there, server. When the woman returned to her table, Martie asked, Could I get a glass of white wine? And what does the E stand for in Mama E’s? By her earlier inquiries to the desk clerk and now to the ancient waitress, Martie had announced herself as a newcomer to the town of population eight thousand and declining.

Oh, honey, I ain’t no server. I’m Trixie, a plain ole waitress and have been for forty years. This here’s Estelle’s place. Estelle ain’t no I-talyun name, so she gussied it up a mite. The café used to be Estelle’s Country Kitchen and then she got a hankerin’ to fix this here noodle stuff. Me, I serve whatever’s on the menu and there ain’t no wine on Estelle’s menu. This here’s a dry county and ya’ll have to go over to Polk County to the Joy Juice to get yourself somethin’ with a kick in it. How about I get ya a glass of ice tea? Sweetened or no? Trixie limped away and returned shortly with a basket loaded with gooey cheese bread and a giant sized glass of non-sweetened tea requiring two hands to lift.

To Martie’s enjoyment, the pasta and sauce were delicious and definitely crafted by Estelle’s own hands. She calculated the carbohydrate intake and concluded she would exceed her daily allotment if she ate often at Mama E’s.

"Ya ain’t touched your noodles much. Ya don’t care for it?’ Trixie quizzed when she checked on Martie’s progress.

Oh, yes Trixie, I enjoyed it very much. Have to watch my carbs, you know? Martie replied with a polite smile.

Deep wrinkles formed between Tixie’s wrinkled eyes. Umph. Estelle don’t put nothin’ but natural ingredients in them noodles. Well, here’s your check, honey. Pay at the register when you’re done. Ya’ll come back, now. Trixie licked her pencil before preparing the check, placed the check upside down on the table, and returned the pencil to its position in her dyed black hair.

Martie placed a generous tip on the red checkered table cloth and walked to the register to pay her bill to a woman in a stained apron whom she assumed was the famous Estelle. She offered commendations on the meal and relayed Donnie’s directive. Estelle told her, Thanks, and tell my son hey. Ya’ll come back now. As Martie was exiting, she observed Trixie counting her tip and heard her whistle through hollowed cheeks, Bless your heart, lil’ lady, I sure hope ya’ll come back.

On the return trip to the motel, Martie observed empty streets and locked businesses. She laughed to herself as she remembered an old colloquialisms. I guess this is one of those one-horse towns where they roll up the sidewalks at night.

With the absence of a music alternative in the motel room, and the lack of ambition for starting the latest John Grisham novel she brought along, Martie resorted to switching on the TV. To her chagrin, she discovered there was no PBS, no National Geographic, no history channel, and she questioned her sanity. I can’t get a gourmet meal or a glass of wine; can’t get classical radio or a decent television station; can’t call Randall or Malcolm to complain. What possessed me to come here, anyway? Oh, yeah, it was my idea: peace and quiet, a break from the rat race. I’m certainly getting what I asked for.

Martie reminisced about how this idea of hers had germinated a few months earlier. Randall was excited about going to Paris on a business trip in the summer and wanted her to come along. Following Paris, they might hop over to Geneva or London on the way home. She threw out an alternative suggestion. Randall, suppose we might skip the big city tours in favor of a French country inn or a villa in the Tuscan hills. We could rent a car, drive to quaint out-of-the-way villages, drop into home-grown restaurants, just wing the trip.

Randall’s retort was unfavorable. My God, Martie, it’s Europe. What are you thinking? You seemed to have enjoyed our previous trips. I’m sure it’s because I planned them meticulously.

I know, Randall, but I’m weary of these overly scheduled trips. I’ve been to Europe numerous times with you or on my own business engagements. We get off the plane, arrive at a luxury hotel via chauffeured limousine, eat at Michelin rated restaurants, attend plays and museums and dinner parties. We’re wined and dined by arrogant people who could care less about us. A written agenda dictates our every waking hour. I’d like to throw on a pair of blue jeans and relax, meet the locals, and enjoy a pastoral journey.

Oh, here we go again, M-a-r-c-i-a. Irritated by Martie’s complaints, Randall Caruthers rolled his eyes and used her given name for emphasis. I’ve never heard anyone who shows such disdain for the finer things in life. This continuous lament of yours about the hustle and bustle of the big city is trite. We live in a big city, we work in a big city, our work takes us to big cities. I happen to love every invigorating moment of it.

Don’t you ever get tired of it, though? Don’t you have a desire for a moment of peace without a car honking? Do you dream about wide-open spaces without a million people crushing you on the sidewalk or in the elevator? Martie paced the room and looked out the window of her posh condo in Boston’s historic Beacon Hill district. The old but upscale neighborhood close to downtown was full of charming, ivy-covered brownstones tucked beside narrow, cobblestone streets brimming with congestion and traffic. At ten thirty, the street noise could be heard through the closed French doors.

Obviously not as much as you do. Martie, let’s not get into this conversation tonight. I have an ugly headache. Listen, I have a first rate idea, though. Would it make you feel better if we got away this weekend? I’ll call my brother in Wellesley and ask if the cottage is available. You’ll get your fresh air and quiet, and I’ll have an opportunity to visit a bit with Lawrence. He’s been after me to spend time with the family.

Martie stopped her pacing and gave Randall an appreciative hug and kiss. That would be positively divine, and it would allow me a breather before I start on the Swanson project.

Great. I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow. I really do have a headache, sweetheart. Do you mind if I cut our evening short?

Randall had invited a client to their standing Thursday night dinner date and was now ending the evening prematurely. Martie would be sleeping alone again. When he placed a perfunctory goodnight kiss on her forehead, she stifled the disappointment. She wanted to tell him she could fix his headache with some much-needed sex, but it wouldn’t change the mind of her obsessive-compulsive boyfriend of three years. Everything had to be planned and plotted. Thursday was dinner at the elegant L’Espalier in Boston’s Back Bay where Randall impressed his clients. Friday was the opera or a play followed by a late dinner at Café Louis, a small but popular jewel box where Randall knew the chef from Chicago’s Spiaggia. And on Saturday night they usually dined at Olives which gave Randall an opportunity to hob knob with Boston’s other celebrities. Even their inexpensive Sunday brunch at the Marche Movenpick deli was turned into an eventful outing shared with a few hundred people. Brunch was followed by the preplanned sex. Of course, the sex would be arranged before or after gallery openings or a special museum outing. Once a month, they visited his mother on Cape Cod and took tea in the solarium of her thirty room mansion near Long Pond. Randall rarely slept over, saying he preferred waking up to his own space surrounded by his own things. Other than a toothbrush and his personal choice of dental floss, he hesitated bringing personal belongings to Martie’s apartment and he skirted topics regarding living arrangements.

Randall Caruthers had been on Boston’s most eligible bachelors’ list when Martie first gained his attention at a children’s hospital fund raising gala three years previously. His conservative good looks, urbane style, and Harvard enhanced intellect were a few of the attributes which endeared him to women. Add old Boston money to the newly earned money he made working as a tax attorney for one of Boston’s most prestigious law firms, and he was a hot commodity. Martie was not among the dozen women who flocked around him at the gala, but a photographer managed to cop a picture of them being introduced, and the photo made it into the local society magazine with a caption identifying them as, …the most gorgeous couple at the ball. Following the gala publicity, Randall called Martie, and their relationship began.

Indeed, Martie Malone is arresting. At five-nine, she stands above the female crowd, bearing her height in confidence. Her fawn colored hair is long and full, and she wears it in a chignon while working. Green eyes, fair skin, and simple features are not in themselves remarkable, but the entire package goes together in a Grace Kelly kind of way, lovely and aristocratic. Although Martie’s spoon is only silver-plated compared to Randall’s pure silver, providing her with a stint to Vassar and later to Duke for an MBA caused no hardship for the Malone family.

If there were a real-life Ken and Barbie, Martie Malone and Randall Caruthers were they. He draped her on his arm and escorted her everywhere to see and be seen. Martie is as successful in her career as is Randall. As the youngest junior partner in the auditing and financial consulting firm of Stokes Brand & Stokes, her job engages her to prosperous firms in Boston and throughout the world. Making a presentation to a group of Japanese businessmen or to a small, local factory is second nature, and she can hold her own in any executive boardroom or at any high-society soirée.

Martie had her own list of suitors, most with pedigrees to rival those of Randall’s. She wasn’t attracted so much to his aforementioned qualifications as she was to the man she thought he was—a deep thinking, private individual concerned with the public welfare—a man of substance. It wasn’t until the third year of their relationship that she began to doubt her initial impressions. They were both workaholics putting in sixty-five hour weeks and, when they weren’t on the job, they were playing hard to enhance their careers and strengthen their standing in the community. There didn’t seem to be any time or energy left to work at the personal relationship. The intimacy Martie longed for had never developed, and she was growing hungry for some semblance of dependency or commitment. She intended to breach the subject on the weekend trip to Wellesley.

A perfect fall day in Massachusetts always includes a leisurely drive in the country with a picturesque view of falling leaves accompanied by a crisp but sunny chill in the air. The drive to Lawrence Caruther’s country estate had achieved the perfection rating. Randall allowed himself to relax and forego any shoptalk. Martie leaned back in the seat of his Mercedes and gazed at the falling leaves and the azure sky through the sunroof.

The couple was met by the Caruthers family: a look alike Randall, a perfect Junior League suburban wife, two well behaved children, and two equally well behaved Irish Setters. Although the Lawrence Caruthers family was slightly snobbish and bordered on boring, Martie admired them for their devotion to family. She looked forward to hearing the kids talk about their soccer games and dance classes and she loved sitting by the fireplace in the evening cuddled up with the dogs. Randall, on the other hand, avoided the dogs because of his allergies and seemed to have unidentified allergic reactions to the children.

On Saturday afternoon, following a relaxing bicycle ride in the woods, Randall emerged from his shower wearing a towel around his pale but lean runner’s body. At thirty-four, he possessed the body of a twenty-five-year-old. Martie, having already showered, watched him from the bed as he blew dry his shiny, black hair. An amorous stirring was beginning to mount. Randy, why don’t you come over here and join me for an afternoon nap? With eyelids half-closed and an inviting pat to the pillow beside her, she pulled her robe aside to bare a long, naked leg. The innocent regard eased into a provocative pout as she untied the robe to expose the rest of her luscious body.

Randall ogled her for a brief moment. He was about to release the towel when he stopped and glanced at the watch already strapped to his wrist. Oh, dear, we don’t have time. Need to get dressed and get to the country club by six.

Martie bolted upright. Randall, you are the most exasperatingly controlled man I’ve ever met. What do I have to do to get your attention? I tell you what, the next time I want to make love, I’ll phone your secretary so you can put it on your agenda. We’ll have to give it some kind of code word like S-E-X! Embarrassed and hurt by the rejection, Martie jerked her robe together and stood in front of Randall. Country club? What are you talking about?

Didn’t I tell you? We’re meeting Judge Webster at the club for cocktails. Lawrence is considering running for a judgeship and we wish to solicit Webster’s assistance. Following cocktails, we’re having dinner with Senator Linklater. Now that he’s a U.S. senator, he’s thinking about switching his personal and business legal affairs to a more prestigious firm, and he remembers us from last year’s victory celebration. Sorry, sweetheart, I’ll make it up to you later. He took her hand, kissed the palm, and shot her a patronizing grin. Better get going.

Martie made no effort to move. You didn’t warn me you were planning to include business this weekend, and I didn’t bring anything to wear, she said flatly.

"Oh, the black cocktail dress I suggested you to throw in at the last minute should do nicely. Please, Martie, it’s already five thirty, and you still